Chizzy woke to darkness but not silence. The walls murmured. Soft, almost rhythmic, like breath behind plaster. Her heartbeat raced as she sat up, blinking into the void.
She reached for the matchbox beside her bed, lit a candle and gasped.
The room was untouched, but the mirror was cracked still, a jagged scar across its face. The floorboards near the window were damp, as if the fog had seeped inside.
She wrapped herself in a shawl and moved toward the hallway. Every step creaked like a warning.
When she reached the parlor, she saw it the red key, glowing faintly on the table where she had last seen it. But now, it pulsed like a heartbeat, calling her closer.
As she approached, the candle in her hand flickered, then flared not out, but higher. A surge of light. Too much. She dropped it.
It didn't go out.
The flame hovered midair.
She stared in horror as the flame alivebegan to drift toward the hidden cellar.
Drawn by something ancient.
And it wanted her to follow.
She picked up the red key and braced herself. There were no more denials. No more accidents. The house was revealing its will.
And Chizzy, whether she liked it or not, was its chosen.