Rhea stood outside the mansion, the pale dawn light washing over her face like a baptism after a long, restless night. The storm that had hovered over DaMira Mansion for centuries was finally gone. The skies were clear for the first time in weeks. The oppressive darkness that once clung to the air like thick fog had lifted, leaving behind a strange stillness—an uneasy peace.
In her hand, she held the locket—the same locket that had once felt cold, heavy, almost cursed. Now, it was warm to the touch and glowing faintly, like the final ember of a dying flame. A symbol of closure. A promise that the spirit was free.
Or so she believed.
Three long weeks passed. Rhea tried to return to her version of a normal life. She edited the episodes of her haunted series with trembling fingers and tired eyes. Every cut of the video brought back memories she was trying to suppress. Still, she pushed through. When the series was finally uploaded, the internet exploded. Millions of views flooded in. Comments praised her bravery, her courage, her storytelling. Her name was everywhere. She was called a survivor. A star.
But the nights were never the same.
The whispers had stopped in DaMira Mansion—but they had started somewhere new. In her apartment. In her dreams. In her mirrors.
It began so subtly, Rhea almost convinced herself it was just her mind playing tricks. She would wake suddenly at exactly 3:33 a.m., drenched in sweat, heart pounding, and the soft sound of her name echoing through the silence. At first, it came only once in a while. Then every night. The chill in her once-warm bedroom felt like the mansion had followed her home. Her skin would prickle, as if invisible eyes were always watching. Cold spots appeared near her bed, near the door, near the mirror.
And then came the scratching.
Inside the walls.
She tried to rationalize it—mice, faulty wiring, post-trauma stress disorder. She told herself over and over that she was just paranoid. That fear was a habit now. She began filming a new series to distract herself, to silence the doubts and ghosts. She laughed for the camera, but her eyes stayed wary. She smiled, but never fully.
Deep down, she knew.
One night, the familiar voice returned. A whisper, low and unmistakable, from the dark corner of her room:
"He lied."
Rhea froze.
Every inch of her body stiffened. She reached for her camera with trembling hands and turned on the night vision. The screen buzzed with static for a second, then focused. She pointed the lens toward the mirror.
Her reflection stared back at her.
But it didn't move.
It didn't blink.
It just smiled.
A slow, wide smile that didn't belong to her.
The spirit she thought she had freed… wasn't the only one that had been trapped.
Driven by dread, Rhea returned to DaMira Mansion. She didn't plan it. Her body simply moved. She had to know. The front door opened before her fingers even touched it, creaking wide like it had been waiting. The air inside was colder now, heavier, as if the house was breathing again—alive and aware of her presence.
She followed the pull. Past the grand hallway. Past the silent rooms. To the canvas.
The hidden room behind the painting called to her.
The canvas was no longer blank.
A new image had taken shape—painted in pain. A man screaming, chained to the floor, his mouth open in silent agony. Shadows loomed over him, long and monstrous. In the corner, carved in jagged strokes, was a name.
"Nathaniel."
The whispers returned. But this time, they didn't lead her to the grave. Not to the diary. Not even to the attic.
They led her below.
Deeper than she had ever gone before.
She stepped back as the wooden floorboard beneath her feet creaked and cracked, revealing a hidden trapdoor she had never noticed. She hesitated, then opened it. A spiral staircase descended into darkness.
The descent took minutes—or maybe hours. Time warped in that space. The deeper she went, the louder her heartbeat sounded in her ears. At the bottom, she entered a circular chamber made entirely of stone. Ancient symbols lined the walls, glowing faintly as if they had been waiting for her touch to awaken them.
In the center stood a large mirror—cracked, but alive with light. Not a reflection of the present, but of the past.
Through the mirror, she saw herself again.
But not her.
Her reflection wore old clothes, a long dress from another era. Her hair was longer, her eyes full of sorrow.
"He buried me," the reflection said softly. "But I wasn't the only one."
Then the mirror cracked fully, the sound like thunder in the hollow room. The shards trembled, then burst outward, and from behind the broken glass, a body fell forward.
Nathaniel.
Skeletal, pale, but alive. Barely. More creature than man. His limbs trembled as he crawled toward her.
"Help me," he gasped. "I tried to stop it. She cursed us all."
"Who?" Rhea whispered.
"Marissa... she lied to you."
The name stabbed through Rhea's chest.
Marissa.
The woman in the portrait. The woman in the locket. The one she thought she had saved.
"She killed our family. We buried her to stop her."
The letters. The diary. The cries for help. It had all been Marissa's voice. Her narrative. Her trap.
Rhea had freed the wrong soul.
The walls screamed.
The air shattered.
From the corner of the chamber, the spirit of Marissa emerged. Beautiful. Drenched in blood. Her smile, venomous. Her eyes, empty yet burning.
"You dug deep, little girl," she whispered. "Now drown in the truth."
Her hand rose. The broken mirror shards floated around her like blades.
Rhea held up the locket. It blazed with heat, glowing with truth.
"You lied," she said.
Marissa hissed, a sound like death itself. Nathaniel gripped Rhea's hand.
"There is one way," he breathed. "Bind her. Use the truth."
Rhea grabbed the diary's final page. She drew a binding circle using the symbols on the wall, her voice shaking as she chanted the ancient words. The house itself seemed to respond, whispering along with her, empowering her.
Marissa screamed, her form rippling. Shadows peeled away from her. With a final shriek, her body was pulled into the mirror, now turning to solid stone.
It was over.
Nathaniel lay back, his eyes soft.
"Thank you," he whispered before going still.
A week later, DaMira Mansion mysteriously burned to the ground. The townspeople said lightning struck it. Others believed it was cursed. No one rebuilt.
Rhea uploaded the final episode:
"The Curse of DaMira: The Full Truth."
Her voice was calm. Her face tired, but certain. As the video ended, the screen glitched. Just for a moment.
A flicker.
A woman smiling.
Eyes bleeding.
Then it was gone.
Rhea stared at the screen. Her lips curved into a small, chilling smile.
She leaned closer.
And whispered,
"Now it begins."
To be continued....