The locked room

Chapter 11 – The Locked Room

Ava Carter POV

The door slammed shut behind Damon, leaving me in the dim hallway outside Emilia’s room. My breath hitched, heart hammering from the confession Emilia had just shared—the woman in the mirror had spoken to her. That wasn’t just a haunting. That was communication. A bridge forming between this world and...whatever lay beneath it.

I turned back to Emilia’s door and rested my hand against the wood. Silence now. I didn’t dare disturb her again.

But I needed answers.

I crept down the hallway, past the cracked paint and flickering sconces, until I reached the East Wing. The air grew colder the closer I got. The shadows seemed to press in, tighter, thicker.

Something about the East Wing had always felt off. Forbidden. Damon’s stern warnings echoed in my mind:

“Never go there. Ever.”

But now, everything had changed. If Emilia was speaking to spirits—if the woman in the mirror was real—I had to know why. And I had to know who.

The brass doorknob was ice cold under my hand. I twisted it, but it was locked, just as always.

I crouched and examined the lock. It was old, probably original to the house, rusting slightly around the edges. Something told me Damon hadn’t changed it because he never imagined someone would dare to open it.

I dashed back to the study, rummaging through his desk drawers until I found a thick iron keyring. Several keys jangled together. I snatched it and hurried back.

One by one, I tried the keys. The seventh one clicked.

The lock gave way with a soft groan.

The door creaked open, revealing a long hallway cloaked in darkness. A musky scent spilled out—like old books, rotting wood, and something metallic underneath.

I stepped inside.

The door closed behind me with a thud.

My flashlight cast eerie shapes on the walls. Thick velvet drapes covered long-abandoned furniture. Dust floated like ash in the air. But at the end of the hall, something glowed faintly.

A door. Slightly ajar.

I pushed it open and stepped inside.

It was a nursery.

A cradle sat beneath a stained-glass window. Toys lay scattered on the floor—antique, decaying. A stuffed rabbit missing an eye. A wooden soldier with a chipped drum. And in the center of the room, a rocking chair… rocking slowly on its own.

I stopped breathing.

The air turned icy.

And then—I saw her.

In the reflection of the stained-glass window, a figure stood behind me.

White gown. Hollow eyes. Lips curled into a familiar, cruel smile.

I spun around.

No one there.

My skin prickled. My instincts screamed at me to leave, but something shimmered in the corner of the room. A painting, hidden behind a torn curtain.

I yanked it free.

It was a portrait.

Of Emilia.

But she looked older. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Her face gaunt. Eyes hollow.

A name was scrawled at the bottom.

Isobel Carter.

My heart dropped.

No. That couldn’t be. Emilia was eight. Isobel was Damon’s sister.

Was the girl I was caring for… not who I thought?

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

I turned, heart in my throat.

“Who's there?” I called out.

No response.

I backed away, hand trembling as I held my flashlight up. My breath came in rapid gasps.

The rocking chair groaned louder now. Faster. Like something unseen was sitting in it.

Then a voice hissed from the shadows.

“She doesn’t belong to you.”

I ran.

I didn’t look back.

Bursting out of the East Wing, I slammed the door shut and locked it with shaking hands.

Downstairs, Damon stood by the fireplace, drink in hand. He turned slowly as I approached, eyes narrowing.

“You went in there,” he said quietly.

“I had to,” I snapped. “There’s a portrait. Of Emilia. But labeled Isobel. Damon, what’s going on?”

His jaw worked. For a second, he looked like he might lie. But then something inside him broke.

“I lied to you,” he said hoarsely. “About everything.”

“Start talking,” I demanded.

“She’s not just my sister,” he said. “She’s my curse.”

Before I could press him further, we both heard it—Emilia’s scream from upstairs.

High.

Piercing.

Terrified.

We bolted toward the stairs.

But before we reached her door, it flew open—

And Emilia stood there.

Eyes glowing faintly white.

Crayon in hand.

Behind her, the mirror dripped with something dark and thick.

Blood.

And on the floor…

A new drawing.

Of me.

Lying in a coffin.

To be continued...

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