Chapter 5

The whispers slithered from the walls again, closer now, naming her secrets she never spoke aloud. They didn't just vibrate in the air; they hummed against the marrow of Eleanor’s teeth. Greasy. That was the only word for them. They felt like a coat of oil over her skin, slick and impossible to wash away.

*The fire, El… remember the way the curtains curled like blackened skin?*

She pressed her palms against her temples, her fingernails digging into the thin flesh. "Stop," she whispered to the empty hallway. The floorboards of the Victorian house groaned in response, a long, low trek of wood-on-wood that sounded like a heavy body being dragged through the attic. "It’s the house. It’s just the settling. It’s the pipes. It’s the dry rot."

But the dry rot didn’t know about the lighter in the velvet-lined jewelry box. The pipes didn’t know about the way she had stood on the lawn, watching the smoke rise, feeling nothing but a cold, crystalline relief until the screaming started.

Eleanor stood in the center of the foyer, the shadows cast by the stained-glass transom window stretching like elongated fingers across the floor. The air in the house had grown thick, a soup of dust motes and the smell of old, wet wool. Exhaustion was a physical weight, a leaden cape draped over her shoulders. She hadn't slept for more than an hour at a time since she’d arrived at Blackwood. Every time she closed her eyes, the whispers became a roar, a sea of voices chanting the things she had spent ten years trying to forget.

She needed to find the source. If she could just find the hole in the wall, the drafty vent, the logical, physical explanation for the sound, she could stop the unraveling.

*Under the floor, El… it’s damp under the floor…*

"Shut up," she snapped, her voice cracking. 

She began with the parlor. Her flashlight beam, a shaky, jaundiced circle of light, cut through the gloom. The furniture was shrouded in white sheets, rising like stagnant ghosts from the corners. She moved toward the fireplace, running her hand along the mantel. The dust was thick, velvet to the touch, but beneath it, the marble was ice-cold. 

She leaned her ear against the chimney breast.

Silence. 

Then—a rhythmic thud. *Thump. Thump. Thump.*

It wasn't a heart. It was too slow, too heavy. It sounded like a fist wrapped in cloth striking the other side of the brickwork.

"Who’s there?" she called out. The thumping stopped. 

*You knows who, little match-girl. You brought the spark. You brought the invitation.*

Eleanor pulled her hand back as if the marble had turned into burning coal. The voices weren't coming from the air anymore; they were coming from inside the walls themselves, vibrating through the lath and plaster. She turned, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. 

She had to go up. The attic had been locked when the estate agent gave her the keys—"lost," he’d said, with a shrug that didn't reach his eyes. But the whispers were loudest when she stood beneath the ceiling rose in the upstairs landing. 

Her legs felt like they belonged to someone else as she climbed the stairs. One. Two. The third step creaked—a sharp, splintering sound that echoed through the hollow house. She gripped the banister, the wood grainy and rough under her skin. The darkness at the top of the stairs seemed more than a lack of light; it was a physical barrier, a curtain of ink that she had to push through.

When she reached the landing, the air temperature plummeted. Her breath manifested as a ghostly plume of white. The attic door was a slab of dark oak, its grain twisted into shapes that resembled agonized faces. 

She reached for the handle. It didn't turn. Of course, it didn't turn. 

But then, the whispers changed. They stopped being a cacophony and became a single, unified hiss.

*Open. Open. Open.*

The lock clicked. Not because she had turned a key, but because something on the other side had slid the bolt. 

The door swung inward with a slow, agonizing groan. 

The attic was a cavern of forgotten things. Trunks, broken chairs, stacks of yellowed newspapers that smelled of vinegar and rot. But in the center of the room, positioned directly under a singular, cracked skylight, stood a vanity mirror. Its silvering was tattered, eaten away by age, creating black voids within the glass.

Beside the mirror lay an object that shouldn't have been there. 

Eleanor stepped forward, her boots crunching on broken glass she didn't remember seeing. It was a letter. The paper was scorched at the edges, the center stained with a dark, brownish-red hue that had long since dried into the fibers. 

She picked it up. The paper felt like dried skin.

*“To the one who watches the fire,”* the handwriting began. It was her own. 

Her vision blurred. The room began to tilt. The smell of smoke—acrid, choking, and terrifyingly real—filled her nostrils. She wasn't in the attic anymore. She was ten years old, standing in the hallway of the old house on Miller Street. The heat was a wall, pressing against her face. She held the lighter. It was heavy in her small hand, the silver cool against her palm while the world turned red.

*“I didn’t mean for it to go that far,”* she heard her younger self whisper. 

No. That wasn't right. She had told the police it was a faulty wire. She had told her mother she’d been playing in the yard. She had lied until the lie became her only truth.

The whispers in the attic became a chorus of laughter.

*“You wanted the quiet, Eleanor. You wanted the screaming to stop, so you replaced it with the roar of the flames. But we don't go out. We just… smolder.”*

The shadows in the corners of the attic began to move. They didn't drift; they twitched. They pulled themselves from the eaves like spiders, lengthening and thickening. They coalesced into shapes that were almost human, but stretched too thin, their limbs jointed in ways that defied anatomy.

One of the shadows stepped into the weak moonlight from the skylight. It had no face, only a vertical slit where a mouth should be, and from that slit came the draft that chilled the room. 

Eleanor backed away, her hands fumbling for the doorframe, but the door was gone. There was only the wall, the endless, weeping lath and plaster.

"I’m dreaming," she gasped, her breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts. "It’s the exhaustion. I’m—I’m hallucinating."

"Hallucinations don't leave bruises, El," a voice whispered close to her ear. It wasn't in her head. It was a physical vibration. 

A hand, cold as a tombstone and smelling of damp earth, brushed against the back of her neck. The touch was tactile—real. She felt the individual ridges of the fingerprints. She felt the sharp, jagged edge of a fingernail scrape against her skin. 

She screamed and swung her flashlight. The beam cut through the shadow-figure, passing through it like smoke, but the entity didn't dissipate. It lunged. 

Eleanor fell back against the vanity. The glass of the mirror rattled in its frame. She scrambled toward the edge of the room, searching for the stairs, for the exit, for anything other than this suffocating dark. But the attic had expanded. The walls were miles away now, lost in a forest of junk and shifting silhouettes. 

Every trunk she passed seemed to contain a memory she’d buried. A charred doll. A half-melted gold watch. A photograph of a woman with her eyes scorched out.

"Let me out!" she shrieked. 

The whispers rose to a fever pitch, a cacophony of names, dates, and the specific, rhythmic sound of a crackling fire. It was the sound of her life burning down, playing on a loop.

*You invited us in, Eleanor. You made the space. You cleared the house so we could have a home.*

She reached the center of the room again—no matter which way she ran, she ended up back at the mirror. The shadow-figures were closing in, a circle of darkness that squeezed the light from the room. 

The tallest one leaned over her. It didn't have eyes, but she felt its gaze. It smelled of her father's cologne and the metallic tang of blood. It reached out a long, tapering finger and touched her lips.

"Ssssh," it hissed. "The secrets are safe with us. We are the secrets."

Eleanor felt the cold sinking into her bones, a paralysis that started at her toes and worked its way up. She looked into the mirror, desperate to see her own face, to find some tether to the woman she believed she was. 

But her reflection wasn't moving with her. 

Her reflection stood perfectly still in the blackened glass. It looked older, its skin grey and translucent. Its eyes were not her eyes; they were twin pools of flickering orange light, like the embers of a dying house.

The reflection smiled. It was a slow, terrifying peeling back of lips. 

Eleanor stumbled back, her heel catching on a loose board. Her hand flew out to steady herself, striking the surface of the mirror. 

The glass didn't just crack; it exploded outward in a spray of silver shards that sliced through the air like shrapnel. Eleanor covered her face, feeling the sting of a dozen small cuts across her forearms. 

SCENE A

The silence following the crash was more terrifying than the noise. It was a heavy, pressurized thing that seemed to want to fill her lungs like water. Eleanor stayed on the floor, her hands still shielding her face, waiting for the shadows to tear her apart. For a long minute, the only sound was her own jagged respiration—the sound of a hunted animal that had run out of ground. The darkness in the attic felt like velvet, brushing against her cheeks, smelling of ancient, unwashed lace and the metallic tang of her own blood. Every small movement she made caused a new shard of glass to bite into her knees or palms, a stinging reminder that this wasn't just a nightmare born of insomnia.

She forced her eyes open. The flashlight lay several feet away, its beam dying, flickering in a rhythmic cadence that matched the pulse in her ears. In the strobing light, she saw the shapes of the furniture. They were just old chairs. Just trunks. The looming, elongated entities had vanished, or perhaps they had simply folded themselves back into the spaces between things. But the feeling of being watched hadn't left. It had intensified. It was a prickling at the base of her skull, a conviction that if she turned too quickly, she would catch a glimpse of a face inches from her own.

*It was the lighter,* the small voice in the back of her brain insisted. *You didn't drop it. You placed it.*

That single thought was a jagged rock in the stream of her consciousness. For years, she had built a dam of lies against that memory. She had told herself she’d been trying to light a candle. She’d told herself the curtains had caught by accident. But here, in the cold heart of Blackwood, the dam was crumbling. The whispers hadn't brought the memory; they had simply stripped away the insulation she’d used to cover it. The house didn't want her blood; it wanted her truth. It was a sponge for guilt, soaking up the heat of her buried sins to warm its own frozen rafters. She looked at the empty frame of the mirror, a hollow rectangle of darkness. It looked like a doorway. She wondered if the version of herself with the burning eyes was still on the other side, waiting for her to step through.

SCENE B

"Eleanor? Is that you up there?"

The voice from below was muffled by layers of wood and floorboards, but it cut through her paralysis. It was Mr. Aris, the groundskeeper she’d seen only twice since arriving. He sounded cautious, his tone carrying the practiced neutrality of someone who dealt with the eccentricities of Blackwood’s inhabitants on a regular basis.

"I saw the light in the skylight," he called out, his footsteps beginning a slow, rhythmic ascent of the stairs. "You shouldn't be up here. Floorboards are soft. Boards are treacherous."

Eleanor couldn't find her voice. Her throat felt as though it were lined with ash. She scrambled to her feet, ignoring the way the shards of glass fell from her clothes like shimmering rain. She needed to look normal. She needed to hide the letter, the bloodstains, the way her hands were shaking so violently she could barely grip her flashlight.

Mr. Aris reached the landing. He stood in the doorway, his silhouette bulky and indistinct against the dim light of the hall. He carried a heavy iron lantern that cast long, swinging shadows. When the light hit Eleanor, he didn't gasp or startle. He simply looked at the shattered glass and the empty frame.

"A mirror," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "A bad thing to break in this house. The glass here… it holds things."

"I tripped," Eleanor managed to say. Her voice sounded thin, like paper tearing. "It was an accident."

He stepped into the room, his heavy boots crunching the glass with a sound like breaking bone. He didn't look at her; he looked at the letter she had dropped on the floor. He picked it up with a slow, deliberate movement. 

"Accidents are rare in Blackwood, Miss Eleanor," he said, holding the scorched paper by its corner. "Mostly, it’s just things coming home to roost. You look like you’ve seen the furnace."

"I don't know what you mean," she lied, the words tasting like copper.

"Don't you?" He held the lantern higher. The light revealed the deep lines in his face, paths worn by years of looking into the dark. "This house is a mouth. It likes to chew on the secrets until they're soft enough to swallow. You should go downstairs. Clean your cuts. Some things aren't meant to be looked at in the middle of the night."

"I'm not leaving until I understand," she snapped, a spark of her old defiance flaring up.

"Understanding is the last thing you want," he replied, turning toward the door. "By the time people understand Blackwood, they’re usually part of the woodwork."

SCENE C

The next morning brought no relief. The sun was a pale, sickly disc obscured by a thick, grey fog that rolled in from the surrounding woods, pressing against the windows like a physical weight. Eleanor sat in the kitchen, her forearms wrapped in white gauze that was already starting to show small, blooming spots of red. She sat perfectly still, listening to the house. 

The whispers were quiet now, reduced to a low-frequency hum that she could only feel in her molars. But the silence was worse. It felt like a held breath. It felt like the house was waiting for her to acknowledge what she had seen. 

She had tried to leave. At dawn, she had grabbed her car keys and made it as far as the foyer. But when she’d reached for the front door handle, the wood had felt unnervingly warm—feverish. And a smell had drifted through the gaps in the doorframe: the smell of woodsmoke, so thick and pungent it had made her eyes water. She had stood there for a long time, the keys biting into her palm, until the smell faded. She wasn't a prisoner, she told herself. Not yet. But the boundary between the house and the world outside felt increasingly porous.

She spent the afternoon moving through the downstairs rooms, her movements mechanical and stiff. She avoided the parlor. She avoided the stairs. Every time she passed a reflective surface—the polished silver teapot, the windowpanes, the water in the sink—she looked away. She was afraid of what she would see in the reflection. She was afraid that the orange light in her eyes hadn't been a trick of the attic's darkness.

As the sun began to dip below the tree line, the hum started to rise in pitch. It wasn't just a sound anymore; it was a name. Her name. It was being spoken by a thousand tiny voices, rising from the floorboards, pouring out of the faucets, vibrating in the very air she breathed. 

She walked to the hallway mirror, the one she hadn't broken. She forced herself to look. In every single piece of broken glass still remaining in her mind's eye, a different version of her own mouth was moving. There were hundreds of them, tiny and distorted, all speaking in perfect, chilling unison.

As the protagonist stumbles back, the mirror shatters, and their own reflection mouths words they can't unhear: "You invited us in."