The castle rested in silence, but it was the kind of silence that felt wrong, too heavy, too aware. Abigail sat motionless in her chambers, bathed in the dim flicker of candlelight. Shadows swayed against the stone walls, stretching unnaturally with each waver of the flame.
The tension from breakfast should have passed by now. But it hadn't. Victor's smirk still lingered in her mind, curling at the edges of her thoughts like rot. Lena's presence, intrusive and suffocating, clawed at her nerves. Every moment at that table had felt like a game where she didn't know the rules, yet somehow, she was expected to survive it.
She exhaled slowly, deliberately. The unease remained.
A draft slipped through the cracks of the stone, brushing against her skin like a whisper. For a moment, she thought she had heard something so faint, so distant, it could have been imagined.
Then the sound came again.
Not sharp. Not immediate. Just a breath in the dark.
Her fingers tensed against the armrest. The air felt thicker now pressing down, waiting. Watching.
And somehow, she knew.
She wasn't alone.
The voices began as whispers. Faint. Fleeting. At first, she dismissed them, convincing herself it was exhaustion, a trick of the mind, an echo in the silence. But then they changed. They pressed deeper, wrapping around her ribs like binding cords, threading into her bones. They knew her name. They spoke it with certainty, a chorus of hisses that slithered through her consciousness.
"Abigail…"
She paused, her hand pressing against the cool stone wall. The voices were louder here, more insistent. She could feel them, a physical presence that made her skin crawl.** She tried to push them away, to focus on the solidity of the wall beneath her fingers, but it was no use. They were inside her, burrowing deeper with each passing second.**
"Abigail…"
She turned, her eyes scanning the empty hallway. There was nothing there, nothing but shadows and the faint glow of distant torches. But the voices… they were closer now, more urgent. She could feel their breath on her neck, their fingers tracing patterns on her spine.
She started to walk again, her steps quickening as the voices grew louder, more insistent. She could feel them, a tangible force that pushed her forward, guiding her through the labyrinthine halls. She tried to resist, to turn back, but it was no use. The compulsion was too strong, the voices too loud.
She found herself in a part of the castle she hadn't seen before, a wing that was dark and forgotten, the air thick with dust and decay. The voices were louder here, a cacophony of hisses and whispers that filled her mind, drowning out all other thoughts. She could feel them, a physical presence that pushed her forward, guiding her towards a door at the end of the hall.
The door was old, the wood rotted and the hinges rusted. It creaked open at her touch, revealing a staircase that descended into darkness. The voices were louder here, a chorus of laughter and screams woven together, echoing through her mind, urging her forward.
She took a step, her foot hovering over the first stair. The darkness was absolute, a void that seemed to swallow all light and hope. She could feel it, a coldness that seeped into her bones, a malice that reached out, beckoning her to join it.
But she hesitated, her foot hovering, unwilling to take that final step. The voices screamed, their fury a tangible force that pressed against her mind, threatening to shatter her will. But she stood her ground, her resolve strengthening with each passing second.
And then they laughed.
Not softly. Not kindly. Mocking.
The kind of laughter that understood her resistance was meaningless.
Abigail turned to flee.
A hand clamped around her wrist.
Cold. Unyielding. Amused.
The unseen force did not pull her forward; it held her in place, as if examining her, deciding something.
Her pulse pounded.
The air shifted, thick with something watching, weighing, waiting.
Abigail opened her mouth to speak to demand release, to fight but the words never came.
The whispers slid through the dark, not one voice, but many, overlapping, tangled, merging into something that shouldn't be human.
"She belongs."
"She wandered too close."
"No, she was called."
"She was chosen."
Laughter low, amused, laced with understanding.
They were not debating.
They were deciding.
And Abigail was no longer a part of that decision.
The fingers on her wrist curled tighter.
Then the candlelight flickered.
Silence.
A deeper kind of silence.
The kind that listens.
And then… movement.
Not her own. Not imagined.
At the bottom of the stairwell, barely discernible in the pitch-black void, stood a figure.
Still. Watching.
It wore no face, no features, just the impression of a form, vaguely human, swallowed by shadow. It didn't move, but something in her knew it could.
The whispers had stopped.
The laughter too.
As if even they dared not speak in its presence.
Abigail's breath caught in her throat. The air grew brittle, thin, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath
The figure tilted its head slowly.
Deliberate.
Patient.
Considering her.
She stepped back just one step.
And the figure vanished.
Not with sound. Not with movement.
Like a flame snuffed out.
One moment it was there.
The next only darkness.
The pressure on her wrist lifted.
The force that had held her… gone.
Abigail stumbled backward, heart hammering.
She turned and ran.
The castle warped around her, corridors stretching longer than they should, twisting as if trying to lead her elsewhere. She had barely been here long enough to know its halls, but now it felt like something was deliberately making her lose her way.
Torches blurred past. Her footsteps echoed too loudly, as if chased.
Only when she reached her chamber door did she dare to look back.
Nothing.
Only silence.
Only shadows.
Her trembling fingers fumbled with the latch, forcing the door closed. She collapsed against it, sinking to the floor.
But relief was short-lived.
A sudden heat bloomed across her wrist sharp, unforgiving, like metal left too long in flame.
She gasped, yanking her sleeve back.
Four raw, red marks.
Angry.
Blistering.
The imprint of fingers.
Her skin sizzled faintly, pain pulsing in time with her heartbeat.
It wasn't just a mark.
It was a warning.
A claim.
And then, faintly so faintly she wasn't sure she truly heard it came a whisper.
Just behind her ear.
"Next time…"