The House on Ashthorne Hill
When I first saw the house, it didn't seem haunted. It was enormous, yes — perched on the ridge like a relic from a time when people still built things to last forever — but it was beautiful, in a faded, tragic way. The kind of house that whispered rather than shouted its wealth. Lila's family had owned Ashthorne Hill for generations. Her father was a quiet, silver-haired man with that patient, heavy manner that old money breeds. Her mother barely spoke at all — she just moved through the house like she belonged to it, as if the walls themselves recognized her. I didn't belong. I knew that from the start. But when Lila smiled at me, all of that fell away. She had a warmth that the house didn't. Her laughter echoed against those oak-paneled halls like sunlight through dust. I loved her — I truly did — but I'd be lying if I said I didn't love the life she came from, too. At first, it was innocent. I was a scholarship student at a university full of Lila's kind — people who didn't think twice about wine cellars and weekend trips to Europe. I grew up in a one-bedroom apartment over a laundromat. To me, Ashthorne Hill was magic. The first night I stayed there, I barely slept. The house creaked and sighed as if it was breathing. Somewhere, water dripped steadily — tap, tap, tap — and sometimes, I thought I heard voices under the sound, like whispers from the pipes. But when I asked Lila about it, she just laughed. "Old house sounds," she said. "You get used to them." I wanted to believe that. The first shadow fell when Lila's father died. He'd been ill for months, locked away in his study at the end of the south wing. The servants avoided that hall, and so did Lila. When he passed, the reading of the will was held in that same room. The lawyer's voice was steady, but I saw the tremor in his hands. To my surprise, he left everything to Lila — the estate, the accounts, the art, even the family jewelry. Her mother got only a trust. The lawyer said the will had been revised just weeks before his death. That night, the house seemed to shift. I woke around three, the air sharp and cold. Lila was sleeping beside me, but I heard a sound from the hallway — a dragging noise, like something heavy moving over stone. I went to the door. The corridor was empty. But the air smelled of old paper and iron — the scent of her father's study. The next morning, I asked Lila if anyone had been up. She said no. "The servants sleep in the west wing. Nobody goes down there anymore." That was when I started thinking about what it meant to have a house like that — to have its deeds, its history, its power. Lila, for all her sweetness, didn't care for it. She wanted to move to the city, to sell the estate. I told her it would be a shame to lose her family's legacy. But what I meant was that it would be a shame to lose my chance at it. The first time I crossed a line, it was small. I met with the estate's f inancial adviser — pretending it was on Lila's behalf — to understand how things were arranged. The numbers staggered me. The house alone was worth more than I could ever imagine. I started suggesting ways to "manage" her inheritance, ways that gave me access. She trusted me. That trust was a terrible, beautiful thing. It was around that time that the house began to change toward me. The temperature dropped when I walked through certain rooms. The paintings — solemn portraits of Lila's ancestors — seemed to follow me with their eyes. In the mirrors, my reflection looked... off. Not wrong, exactly, but older, thinner, as if the house was drawing something out of me. One night, I woke again to the dragging sound. This time, I followed it. It led me to the study — the door half-open, the air thick and metallic. The curtains billowed though no wind came in. On the desk was a ledger, open to a page that hadn't been there before. My name was written on it — neat, in black ink — beside an empty column where a sum should be. When I touched the paper, I heard a whisper behind me. It wasn't words, not at first. Just a low murmur, like breath against my ear. Then, clear and cold: "It costs." I slammed the book shut. Lila began to fade. She stopped eating much. Her eyes grew distant, her skin pale. "The house feels strange," she told me once. "Like it's watching me." I told her she was imagining it. But deep down, I knew she wasn't. I tried to leave for a few days, to clear my head. When I returned, the house seemed to pulse. The front door opened before I could knock. Inside, everything smelled faintly of roses and rot. Lila was waiting in the hall. "Where did you go?" she asked softly. Her voice sounded different — brittle. I tried to hold her, but she flinched. "You shouldn't have left," she whispered. "They don't like it when you leave." That night, she dreamed of her father. She said he stood at the foot of the bed, his face gray and wet, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. I held her until dawn, telling myself ghosts weren't real. Months passed. I pushed harder for control of her estate. I said it was to protect her — she was too fragile, too lost in grief. And when she finally agreed, I felt a thrill that scared even me. The night the papers were signed, a storm rolled over Ashthorne Hill. The windows rattled, the chandeliers swayed. I poured champagne, told her it was for us — for our future. She smiled, but her eyes looked hollow. After she went to bed, I stayed downstairs, drinking. Lightning f lashed through the tall windows, lighting up the portraits on the wall. For a moment, I thought I saw her father in one of them — his painted face turned slightly toward me, though I could've sworn it hadn't been before. Then I heard the study door creak open. Inside, the ledger lay on the desk again. This time, the empty column beside my name wasn't blank. It was filled in. The number was enormous — but it wasn't money. It was a date. Tomorrow's. That night, I didn't sleep. Around midnight, the house began to breathe again — deep, slow creaks from the rafters, a heartbeat in the floorboards. The air turned icy. Then came the footsteps. Not Lila's. Heavier. Wet, almost. They stopped outside my door. The handle turned once. Twice. Then a pause. When it finally opened, the air rushed out of the room as if sucked into a vacuum. The f igure that stepped through was not human. Or maybe it was — once. It wore her father's shape, but the skin hung loose, eyes sunken like empty wells. When it spoke, dust poured from its mouth. "You took what was not yours." I stumbled back. "It wasn't— I loved her!" The thing smiled. "You loved what she gave you." Behind it, other figures appeared — more shadows from the portraits, more whispers from the walls. Lila's mother. The ancestors. Their forms rippled like smoke, but their eyes glowed faintly red. "Debt," they whispered together. "Debt must be paid." I ran. Through the corridors, past the black windows and the roaring storm. The lights f lickered out one by one. The walls seemed to close in, warping like flesh. The floorboards bent under my feet as if something moved beneath them. I reached the front door and pulled — but it wouldn't open. The knob burned cold in my hand. Behind me, the footsteps grew louder. Then I saw Lila. She stood at the top of the grand staircase, wearing her nightgown, her hair matted by rain. Her eyes were dark, unreadable. "Why, Daniel?" she asked. "Why did you take everything from me?" "I did it for us!" I cried. Her expression didn't change. "You did it for you." Lightning flashed, and for a second I saw them all behind her — generations of her family, silent, waiting. The walls bled shadow. The chandelier trembled, then fell, shattering on the marble. The house shook. A deep groan echoed through the beams. And then the floor gave way beneath me. When I woke, I was in the study. The room was whole again, perfectly still. The storm was gone. Sunlight filtered through the curtains. Lila sat at the desk. Her eyes were clear now, calm. "It's done," she said softly. "The house took its due." I tried to move, but couldn't. My arms wouldn't lift, my voice wouldn't rise. I looked down — and saw parchment. Skin colored parchment. My body had flattened, hardened, my limbs stretching thin. Ink bled across me — names, numbers, signatures. I was part of the ledger. Lila stood, brushed her hand across the page that used to be my chest. "You shouldn't have written your name here," she said. "It's binding." Then she closed the book. They say Ashthorne Hill is empty now. Locals whisper that the house stands silent, its windows black. But sometimes, on stormy nights, if you walk near the gates, you can hear scratching from inside — the sound of a pen across paper. Writing. Adding. Recording. Because debts, once written in this house, are never erased. And I am still here, waiting for the next fool who mistakes love for possession, who thinks he can own what was never his to take. The house always collects.
The End
Ashthorne Hill: The Inheritance Part 2
The first time Alice Ashthorne saw the house, she felt it was watching her. It loomed over the gray countryside like a wound that never healed—its roof sagging, ivy clinging to its skin, windows blank and blackened with time. She had only seen it in photographs before, in brittle documents sent by the solicitor: Your inheritance, the letter said. Ashthorne Hill is yours now, by bloodline and law. She had laughed at first. She didn't remember ever hearing about an "Ashthorne Hill" or any "Lila" in her family. Her mother had died when Alice was nine, and her father had always refused to speak of the past. So when the letter came, sealed in wax and heavy with the scent of old paper, she thought it was a mistake. deed. So, on a rain-soaked afternoon in October, Alice drove from the city to the far hills of Dorset to see what exactly she'd inherited. The gates creaked open after decades of silence. The air inside the estate was colder than it should have been. The gravel road wound up to the mansion, framed by yew trees twisted into unnatural shapes. The moment Alice stepped out of her car, the wind dropped, as though the entire hill were holding its breath. "This is... mine," she whispered. Her voice sounded too loud. A raven flapped off the roof and disappeared into the mist. The house was worse inside. Wallpaper hung like peeling skin. The grand chandelier lay shattered on the marble floor. Dust covered everything, thick as ash. Alice wandered through the front hall, tracing her hand along the banister. "Hello?" she called, half-joking, half-uneasy. Her footsteps echoed in reply. She found the study last. The door was swollen shut; she had to shoulder it open. The air that met her was dry and strange, with an undercurrent of something metallic. The desk sat in the center of the room, the curtains drawn tight. On the desk lay a single object: an old ledger, bound in cracked leather. Its cover bore the faint outline of an A. Or maybe it was a D. Alice frowned. "Weird." She flipped it open—just a few pages—before slamming it shut again. The ink wasn't ink. It was darker, with a sheen that caught the light in ways it shouldn't. She could have sworn she saw her own name written faintly on the last page, though the handwriting was old, looping, elegant. She backed away, heart hammering. "Nope." She left the study and locked the door behind her. That night, Alice slept in one of the smaller guest rooms—the only one that felt remotely safe. The wind moaned outside. The house shifted, wood groaning like it remembered every footstep. It wasn't clear enough to make out words, but it was low, soft, almost kind. She sat up, straining to listen. The sound came from the walls. "Hello?" she whispered. The voice stopped. Then, closer: "You came back." Her pulse jumped. She turned on the bedside lamp. The room was empty. The only movement was the flicker of shadows. She forced a laugh. "Creaky house, Alice. That's all." But she didn't sleep again. Over the next week, she tried to make the house livable. She hired no one—too proud, too curious. The Ashthorne money in the bank account was tempting, but she wanted to do this herself. someone standing in the dark beside her bed. On the seventh night, she woke to the sound of a piano. It came from downstairs—the parlor she hadn't yet entered. The melody was faint but elegant, a slow waltz full of longing. Alice crept down the staircase, barefoot, wrapped in a blanket. The room glowed faintly, candles burning though she hadn't lit them. At the piano sat a man. He was pale, dressed in old-fashioned clothes. His back was to her. His hands moved gracefully across the keys. "Who are you?" she whispered. He stopped playing. When he turned, she gasped—not from horror, but recognition she couldn't explain. His face was sharp, handsome in an archaic way, eyes dark with something endless behind them. "My name..." He hesitated, smiling faintly. "You wouldn't remember. But you carry the name of the woman I loved. You have her blood." Alice's mouth went dry. "Lila?" He nodded once. "You look like her." She took a step forward before realizing she hadn't meant to. "You're—" "Daniel," he said simply. "And this is still my house." She should have screamed. Should have run. But she didn't. Something in his voice was magnetic—a sadness that pulled at her. "I... I thought this house was abandoned," she said. He smiled faintly. "It is. And so am I." She swallowed. "You're a ghost." "Of sorts." The air around him shimmered faintly, as though the world wasn't sure he belonged to it. He looked at her with such sorrow it almost hurt. "You came to free me," he said softly. "Free you?" He gestured toward the study. "The book. You found it." Alice hesitated. "You mean the ledger?" His smile widened, thin and sad. "That ledger binds me. And perhaps... you can end it." Something in his tone made her shiver. "How?" "Blood," he whispered. "The blood of the Ashthornes. It opens the seal." The next morning, she almost convinced herself it was all a dream. But when she went to the parlor, the piano lid was open. The keys were pressed down in the shape of a single word: Please. Alice's hands shook as she unlocked the study. The ledger lay exactly where she had left it, but the air felt thicker now, humming faintly, as though aware of her. She opened it again. The pages turned on their own. Names filled the book—dates, sums, strange symbols. Then: Daniel Cross. His name glowed faintly against the parchment. Below it, another: Lila Ashthorne. And beneath that, her own name had grown darker. "Stop," she whispered. "Stop!" But the ink bled wider, forming words: Free me, and it ends. A drop of red splashed onto the page. She realized her palm was bleeding—just a small cut from the edge of the paper. The house exhaled. The windows shuddered. Somewhere deep within, a door slammed open. That night, Daniel returned. He looked stronger now, more solid. "You've begun," he said. Alice backed away. "I didn't mean to." "You can't half-open a door," he murmured. "You've called me back." His eyes softened. "You're trembling. Don't be afraid of me, Alice." But she was. Because though his voice was gentle, there was hunger behind it—something vast and cold pressing against her skin. He reached out, fingertips hovering just above her cheek. "You could save me. And I could save you. You don't have to be alone here." She whispered, "You want my blood." He smiled. "I want my life." Over the next days, the house came alive. The electricity began to flicker on by itself. Fires lit in the empty hearths. The mirrors cleared of dust. It was as though Daniel's presence was restoring it. She saw faces in reflections that weren't her own. Shadows walked the halls at night. Sometimes she woke with Daniel sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep, his expression unreadable. both of us now." His eyes flared. "You can't imagine what I've suffered. Decades inside that book, screaming into ink, bound by my own name." He stood, the room darkening around him. "But you opened the seal, Alice. You chose to." "I didn't know!" "You never do," he murmured, and disappeared. By the tenth day, Alice knew she had to destroy the ledger. She gathered what courage she had, carried it out to the courtyard, and poured kerosene over it. The moment the flame touched the pages, the fire turned black. The air filled with a scream that wasn't sound but thought. The ground shuddered. Daniel appeared behind her, his face contorted, monstrous now—skin flickering between flesh and shadow, eyes burning like coals. "You can't burn what isn't yours," he hissed. "Let me go!" she cried. He reached for her wrist. The contact froze her blood. "You're an Ashthorne," he said, voice echoing through the stones. "The house chose you. You opened the debt. You carry it now." She struggled, desperate. "What do you want from me?" He leaned close, his whisper colder than the grave. "Everything." Alice fled into the mansion, but the halls shifted. Doors sealed, corridors twisted. The house was alive—an extension of him now. Every painting's eyes followed her. Every mirror showed Daniel's reflection, closer each time. In the grand hall, the floorboards bulged, cracking open like ribs. Beneath them, the ledger's pages pulsed faintly, growing, alive. Daniel stepped through the shadows. He no longer looked human—his body part smoke, part memory. "You should have left me to sleep," he said. "You loved Lila," she whispered. He paused. For a heartbeat, she saw something almost human flicker in his eyes. "I did. And she betrayed me." "She didn't. You betrayed her!" The house roared. "No!" The candles exploded, plunging everything into darkness. When light returned, Alice stood in the study again. The ledger lay open on the desk. Her hand rested on a pen. Daniel's voice came from everywhere and nowhere. "Finish what you began." She looked down. The page beneath her hand was blank, except for a single line: Sign your name to end the curse. Her vision blurred. "And if I do?" "You'll free us both." She hesitated, the pen trembling. The air grew tight, pressing in. She felt the heartbeat of the house under her feet. Then she thought she heard another voice—softer, higher—a woman's. Don't. Alice froze. "Lila?" The whisper was barely audible. He lies. Daniel's face flickered into being beside her, furious. "Don't listen to her! She kept me here!" Alice clenched her fist. "Maybe you deserve it." She threw the pen across the room. Daniel screamed, a sound that tore through the walls. The chandelier above shattered, raining glass and darkness. When Alice looked up, he was gone. The house fell silent. She woke at dawn, lying on the floor. The ledger was closed again. She left Ashthorne Hill that morning, driving until the house disappeared in her rearview mirror. But she couldn't escape its pull. When she reached the city, she found the ledger sitting on the passenger seat beside her. The cover had changed. Her name was now etched into it, carved deep, permanent. Alice whispered, "No..." From somewhere inside the pages came a faint, ragged breath. "You opened the door, Alice." Her reflection in the window smiled back at her—but it wasn't her smile. End of Part II: The Inheritance (To be continued...) Part 3 Chapter 1 – Echoes of the Hill The dream always began the same way. Ashthorne Hill rising from a tide of mist, its windows wide as eyes, its chimneys breathing. Rain hissed against the black slate roof. Somewhere inside, a piano played a slow, trembling waltz that never reached its final note. Alice would stand at the gate, unable to move, knowing that if she crossed the threshold, something beneath the house would wake again. Then the music would stop—and she would wake, choking on her own heartbeat. terrace carved into small, efficient rooms—smelled of paint and traffic, not damp stone and rot. Morning light pooled across the parquet in neat rectangles; the city's hum replaced the Hill's hollow wind. Yet the hush that followed each nightmare was worse than the dream itself. It left her listening for things that shouldn't exist outside memory: the click of a lock turning on its own, the faint sigh of breath where no one stood. Ashthorne Hill was gone—or at least sealed, its windows boarded after the fire, its name whispered only in probate offices and gossip columns. The ledger that had nearly consumed her lay buried in what remained of the library's ash. And Daniel… Daniel was nothing but a shadow burnt into her thoughts, a voice she refused to remember clearly. Still, when she passed antique shops, she found her eyes drawn to mirrors. Not the gleaming modern kind but the old ones, clouded with age, their silver backing eaten away. She would glimpse her reflection there—pale, distant—and for an instant, think she saw a second shape beside her, just behind her shoulder. translations for a law firm, drinking too much coffee, pretending to laugh with colleagues. Ordinary life. But sometimes, at night, she would catch herself humming that same unfinished waltz under her breath. watching fog roll through the street below. It should have been peaceful. Yet when she turned from the glass, the faint scent of old roses drifted through the air—impossible, unmistakable— and the mug slipped from her fingers before she even realized she'd let go. The mug shattered on the floor, coffee bleeding into the grain of the old wood. Alice stared at the spill for a moment, frozen between apology and disbelief. Then she crouched to pick up the pieces, heart thudding, trying to convince herself that the smell wasn't real. Roses. Not the bright scent of florists' bouquets, but something older—pressed petals and dust, like flowers left too long on a grave. message from work: Need the final translation by noon, please. Alice wiped her hands on a tea towel and forced herself to breathe. Ordinary things. Deadlines. Rent. The living world. She told herself that the mind, when frightened long enough, could create ghosts from habit alone. Trauma echoing through empty rooms. Still, when she sat down at her desk, she noticed her fingers trembling over the keyboard. There, on the corner of her desk, lay an envelope she didn't remember placing there. Thick parchment, sealed with a smear of dark red wax. No stamp, no address. Only her name: Alice Ashthorne. The handwriting was elegant, looping, and old-fashioned—too deliberate to be casual, too personal to ignore. paper, folded once. No letterhead, no signature. Just five words, written in the same precise hand: Her throat closed. She read the words again, tracing them as if touch could disprove them. There was no return address, no sign of who had delivered it. A trick, she thought, or a mistake. Maybe a client's file mixed into her post. But deep down, she knew better. By nightfall, she had almost convinced herself it didn't matter. The note was tucked beneath a stack of bills, the mug shards swept away, and she was sitting on her small sofa with a blanket around her shoulders, watching rain smear the city lights into watercolors on the window. But the house refused to sleep. Pipes groaned softly, as if sighing in their walls. Somewhere in the corridor, floorboards creaked beneath invisible steps. Each sound reminded her of the Hill— the way it breathed, the way it listened. When the radiator clicked, she jumped. At midnight, she turned off the television and went to brush her teeth. The bathroom mirror fogged with steam, and for a moment she felt safer not seeing her reflection at all. But as she wiped the glass clean, her reflection lingered a second too long after she moved. It was subtle, almost imperceptible—but enough. The breath caught in her throat. She whispered, "No." Her own face stared back, wide-eyed, pale. Nothing else. Yet she couldn't shake the sense that something behind the image had paused as well, something waiting for her to look away first. She left the light on that night. When she dreamed again, the Hill returned—not in ruin but whole, as if rebuilt by memory. She was walking its corridors, her footsteps silent on the black-and-white tiles. Paintings lined the walls, faces she didn't recognize but who seemed to recognize her. At the end of the hall stood the library, door ajar, a faint glow flickering within. Inside, the ledger sat on the desk. Its cover no longer charred. The gold lettering restored. She felt her hand move toward it, against her will, and as her fingers brushed the cover, the surface pulsed like skin. The book shuddered, breathing. She woke with a scream. The room was dark, the city silent beyond the glass. Sweat slicked her palms. Her heart hammered so violently she thought she might be sick. On her nightstand, the envelope lay open. The sheet of paper had unfolded itself. Beneath the five words she had read earlier, there was now a sixth—written in darker ink, still glistening wet under the light of her bedside lamp: And it remembers you. Alice sat frozen until dawn crept grey through the curtains. By morning, she would tell herself again that dreams could bleed into waking life. That none of it was real. But somewhere far from London, beyond the mist and the countryside, Ashthorne Hill stood silent beneath a bruised sky. And deep within what remained of its library, something stirred—the faint sound of a page turning, though no wind moved.
Chapter 2 – The Mirror's Breath
Morning came grey and thin. The fog that had clung to the windows all night hadn't lifted; it seemed to press against the glass, heavy as water. Alice sat on the edge of her bed, hands wrapped around a cup of tea gone cold, watching the vapour trace slow veins across the pane. The letter lay on her nightstand, folded once, as if it might behave itself if treated like any other piece of paper. In daylight, the words looked less menacing—merely ink and fiber. You left something behind. And it remembers you. She could almost laugh at the melodrama. Someone from the village, perhaps, a bored local remembering the scandal, playing ghost. She wanted to believe that. She wanted to believe in anything ordinary. By the time she reached the office, the city had half-vanished into drizzle. Inside, the lights buzzed softly, reflecting off glass partitions like faint stars. The smell of printer ink and wet coats was oddly comforting; here, the world was built of emails, documents, and deadlines. "Morning, Alice," said a voice behind her. Mara leaned on the edge of Alice's desk, coffee in hand. Her bracelets chimed softly as she set the cup down. She was one of the few who didn't fill silence with chatter; her presence was calm, like the hush before a storm. "You look pale," Mara said after a moment. "Didn't sleep?" "Nightmares." "The same ones?" Alice hesitated. They'd spoken once about the fire—Alice calling it an accident at the family house. She hadn't told Mara much else, only that old buildings had a way of keeping bad air. "Yeah," Alice said. "The same." Mara nodded, eyes steady, too knowing. "Sometimes," she said softly, "places don't let go when they should." The words hit harder than they should have. Alice forced a laugh. "That's poetic for Monday morning." why. They fogged from the inside, like something breathing on the other side." Alice froze, but Mara had already turned away, tapping her phone awake. The day passed in a blur of tasks. Yet each reflective surface seemed to hum faintly at the edge of her vision—the dark gloss of her computer screen, the office windows streaked with rain. Once, as she walked past the glass door of the meeting room, her reflection lagged a fraction of a second behind. By evening, the rain had hardened into a steady downpour. Alice declined Mara's offer of a drink after work and took the Underground home. The train windows were mirrors now, the tunnels outside nothing but black. In the reflection opposite, commuters flickered like ghosts: t ired, grey, heads bowed over their phones. she saw him. The train lurched, lights flickered, and when they steadied, the seat was empty. By the time Alice reached her street the rain had thinned to mist, fine as breath. The pavement shone beneath the lamps, every puddle a small, trembling mirror. She told herself she was exhausted—that the figure on the train had been nothing more than a trick of motion and glass. Her building was quiet. A single bulb buzzed above the stairwell; the walls smelled faintly of damp plaster and detergent. Inside her flat, she dropped her keys into the bowl by the door, peeled off her coat, and stood listening. The silence felt attentive, like an ear pressed against her thoughts. every sound seemed wrong: the click of the kettle too sharp, the clock's tick too loud. In the reflection of the kitchen window, her movements lagged again, just enough to make her breath catch. A gust of cold air rolled through the room, scattering the papers on her desk. She looked toward the hall. The bathroom door, which she was sure she'd left open, had swung shut. Slowly. Deliberately. herself to walk to the door and push it open. The mirror above the sink was fogged over, though no steam hung in the air. The fog bloomed and shifted as if stirred from behind the glass. She stared, unable to move. Then, in one slow motion, letters began to appear, traced from the inside: A L I C E. She stumbled backward, her shoulder hitting the doorframe. The letters dripped, running into each other until they blurred into a single smear of condensation. The air smelled of old roses again—stronger now, cloying. Behind her, something creaked. She turned. The hallway mirror—an antique she'd bought second-hand—was no longer reflecting the corridor. Instead, it showed a vast, dark room: high ceilings, candlelight trembling across carved paneling. She knew that room. The library at Ashthorne Hill. Her throat closed. "No," she whispered. From deep within the glass, a faint sound rose—the soft rustle of pages turning. A figure moved in the reflection, indistinct at first, a shape gathering density out of shadow. He stepped closer, the edge of his face coming into focus: not quite human anymore, the features stretched thin, eyes glinting like wet ink. other side. Alice reached out, instinctively, to touch the glass—to prove it was illusion. The cold that met her fingertips burned. For a heartbeat she felt another pulse beneath it, a second rhythm answering her own. Then the reflection shattered—not into pieces, but into ripples that spread outward, washing over her image until the corridor behind her vanished entirely. The lights went out. In the dark she heard only her breath—and, faintly, a whisper that was not hers: "I remember you." scent of roses was gone, replaced by the metallic tang of rain drifting through the open window. On the floor lay a single page, yellowed, edges singed. She bent to pick it up. Faded handwriting ran across the surface, the ink the same deep brown she remembered from the ledger. Ashthorne Hill Ledger – New Entry. Alice Ashthorne. She dropped it. The page dissolved like smoke, leaving a faint mark on the floorboards that looked, for an instant, like a handprint pressed from underneath. Alice backed into the living room, shaking, heart hammering. The walls felt closer than before, the air too thick. Somewhere, far beyond London's sprawl, thunder rolled over the countryside. And in that thunder she thought she heard the faint echo of a door unlocking.
Chapter 3 – The Ledger's Call
For a long moment after the whisper faded, Alice stood in the centre of the flat, waiting for the world to start again. The refrigerator hummed. The clock resumed its patient tick. Ordinary sounds, blessedly dull. She let out a breath she didn't realise she'd been holding—then grabbed her phone. could you come? Just for a bit?" Something in Alice's voice must have done the explaining her words couldn't, because Mara didn't ask why. "I'm on my way. Don't open the door for anyone else." hallway mirror, now draped with a throw blanket. She thought she heard faint ticking from behind the cloth, like fingernails against glass. By the time Mara arrived, the storm had moved closer. Lightning rippled along the rooftops, followed by a deep, rolling thunder. Mara entered without a word, eyes sweeping the room. She brought warmth with her—a wool coat, the smell of rain, and that quiet steadiness that made Alice feel briefly sane. brows knit, but she didn't laugh. She crossed to the hall, glanced at the shrouded frame, then back at Alice. "Let's sit first," she said softly. "Tell me everything, slowly." Alice spoke in fragments: the letters appearing, the roses, the handprint. Saying it aloud made it sound childish, yet the memory of that cold pulse under her fingers was too sharp to dismiss. Mara listened without interrupting, hands wrapped around her mug of tea. When Alice finished, silence settled. The clock ticked again; thunder murmured outside. Mara set the mug down. "Do you still have the letter?" Alice nodded and fetched it from the nightstand. Mara unfolded it under the lamplight, reading twice before meeting her eyes. "This paper is old," she murmured. "Not antique, but… aged. It shouldn't be, if someone posted it last week." A gust rattled the window. Both women looked toward it instinctively. The curtains lifted as if stirred by an unseen breath, then fell back into stillness. Mara crossed the room and closed the latch firmly. "You said the smell was roses?" "Yes." Mara exhaled through her nose. "My grandmother used to burn dried petals in a bowl of spirits to 'clear the air.' Maybe we should try something less flammable—salt, perhaps. Symbolic but safer." It felt foolish, almost theatrical, yet each small act steadied Alice's hands. When they returned to the living room, the place felt lighter, as though the walls had loosened their hold. "Stay with me tonight," Alice said. "Please." Mara nodded without hesitation. "I'll take the chair." like waves smoothing rough sand. Outside, the rain softened to drizzle. Somewhere near dawn, Alice drifted into half-sleep, the kind where the world tilts but doesn't dissolve. She woke once to the faintest sound—a sigh, close and intimate. In the dim light she saw Mara sleeping upright, blanket around her shoulders. The throw still covered the mirror; no shadow moved beneath it. The air smelled faintly of salt and wet wool. For the first time in months, Alice felt almost safe. world looked ordinary again: buses groaning past, a neighbour's radio playing too loud. Mara stirred, stretching, smiling in that way that made everything seem solvable. "See?" she said. "We survived the night." Alice smiled back, meaning to believe her. Then, as she turned toward the window, she noticed a thin residue along the inside of the glass—tiny crystals, not of salt but of frost, tracing the outline of a hand.
Chapter 4 – The Frost Mark
Three days passed before Alice dared to believe in ordinary life again. The world had resumed its weekday rhythm—buses sighing at curbs, coffee steam rising in the morning light. She went to work, answered messages, smiled when Mara teased her for still keeping the mirror covered. It almost felt like recovery. seemed to rinse colour back into stone. Alice decided to visit the museum. It was half habit, half superstition: fill the day with light, people, and glass that reflected nothing personal. The museum air was cool and dry, humming faintly with the echo of footsteps. She moved through rooms of ancient metal and glass, the hush wrapping around her like folded wings. Children's voices bounced from the marble; a guard nodded at her politely. Ordinary, safe. In the gallery of Victorian artefacts she paused before a display of notebooks—ink blots preserved under glass, handwriting looping like tangled ivy. The curator's note mentioned a minor poet whose wife had died young; his margins were full of roses drawn in fading pigment. Alice's throat tightened. She looked away quickly. Her phone buzzed: a message from Mara—Feeling better today? She typed, Yes. Sun helps. Sent it. Tried to believe it. As she slipped the phone back into her bag, a faint chill brushed the back of her neck. The temperature in the room hadn't changed; still, her skin prickled. She rubbed her arms, blaming air conditioning. It feathered along the inside of a display case, delicate and colourless, a pattern spreading outward from a single point like breath on winter glass. No one else seemed to notice. A couple strolled past, laughing softly. A child pressed her face to another case, leaving a warm smudge. Alice leaned closer. The frost pattern was shifting, almost forming letters. Her pulse quickened. No, she whispered. Not here. A light flickered above her—one quick blink—and the frost vanished. The glass gleamed empty, reflecting only her own startled face. She exhaled, shaky laughter escaping before she could stop it. Maybe she really was imagining— Movement behind her. In the reflection, a man stood several paces back. Too familiar in outline: the tilt of his head, the way his shoulders filled the space. Daniel. His expression unreadable, blurred slightly as though the glass couldn't hold him in focus. Alice spun around. The aisle was empty. The room seemed to hold its breath. A single rose petal lay on the floor by her shoe—paper thin, colour drained to ivory. She bent to touch it, but a wave of cold rolled out from the nearest display, fogging the glass again. For a heartbeat his face was there—Daniel's—clear, calm, eyes full of something that wasn't sorrow or rage but memory. He raised one hand, palm outward, as if pressing against the inside of the case. A hairline crack chased across the glass from his fingertips to the edge of the frame. Alice stumbled back. The guard glanced up from his post, frowning, but by the time he reached her the frost and the crack had both melted away. The case gleamed flawless, the reflection showing only her own pale face and, faintly, the crowd behind her. "You all right, miss?" the guard asked. She nodded too quickly. "Just dizzy." He waited until her breathing slowed, then turned away. She stared once more at the spotless glass. Where the frost had been, a faint outline remained—an echo of that handprint, vanishing even as she watched. across the marble like water. She walked toward it, needing the brightness, but as the light fell over her shoulders she caught one last glimpse in the reflection of the glass door: Daniel standing in the opposite hall, watching, eyes dark and endless. Then the door swung open, and the image broke.
Chapter 5 – Glass and Ash
When Alice stepped out of the museum the day had already begun to dim. Clouds were folding over the city, soft and grey; the air smelled faintly of wet iron. People streamed around her, laughing, arguing, living, all of them too bright. She blinked at the traffic and tried to let the noise erase the silence that had followed her out of the gallery. The wind carried the chill of marble halls. Each breath left a trace she could almost see. She walked toward the river, the museum's glass façade catching the last light behind her. In every pane she passed, her own reflection trailed a step behind—never quite in time. A trick of angles, she told herself. Always a trick of angles. At a crossing she stopped for the light. A bus rolled past, windows flashing like a strip of film. In one frame she saw the usual: tired faces, phones, adverts. In the next, a single figure standing in the aisle, motionless among the blur—Daniel. No colour to him, only the outline, as if the world had forgotten to paint him in. The bus moved on. Her pulse hammered so loud she almost didn't hear the beeping of the signal turning green. She crossed the street and ducked into a smaller road lined with shops closing for evening. Neon signs bled faint light onto puddles. The reflections there were too sharp, as though the water were glass instead of rain. Halfway down the block, the smell of roses returned—dry, brittle, the scent of old dust rather than bloom. She looked up. Across the street stood an empty storefront with a wide plate-glass window. Behind it, nothing but darkness and her own mirrored shape. And behind that, someone else. Daniel's reflection stood just over her shoulder, the two of them framed together like a photograph. He didn't move, didn't breathe. His expression wasn't hatred; it was recognition— as if the distance between death and life had narrowed to a sheet of glass. One hand lifted, slow and deliberate, until his palm rested against the inside of the window. The surface fogged beneath it. the chill on her side of the glass, exactly where his should have been. The temperature dropped. A spider-web of frost spread outward from the point of contact. She stepped back. The reflection stayed a heartbeat longer, then the shop lights blinked on— automatic timers—and the image dissolved into brightness. Only her reflection remained, pale and shaking, framed by a city that kept walking, unbothered. Behind her a bus hissed to a stop, brakes squealing. Its side windows flashed by like mirrors again, and in every one of them Daniel's face passed with hers, watching.
Chapter 6 – Through the Glass
Morning greyed over the city again, the kind of light that bleaches all colour from brick and skin alike. Alice hadn't slept. Her eyes ached from trying not to close them. When she did, she saw the museum glass and the frost blooming from Daniel's hand. She spent the morning with coffee that went cold and her laptop open to an empty search bar. Ashthorne Hill fire, she typed. Then deleted it. Typed again. The results were meagre: a few amateur history blogs, one forgotten newspaper archive. Most were half-remembered legends. 1912 – Estate dispute leads to tragedy at Ashthorne Hill. Local rumours claim the line ended in f lames. 1937 – Property remains unsold, 'haunted by misfortune,' says caretaker. Scrolling further, she found a name in smaller print: Daniel Whitby, former employee and fiancé of Lil Ashthorne. Presumed dead in the same fire. No record of his body. A chill moved through her that had nothing to do with the weather. She reached for her mug, found it empty, and laughed softly at herself. She closed the laptop, shut the blinds, and told the silence: "It's history. It's over." By evening, she almost believed it. Rain streaked the windows; the city outside blurred into amber and shadow. She reheated soup, put on music, and curled on the sofa. The mirror in the hall remained under its throw. The only exposed glass was a single framed photograph on the shelf: the old house, Ashthorne Hill, taken years before the fire. Her father had found it in an auction lot, long before he died. She used to think it looked romantic. Now it looked like an accusation. The music crackled. She checked her phone—no new messages. A neighbour's TV murmured faintly through the wall. Normal sounds. Then the temperature dropped. She saw her breath fog in front of her. The windowpanes filmed with frost from the inside out. A faint crackle, like ice spreading across a lake, filled the room. Her gaze went to the photograph. Inside the frame, the image of the house seemed to waver, colours bleeding as if the paper were wet. The glass reflected her face for a heartbeat—then another face stepped up beside hers. Daniel. His outline rippled through the surface, faint but real: the same eyes, dark as water, the same hand reaching up as if to touch her shoulder. The glass flexed inward, not cracking but breathing. The sound answered her—not a word, only the low, resonant hum of something shifting inside the walls. A hairline fracture split the glass across Daniel's reflected face. Another line followed it, sharp as lightning. The frame shattered outward. Fragments cascaded to the floor, catching the lamplight like rain. The photograph inside was untouched, but in its centre a round scorch mark bloomed, dark as old ash. The music stopped. Alice sank to her knees, staring at the shards. In every tiny piece she saw a reflection—her flat, the ceiling, the light—and in one of them, very small and very clear, Daniel's face still looking back at her. The radiator clicked on, warmth returning, as if nothing had happened. But when she turned off the lamp and stepped toward the bedroom, a faint crunch followed each step—the sound of glass shifting under her feet, rearranging itself into patterns she couldn't quite see.
Chapter 7 – The House Remembers
The silence after the picture frame shattered didn't feel like silence at all. It was too heavy, too deliberate. A silence that waited. Alice crouched on the floor, still clutching the photograph. The shards lay scattered around her feet, sharp little mouths catching what light was left in the room. She reached for a cloth and began picking them up one by one, but the pieces shifted under her fingers—tiny, sliding movements like breathing glass. The air answered with a soft creak in the walls. For a heartbeat, she thought it might just be the building settling. Old pipes. Damp wood. Then the sound came again—not from the pipes this time but from inside the walls, a slow dragging like nails across hollow plaster. It traced a line from the corner of the living room toward the hallway. f loorboards beneath her bare toes felt colder than the air around her. Frost was already whispering its way across the walls again, delicate as lacework. She moved toward the hallway, heart kicking hard, trying to listen beyond the blood roaring in her ears. The sound was not footsteps, not quite. More like the house itself breathing—a long inhalation through a structure that was not meant to have lungs. A faint, unmistakable scent bled into the air. Damp soil. Smoke. And lilac, faint but clinging. It was the scent of Ashthorne Hill. She had smelled it the night of the fire in the stories. She had smelled it in the museum glass. And now, here, in the middle of London, it filled her flat as if the house had been waiting just beyond the walls. The lights flickered. Once. Twice. On the third flicker, the world seemed to tilt. Her hallway stretched. Just slightly. The white plaster warped at the far end, the corner bending in a way it shouldn't. She stumbled backward, knocking against her coffee table, breath hitching. Her voice came out too thin. "Daniel?" Silence. Then the walls groaned. A low, wet sound like wood soaked and forced apart. The far wall in her hallway—solid, blank, painted a soft grey—began to split. Not crumble. Split. Hairline fractures slithered outward in a branching pattern like veins. The plaster bulged as if something pressed against it from the other side. A wind breathed through the crack, impossibly cold. She wanted to run. Every instinct in her screamed at her to. But she couldn't make her feet move. All she could do was stand and watch as the wall heaved inward and then— —burst. Plaster cracked open like ribs. Fragments scattered across the hallway in a spray of dust and splinters. Alice screamed and stumbled backward, shielding her face. The lights stuttered once more, and when they steadied, there it was. A door. It did not belong in her flat. Black oak. Iron fittings rusted red-brown. A handle that looked like it hadn't turned in a century. The threshold seeped a thin mist that crept across her floor like a living thing. It looked exactly like the front door of Ashthorne Hill. Her hands were shaking now. She pressed them over her mouth, fighting the sob building in her throat. This was wrong. This was impossible. It wasn't just a haunting anymore. It was the house itself forcing its way in. From behind the door came a sound: faint at first, like wind through broken glass, then louder. A hollow knock. Once. Then again. The doorknob twitched. Alice backed into the living room, nearly tripping over the coffee table. The smell of earth and smoke was thick now. The walls themselves seemed to lean toward the door, groaning like they remembered their original shape. "No," she whispered. "No, no, no—" The knocking stopped. A quiet followed, worse than the noise. Then a voice—not outside the door, but inside her flat, threading through the cold. A whisper. Low. Familiar. "Alice." Her breath froze in her chest. The lights died. She stood in the dark, the only illumination the thin, grey glow leaking through the gaps around the new door. The mist coiled along the floor, touching her ankles like cold fingers. She could hear her heartbeat. She could hear his breath. And then—click. The doorknob turned, just slightly. Alice bolted. She slammed her bedroom door, threw the latch, pressed her back against it as though her small weight could hold back whatever centuries-old thing had just breached her home. The flat went quiet again. But in the dark hallway, the newly formed door waited—its edges pulsing faintly, as if breathing.
Chapter 8 – The Door
Morning came in pieces. A soft, colourless light pressed against the curtains, thin as ash. The city outside was muffled—no cars yet, no footsteps, just a hush that felt wrong, as if the world were holding its breath. Alice lay on the floor beside her bed. She had not meant to sleep, only to rest, but the hours had slipped by in fragments. The memory of the wall splitting open still pulsed behind her eyelids like an afterimage of lightning. She sat up slowly. Her neck ached. The flat was silent. For one foolish heartbeat she hoped it had been a dream. Then she smelled it: damp stone, earth, and smoke. The scent of Ashthorne Hill. She rose and opened the bedroom door. The hallway lay still, the air grey with early light. Dust hung in it like mist. And at the end of the hall—where blank plaster had been only yesterday— stood the door. streaked with rust that almost seemed to bleed. A faint chill leaked from the gap beneath it, spreading over the floor like fog. The plaster around the frame was cracked and swollen, as though the building itself resented its presence. Alice wrapped her arms around herself and stepped closer. Her reflection wavered in the metal latch—too pale, eyes ringed in shadow. She reached out and touched the edge of the door. It was real. Solid. Cold enough to burn. "This isn't possible," she whispered. "This can't exist." Her phone sat on the table by the wall. She grabbed it, opened the camera, and snapped a photo. The screen went black for a second, then showed the image: the door, sharp and dark. But something about the picture was wrong. The hallway behind it was gone—nothing but shadow, as if the door opened onto an endless void. Alice dropped it, breath catching. Her pulse thudded in her ears. She looked back at the door. It seemed unchanged, patient. Waiting. She backed away a few steps, staring. The apartment was dim, the light paling against the frost riming the walls. Her breath showed in the air. Then, faintly, from behind the door, came a sound. At first it was only the soft whisper of air through old wood. Then the sound deepened— became rhythm. Slow. Hollow. As if something on the other side was breathing. She froze. The breath hitched, then steadied. Another second passed, and the rhythm shifted again. A new sound joined it, quieter still—a murmur of words pressed through too narrow a space. She couldn't tell what it said at first. The syllables stretched, blurred by the wood. Then she heard it. The voice was Daniel's, but wrong—dragged through water, distorted, each consonant trembling at the edges. It tried to sound gentle. It almost did. " …Alice…" Her hand covered her mouth. Tears pricked her eyes. She wanted to answer, to demand why, but her throat wouldn't work. The whisper came again, closer now, right behind the door: " …come back…" The doorknob twitched. A faint creak rolled through the wood like a breath drawn in. She stumbled backward until her spine hit the wall. The air pressed cold against her skin. She stared as the metal handle stilled again, the whisper dying away. Silence returned, but it was a living silence, full of expectation. The door remained where it was, the last trace of frost melting into a dark streak across the floor. Alice stayed there, trembling, until the sun finally reached the window. The light touched the edge of the door—and the door absorbed it, casting no shadow at all.
Chapter 9 – The Whispering Room
Morning came like a pale apology. The light bled into the flat through thin curtains, soft but cold, washing the furniture in shades of ash and pearl. Alice stood by the window, her hand pressed to the glass, watching the world move far below — cars, a cyclist, a woman with a red umbrella — all of them distant, almost fictional. The quiet was too deep. Her flat should have carried the hum of the city, but the silence had weight, like the walls themselves were listening. She turned. The door was still there. It stood at the end of the corridor, solid, heavy, a colour between iron and shadow. She had spent the night on the sofa, watching it in the reflection of the TV screen, unable to look away yet afraid to blink too long. It hadn't moved. Not once. And yet, when she walked toward it now, the air changed — not colder, but denser, as if the flat inhaled in her direction. Alice stopped halfway down the hall. The morning light reached the door, and the wood seemed to ripple faintly, as though lit from beneath by something breathing. She whispered, "You don't belong here." No answer. But the silence pressed closer. She fetched her phone. Logic — it was the only rope left. She needed proof that this wasn't madness. She opened the camera and began recording, her voice barely steady. "Saturday, 10:14 a.m. The door is… still here." She paused, staring into the screen. The frame showed the hallway, the door, a pale spill of sunlight. Perfectly ordinary — until the moment the light f lickered. For half a second, the reflection in the brass handle shifted. She thought she saw movement — not her own, but someone standing behind her. Alice exhaled, a ragged sound. She forced a laugh, weak and high. "You're imagining things." But when she turned back, the door was slightly ajar. Her breath caught. It had been shut — she remembered the sound of it closing the night before, the firm latch, the way she'd tested it three times. Now, a thin black seam ran down its edge, like the line between waking and a dream. "Daniel?" The name escaped before she could stop it. The air shifted. The curtains at the window swayed, though there was no breeze. The faintest hum began to build, low and resonant — not loud enough to be a sound, but something she felt in her bones. recording, its lens pointed upward toward her face. She took a step closer. The hum deepened. The light in the corridor bent, the way heat bends air above tarmac. Her reflection in the door's handle lengthened, warped, until it didn't look quite like her anymore. "Daniel…" she whispered again. And then she heard it. Not from the door — from the flat itself. A voice, faint, almost tender. "Alice…" It came from everywhere and nowhere, like a memory whispered through water. She froze, hands trembling at her sides. It was his voice — the same timbre, the same gentle drawl that used to turn her name into something secret. But there was something wrong with it now, a metallic undertone, a hollow echo that made her stomach tighten. "Daniel?" Her voice broke. "Where are you?" A breath. Just one — deep and wet — exhaled from the seam of the door. The hum grew. She felt it behind her eyes. The sunlight dimmed, flickered — and for a moment, she thought the entire flat tilted. The f loor shuddered beneath her feet, and the walls groaned softly, like an old house shifting in a storm. Alice stood motionless. The door was closed again. Her phone had stopped recording. The screen was black, reflecting her pale face. She picked it up, heart hammering, and pressed play. The video began with her voice describing the door, her reflection on the handle. Then the image blurred — static, distortion, like interference — and a sound emerged: a deep, rhythmic breathing, followed by a faint voice whispering her name. Not once, but over and over. "Alice… Alice… Alice…" Each repetition slower, further apart, until the last one ended in a ragged sigh. She dropped the phone. The hum was gone. The air felt wrong again, too still, like the world was holding its breath. She backed away from the door, every step deliberate, her gaze fixed on that seam of darkness where it met the frame. in mourning. fading into stone. unfocused. Sunlight shifted across the room, inching toward afternoon. She could still hear the echo of her name — not aloud now, but inside her head, caught like dust in the light. And for the first time, she realized: the door wasn't just in her flat. It was part of it. And part of her. and then the flat fell quiet again. So quiet that if she hadn't known better, she might have believed the whisper had stopped.
Chapter 10 – The Hollow Light
Three days passed before Alice stepped outside again. London's air felt sharper than she remembered, the sound of it louder — footsteps, traffic, a distant siren, the rattle of the underground somewhere beneath her feet. Every noise seemed too close, every reflection too bright. She clutched her bag to her chest, kept her head down, and told herself she was fine. didn't look at it, didn't listen for it, it wasn't there. By the time she reached the museum, the familiar scent of stone dust and wax polish steadied her pulse. Inside, the world was cooler, dimmer, reverent. She worked in the archives of the Ashmole Wing — cataloguing, restoring, arranging the past into something polite. The space had always comforted her: long corridors, quiet rooms, things that never changed. But as she walked down the marble hall that morning, the air flickered. The light from the skylight above shimmered as if disturbed by heat — though the day was cold. She stopped. The ripple vanished. "Too little sleep," she murmured. Her reflection in the glass case beside her looked wan, eyes shadowed. She brushed a lock of hair from her cheek and forced herself onward. The new exhibition was small: Ruins and Reverence — Landscapes of Loss. Paintings of half fallen manors and wild gardens overtaken by nature. She had chosen them herself, months ago, when she still believed ruin was beautiful. Now the canvases unsettled her. One in particular caught her eye — an oil from the late 19th century, unsigned. It showed a hill under stormlight, a house perched on top like a broken crown. The title card beneath it read simply: Ashthorne, 1892. windows. The slope of the land. The twisted tree in the foreground — she knew them. Her breath trembled. "Impossible," she whispered. The canvas shimmered, just slightly, as if the paint hadn't dried. For a moment she thought she saw the curtains of the painted house move, shifting with a wind that didn't exist. "Ms. Asthorne?" Alice jumped. Her colleague, Marianne, stood behind her with a clipboard and a raised brow. "You're early. Everything all right?" Alice blinked rapidly. The painting was still again. The brushstrokes ordinary, the light steady. "Yes," she said too quickly. "Just tired." Marianne smiled thinly and moved on. Alice stayed where she was, heart hammering. The hum she had heard in her flat — that deep vibration under the skin — seemed to stir faintly beneath the museum's quiet. There were files to check, display lights to adjust, things that made sense. But when she reached the restoration table, her hands froze. adjustments had cracked clean across its centre — a thin, perfect line. She hadn't touched it. No one had. The crack divided her reflection neatly in two. She lifted it carefully. The fracture was cold beneath her fingers, as though frost had formed inside the glass. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw movement behind her reflection — a f igure standing in the shadowed corner of the room. She turned sharply. Nothing. Only her coat on the rack, swaying as if someone had brushed past. available. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She didn't remember saving it to the cloud. She didn't remember granting any backup permissions at all. The video opened by itself. Static. Then her own voice: "Saturday, 10:14 a.m…" Alice's throat closed. She lowered the phone to the table and stepped back. Through the tinny speaker came the hum — that same impossible resonance — followed by the whisper. "Alice…" Her blood went cold. It wasn't just in the recording anymore. The voice echoed softly in the museum's air, threaded through the distant whir of the ventilation. She glanced toward the corridor — empty. The security camera above the door flickered, then steadied again. Her knees nearly gave. "No," she said aloud, half a plea. Something rattled. One of the glass cases trembled on its plinth, just slightly. The rippled light from the skylight spread, warping across the marble floor. She backed toward the exit, but the light followed her — stretching, bending, until it seemed to form the faint outline of a door. Her breath hitched. She knew that shape. And just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished. The light stilled. The hum sank back into silence. When she looked down, her phone screen had gone black again — but faintly, reflected in the dark glass, was not her face. It was Daniel's. His eyes were open, unblinking, watching her. Alice stumbled back, choking on a sob. The screen dimmed further, until her reflection replaced his, pale and hollow-eyed. The museum's lights returned to their normal glow, indifferent and still. readings?" "Coming." painting of Ashthorne Hill, she thought she saw a second figure standing in one of the painted windows now — pale, half-formed, waiting. By the time she turned back to look again, it was gone. That night, when the museum closed and the last of the lights went out, the painting still hung quietly on the wall. The air was dark and still. But if anyone had been there to listen, they might have heard, faintly beneath the hum of the city — "Alice…"
Chapter 11 – Ash and Glass
Night had taken the city in a slow tide. The museum's façade glimmered with rain, the streetlamps blurred to pale halos on the glass doors. Inside, all was locked and silent. Only the archival wing still breathed faintly, lit by a single desk lamp that spilled its small circle of gold across a sea of papers. were open volumes, maps, brittle letters spread like autumn leaves. Each page smelled of dust and ink and time. She had not meant to stay this late; yet hours had dissolved without her noticing. variations of the same blood, looping through centuries. The entries wound backward until she found one dated 1893: "Estate of Ashthorne Hill transferred to Samuel Asthorne, following the f ire. Line secured through the younger daughter, Lillian." Her pulse faltered. Lillian. The letters blurred; she blinked them clear. Another note followed, written in a stranger's hand: "Property uninhabitable. Rumors persist. The girl taken south." She sat back. The room's quiet felt suddenly fragile, as if her breath might break it. The air had that faint weight again—like expectation. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the next folder. Inside lay photographs—sepia, brittle at the edges. One showed the hill itself before the ruin: the manor whole, windows black with reflection. Another, smaller image was tucked behind it. She eased it free and gasped. It was a portrait of a woman, pale and sharp-boned, eyes dark as ink. The handwriting beneath read: Lillian Asthorne, 1895. Alice stared until the face seemed almost to breathe. The resemblance was uncanny— cheekbones, mouth, even the slight tilt of the head. As though the photograph were an old mirror waiting to be remembered. Rain rattled the high windows. Somewhere in the museum's vastness, metal creaked softly. She turned back to the records, searching for proof, denial, anything. Another entry caught her eye: "The Asthorne curse endures—through love betrayed and earth unquiet. The line returns to its own." palm to the page and felt, absurdly, warmth beneath it. The lamp flickered. She lifted her head. The room had changed—no sound, no hum of distant generators, only the faint tick of rain. The shadows had grown taller, stretching across the walls like silhouettes reaching for her. outline. Then, slowly, another form gathered behind her: a man's figure, faint, indefinite, but there. The reflection did not move, but the light shifted in the glass, and the faintest whisper coiled through the silence: "Alice…" It was gentle, almost tender—then hollow, like the echo of an echo. She turned; the room was empty. The reflection lingered a moment longer, then dissolved into the lamplight. She stood shakily, clutching the edge of the desk. The records before her now looked different—every name on the page glowed faintly, as if written in ash. The photograph of Lillian had slipped to the floor; water from the open window above spattered across it, blurring the face until it looked almost like her own. Outside, thunder muttered. The lamp dimmed again, and the rainlight that filtered through the glass roof turned pale silver, casting the archives in a hollow glow. She gathered the papers with trembling hands, but one sheet refused to lift. It seemed fixed to the desk, though the rest scattered easily. When she looked closer, she saw it was blank except for a single sentence appearing slowly, as if written from beneath: "The house remembers its blood." Her breath stuttered out in a broken laugh. She stepped back, knocking over the lamp. Its bulb rolled, still burning, throwing long, dizzy shadows across the walls. In that shifting light she saw it—the faint outline of a door etched upon the far wall, black against the stone, impossibly solid for an instant. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, it was gone. She bent, picked up the photograph, and placed it gently back into the folder. Her voice was steady now, almost resigned. "It was never about him," she murmured. "It was always about me." from the direction of the invisible door, came a breath that wasn't hers, soft and close, followed by the voice—distant now, yet clear: "Alice…" The sound rippled through the air and faded. She didn't turn. She simply walked away, her footsteps echoing across marble and down the long corridor, until they, too, were swallowed by the quiet. When dawn came, the museum stood hushed and empty. The rain had stopped. In the archives, the papers lay neatly stacked—but on the glass of the cabinet, faint as condensation, a single word had appeared, then dried to nothing. Asthorne. End of Part 2.