Adrian didn't turn on the lights as he led me through the long entrance hall. The house seemed to prefer shadows, and he didn't bother fighting them. Pale morning light filtered through high windows, revealing dust drifting lazily in the air, like the place had been holding its breath for years.
The silence had a weight to it one that felt aware of us.
"You'll be staying on the east side," Adrian said. His voice echoed softly against the tall ceilings. "That wing is unused. It should be… quiet."
He walked with a stiff posture, like he didn't want his back exposed to me. Or maybe to the house.
I followed, trying not to stare, but everything demanded to be looked at.
Portraits with smeared faces, as if someone had run a wet thumb across their expressions.Curtains drawn tight in rooms large enough to swallow sound.
The faint, metallic scent of something that hadn't seen fresh air in too long.
The kind of place where secrets settle into the walls like mold.
I cleared my throat. "Where is Elena?"
He didn't slow. "Resting."
"Is she expecting me?"
Silence.
Short. Heavy.
Finally
"She knows you're here."
The tone he used should've been reassuring. It wasn't.
We reached a narrow hallway lined with closed doors. Every one had a keyhole, and every keyhole was clogged with something dark. I didn't want to guess what.
Adrian stopped at the last door.
"This will be your room."
He pushed it open, revealing a small but tidy bedroom. A desk, a window overlooking the lake, a bed tucked into the corner. Clean enough. Safe enough.
But safety felt like an illusion in this house.
"I'll answer whatever questions you have once you've rested," Adrian said. "We keep early dinners. Six o'clock."
He turned to leave, but I instinctively reached out.
"Wait."
My fingers brushed his sleeve. He froze.
I withdrew my hand. "I… saw someone. In the window. Upstairs."
A long moment passed.
Then
"That wing is off-limits," he said. "Elena's wing."
"Was that her?"
His jaw tightened. "She doesn't like visitors."
"But she invited me."
His eyes flashed something between annoyance and… fear?
"Elena hasn't invited anyone anywhere," he said quietly. "Not for two years."
My stomach dropped.
He left before I could respond, shutting the door with a soft click that felt eerily final.
The room was warm, but I couldn't stop shivering. I set my bag on the chair, paced the floor, ran my fingers across the desk's dusty surface. Every part of me felt unsettled.
Outside, the lake shimmered like a dark mirror. The trees leaned crookedly toward it, branches twisted like hands reaching for something just beneath the surface.
I should sleep, I told myself. I should lie down and pretend none of this felt wrong.
But my eyes kept drifting to the far corner of the room where a small bookshelf clung to the wall. The books were old, leather bound, faded. One lay apart from the rest, slightly pulled forward, as if someone had taken it out and put it back carelessly.
Curiosity, stupid and instinctive, guided my hand.
I reached for it.
The book came free with a soft rasp.
A diary.
No title.
No name.
Just initials embossed in the corner: E.H.
My heart thudded.
I opened it.
The first page was blank.
The second too.
But the third
A single sentence written in uneven ink:
"The truth will destroy him before it frees me."
A chill ran through me so violently I had to grip the desk to steady myself.
Was this Elena's handwriting?
Was this a warning?
Or a confession?
Before I could read further, a sound cut through the silence.
A soft, dragging shuffle.
Right outside my door.
The air in my lungs froze.
Slowly barely breathing I stepped toward the door and pressed my ear against the wood.
Another shuffle.
Closer.
Then a low, strained exhale.
Fragile.
Human.
Someone was right on the other side.
And then…
A whisper.
Muffled.
Broken.
Like breath forced through weak lungs.
"Mara…"
I stumbled back, heart pounding. How how did anyone know my name?
The doorknob twitched.
Not turning.
Just trembling.
As if a shaking hand rested on it.
I stood frozen, staring, waiting for the knob to turn, for the door to open, for a face to appear.
But nothing happened.
After a long minute, the trembling stopped.
Footsteps shuffled away.
Slow.
Uneven.
Injured.
Then silence swallowed the hallway again.
It was several minutes before I found the courage to move. I opened the diary again with trembling hands, flipping through more pages, hoping for answers.
But page after page was blank.
Except one.
Near the very back.
A phrase scrawled messily, ink pressed so hard it tore the paper:
"Don't believe what he tells you."
I snapped the diary shut.
Even the silence felt like it was watching me.
And somewhere in this house
someone who knew my name
had whispered it through my door.
Someone whose voice sounded nothing like Adrian's.
Or anyone healthy enough to walk in daylight.