CHAPTER FIVE
"A Stranger's Voice Beneath the Floor"
By the fifth morning, I stopped pretending this place would ever feel like home.
I sat on the edge of the massive bed, the photograph from last night clutched in one hand, the cursed ring biting into my skin from the other. I had barely slept, the walls whispering with noises too quiet to be real, too loud to ignore.
I kept the photo hidden inside my robe's inner pocket as I walked to the grand dining room, where Ethan already sat, effortlessly poised as if ghosts weren't pacing just outside these walls.
He glanced at me, then down at my empty ring finger.
"I told you to wear it," he said simply.
"I'm not a prop," I shot back, sliding into the chair across from him. "I'm not wearing something that keeps showing up where it shouldn't."
His gaze sharpened. "The agreement was clear."
"The agreement didn't mention locked doors that open themselves or strangers whispering through walls."
Ethan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Your role is to maintain appearances. Not to dig into things you don't understand."
I pulled the photograph from my robe and tossed it onto the table. "Explain this."
His jaw tensed, but his eyes barely flickered.
"Where did you get it?" His voice dropped.
"Outside my door. Last night." I kept my tone cold. "You keep telling me to ignore the house, but the house isn't ignoring me."
Ethan stared at the image for a long time. When he finally spoke, his words were low and deliberate.
"Her name was Claudia Bexley. She married my uncle under a similar contract. She disappeared. The investigation went nowhere. The Golf family buried it like we bury everything."
My stomach twisted.
"How many more are there?" I pressed.
Ethan stood without answering.
The conversation was over.
But I wasn't done.
I spent the morning walking the halls, ignoring the wary glances of the staff. I found the older woman from the East Wing again; her name was Gertrude, she told me, cleaning the unused drawing room like someone expecting company who would never arrive.
"You won't win against this house," she warned as I approached.
"I'm not trying to win," I said quietly. "I'm trying to understand."
Her eyes softened, but only slightly. She glanced around and leaned in.
"The noises start in the West Wing, below the main floor. The servants avoid it. The cameras are conveniently disabled there."
"What's under the floor?" I asked.
"Old cellars, sealed rooms… things the family doesn't talk about," she whispered. "Start listening after midnight. That's when they stir."
A chill prickled down my spine.
That night, I sat in the center of my room, the ring sealed inside the vanity drawer, every light switched off except the lamp on my nightstand.
The house groaned and sighed like it was stretching after a long sleep.
At 12:17 a.m., the floor beneath my feet vibrated faintly.
A sound, muffled, rhythmic, and pulsed, came from beneath the wood.
Not footsteps.
Knocking.
From below.
I threw on a robe, grabbed a flashlight, and slipped out of my room, adrenaline chasing fear through my veins.
The halls were deathly silent, except for that same, low knock pulsing through the floorboards with every step I took.
I reached the West Wing.
Unlit, untouched.
Cobwebs hung in the corners; the air smelled older here, like something sealed away too long.
I found the narrow staircase Gertrude had mentioned, hidden behind a tapestry.
The knocking grew louder as I descended.
At the bottom, a thick wooden door barred my way. I pressed my palm against it; the wood was warm, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat.
The knocking stopped.
Silence fell heavy.
Then, another sound.
A whisper, soft, almost too faint to hear, leaking through the cracks in the wood.
"Don't… forget… me…"
My breath caught.
It wasn't a man's voice. It wasn't Gertrude's voice.
It was a woman, young… fragile… desperate.
My hand shook on the doorknob.
I wanted to run.
But I forced myself to stay.
"Who's there?" My voice barely sounded like mine.
Silence.
Then, just as I stepped back, ready to leave, three words floated up through the door.
"Help… us… escape."
I stumbled away from the door, heart galloping against my ribs, footsteps unsteady as I fled the suffocating cellar.
Back in my room, I locked the door, shoved the chair beneath the handle, and sat on the floor, head in my hands.
I had signed a contract, thinking I was escaping poverty.
Instead, I had married into something much darker.
Something alive beneath the floorboards.
Something that whispered… and waited.