The door in the chamber pulsed beneath Ace's fingertips.
It wasn't warm. Or cold. It didn't vibrate or hum.
It breathed.
He yanked his hand back as if burned.
Sarah watched him closely, flashlight aimed low. Her skin looked pale in the flickering light, the dark smudges under her eyes suddenly deeper.
"You heard them?" she asked.
Ace didn't answer right away. He stared at his hand. At the faint dust on his fingertips that glowed faintly under the beam.
"I didn't just hear," he finally said. "I… understood."
The whisper hadn't been in English. But it made sense.
A message.
A name he didn't recognize.
But it belonged to him.
They sealed the door behind them.
Didn't speak on the stairs.
Didn't speak as they cleaned their hands and faces.
But the silence between them was loud. Weighted.
By nightfall, Sarah was pacing the upstairs hallway while Ace stood motionless in the mirror's reflection.
"Say something," she whispered.
He didn't look at her.
"Ace."
He finally turned.
"They knew my name before I was born."
She blinked. "What are you talking about?"
"In the chamber," he said slowly, "they called me Anakeion. That's not a word. Not really. But I knew it meant 'Chosen Below.'"
Sarah's throat tightened. "That's what they whispered?"
"No," he said. "That's what I felt."
They sat together on the floor of the study that night. The rain had stopped, but the house felt wetter somehow—like the air itself was soaking through the walls.
Sarah flipped through Hal's books, hoping for anything on this "Anakeion." But nothing came up. Not a single match.
Ace was staring out the window, silent.
Finally, he said: "What if this wasn't Sarai's house first?"
Sarah looked up. "What do you mean?"
"She claimed it. Took pieces of you. But what if she was only ever a passenger too? What if something older lived here—and she only fed on what it left behind?"
Sarah's stomach dropped.
The mirror.
The cracked floorboards.
The symbols beneath the foundation.
This wasn't about trauma anymore.
It was about inheritance.
Later that night, Sarah woke up alone.
The bed was empty.
The window beside her was open.
She shot upright, heart hammering. "Ace?"
No response.
She grabbed a flashlight and ran barefoot down the stairs.
The basement door was ajar.
And cold air seeped up like fog.
She found him standing at the bottom of the stone steps, facing the sealed door.
He was whispering.
Not to her.
To it.
"Ace," she said, voice breaking.
He didn't move.
She stepped down carefully, avoiding the center of the room, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
He flinched violently—as if waking from a deep sleep.
His eyes met hers. Confused. Frightened. Other.
"They're not asking," he said.
Sarah's grip tightened. "What?"
"They're not asking to be let in."
He turned slowly to face the door again.
"They're asking me to open it."
And somewhere far below, behind the sealed stone, the earth smiled.