Episode 5 – The Locked Room
The night had grown quieter, but not calmer. The rain had slowed to a misty drizzle, yet the silence inside the Hawthorne estate felt heavier than the storm. Ella lay on the bed, staring at the ornate ceiling where the candlelight painted restless shadows. Adrian's words still echoed in her mind:
"You heard nothing. Go to bed."
But she had heard something—a scream, faint but chilling, coming from the West Wing. And the way Adrian's mask had cracked for just a moment, the fear in his eyes, told her she wasn't imagining it.
Sleep would not come. The walls seemed to breathe around her, every creak of the floorboards, every distant sigh of wind, a reminder that this house was alive in a way no home should be. Her pulse drummed in her ears, too loud, too insistent. Something in that forbidden wing was calling to her, pulling at her like invisible threads.
She rose quietly, slipping on her silk robe and taking the brass candlestick from the table. The flame wavered as if unsure, casting an amber glow across the room. The hallway beyond her door was colder than before, and the air tasted faintly metallic, like old coins or dried blood.
Every step was careful, deliberate. She moved past the rows of portraits, their gray-eyed gazes following her again, silently judging. The estate felt endless at night, its corridors stretching like a labyrinth designed to trap the unwary. The sconces flickered as she neared the West Wing, their light fighting the deep shadows pooling at the edges of the hall.
And then, she heard it again.
Not a scream this time, but a whisper. A low, indistinguishable murmur, rising and falling like a chant. It came from behind the heavy double doors at the far end—the ones bound with iron locks, the very doors Adrian had warned her never to open.
Her hand trembled as she reached out, fingers brushing the cold metal. The locks were solid, ancient, but there was a strange warmth radiating from the wood itself, as though something alive pressed against it from the other side.
"Ella."
The voice came not from the corridor but from directly behind her. She spun around so fast the candle nearly went out.
Adrian stood only a few feet away, his presence almost ghostly in the dim corridor. His expression was calm, but his eyes were shadows, unreadable and piercing. She hadn't heard him approach—not a footstep, not a breath.
"You don't listen," he said quietly, but there was an edge beneath the softness, a restrained anger that felt more dangerous than if he'd shouted.
Ella clutched the candlestick tighter. "There's someone behind those doors, Adrian. I heard them. A scream last night, whispers now. You can't expect me to stay silent."
He stepped closer, his coat whispering against the floor. "What you hear in this house is not always what it seems. The walls remember things. They echo what's better left forgotten."
"That's not an answer," she said, her voice sharper than she intended. "What are you hiding from me? From everyone?"
Adrian's jaw tightened, and for a moment, she thought he might finally tell her. But instead, he reached past her, his fingers brushing hers briefly as he took the candlestick from her hand.
"I'm trying to keep you alive, Ella," he murmured, his voice low enough that the words felt more like a confession than a threat. "Every choice I've made since bringing you here has been to protect you. But if you keep wandering toward the West Wing… I might not be able to protect you from them."
"Them?" Her breath hitched. "Who are they?"
A sound cut through the air before he could answer—a thud, followed by a dragging noise, like something heavy being pulled across the floor, from deep within the locked wing. Both of them froze, their eyes locking for a tense heartbeat. Adrian's hand tightened on the candlestick until his knuckles went white.
He turned sharply toward her. "Go back to your room. Now."
"I'm not leaving until—"
The thud came again, louder this time, closer. The whispering rose, dozens of voices overlapping, words she couldn't make out but that made her skin crawl. Her instincts screamed that whatever was behind those doors wasn't entirely human.
Adrian stepped in front of her, his tall frame a barrier between her and the West Wing. "If you want to live to see morning, Ella, you will not open those doors. Do you understand me?"
She wanted to argue, to demand answers, but something in his tone—cold, absolute, like a command carved in stone—rooted her to the spot. He didn't wait for her reply. With a forceful hand at her back, he guided her down the corridor, away from the whispers, away from the locked doors, away from whatever truth the Hawthorne estate was hiding.
Back in her room, he didn't speak. He simply set the candlestick on the table, met her eyes for a brief, unreadable moment, and left without a word. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound final.
Ella sat on the bed, her body tense, her mind a whirlwind of fear and questions. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the air still felt heavy, oppressive, as if the house itself was holding its breath.
And then, as she sat in silence, she heard it.
A soft creak. Not from the corridor this time, but from inside her room. The wardrobe door, which she was certain had been shut tight, now stood ajar by an inch. A single tendril of cold air slipped through the gap.
Something was inside.
To be continued...