The floor beneath Elina’s feet moaned as she stepped into the dim corridor leading away from the foyer. Faint candlelight flickered from wall sconces, their flames swaying as if disturbed by something invisible. She held her breath, half-expecting the wind to whistle a reply—but the house remained eerily silent, save for the occasional creak that now felt suspiciously intentional.
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Elina had spent the night in the west wing, in a room supposedly untouched since the 1960s. The bed had smelled of old rosewood and damp fabric. She had barely slept. The sensation of being watched wasn’t just a figment of her imagination anymore—it had taken root, growing stronger with each passing minute in Blackthorne Hall.
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She paused at a rusted metal grate in the floor—a vent that belonged to a long-defunct heating system. It whispered. Actually whispered.
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“Eliiiiiinaa…”
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Her name, soft as wind, but too clear. Too personal.
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She stepped back. Her body stiffened with a jolt of cold terror. This wasn’t a prank. No one else was supposed to be here. She had made sure of that when she arrived yesterday afternoon—double-checking every room, calling out into the empty house for hours just to hear the echo of her own voice.
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She knelt down, hesitant, tilting her ear toward the grate. Nothing. Just cold, unmoving air.
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But the floor creaked behind her.
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She spun around, heart thundering. There, at the edge of the candlelight, was a shadow that didn’t belong. It stretched longer than it should have. It flickered but there was no body to cast it.
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Instinct screamed at her to run. But another voice—a curious, unyielding voice within—told her to stay.
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She stepped toward the darkness.
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"Who's there?" she called out.
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Silence.
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Then—a soft sobbing.
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The kind of grief that filled rooms and buried memories. It came from behind the second door on the left. The door with peeling green paint and a brass handle dulled with time. She reached for it. Her fingers trembled as they brushed against the knob.
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“Elina…” the voice again, this time from within the room. “Don’t…”
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She opened it anyway.
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The room was not what she expected. The furniture was flipped and broken, claw marks carved into the walls—deep gouges as if someone had tried to escape from within. In the corner, a dusty porcelain doll sat in a child’s chair, its glassy eyes turned toward her. The sobbing had stopped.
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She stepped in, drawn to the doll against her better judgment. Her breath fogged as the air suddenly turned frigid. She reached out.
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The doll’s head jerked toward her.
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And then, everything went black.
Chapter 3 Coming soon....
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