The house sat at the end of Elmridge Lane, sagging under the weight of decades and secrets. No one had lived there since the fire not officially. But Elora knew it wasn't empty.
It never had been.
She and Graves stood before the rotting door. The symbol he painted on her wrist pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. She could feel it responding to something inside.
Or someone.
"Stay behind me," he said.
But she didn't.
She pushed the door open and stepped in first.
Inside the House
The air was thick, like stepping into honey. Every sound was muffled, like they were underwater. The walls wept black tar. Shadows moved against them not with them. Time felt broken here.
Elora walked toward the charred staircase.
She stopped.
At the top stood Clara.
"Elora?" she called out softly.
Elora's heart leapt. "Clara!"
She took a step forward.
"No," Graves hissed. "That's not her."
But it looked just like Clara. Same hair. Same tear-streaked face. Same trembling voice.
"You left me, Elora… you let it take me…"
"Elora, don't," Graves warned again.
She hesitated.
Then the fake Clara smiled.
Too wide. Too sharp.
"But I can forgive you… if you come closer."
Suddenly, the floor beneath Graves split open like a hungry mouth. He screamed as black arms pulled him down. Elora lunged but was too late. He was gone.
And the fake Clara began to laugh.
Elora turned and ran upstairs, through the twisted halls that shifted behind her. She could hear Graves' voice, but it was layered with others now.
Hundreds.
Begging. Crying. Mocking.
She stumbled into a room. Slammed the door shut.
And froze.
There was a mirror inside. Covered in grime.
But in the reflection...
She saw herself.
Except she was smiling.
And behind her, reflected only in the glass, stood Emmanuel.
Dead eyes. Twisted neck. Whispering.
"It followed you too."