Elinea stood still at the foot of the staircase long after the woman disappeared.
The hallway was silent. But not the kind of silence that comforted — the kind that pressed against your chest, like it knew something you didn't.
Her fingers gripped the banister as she climbed, each step creaking just slightly beneath her.
The air upstairs felt different. Older.
The room at the end was already open.
A modest space — narrow bed, faded curtains, a small desk by the window. The mirror faced the wall, and the wardrobe was nailed shut.
Why would someone nail it shut?
Elinea closed the door gently behind her and sat on the bed.
It barely dipped beneath her weight, the sheets starched like they hadn't been slept in for years.
She looked at the curtains.
Closed, like she'd been told.
Her heart was still adjusting to the rhythm of the place.
Not fear — not yet.
Just… watching. Waiting.
At some point, the light outside dimmed.
Not sunset. Just a shift, like the world had turned a degree away from time.
That night, she lay down fully clothed. No lights. The switch didn't work anyway.
And she waited.
Not for sleep — for what came after.
It began around midnight.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Slow, deliberate, pacing the hallway just outside her door.
She held her breath.
The old mattress betrayed her with a tiny squeak.
The footsteps paused.
Then a soft dragging sound. Like something being pulled — or someone.
Elinea closed her eyes.
The handle of her door turned.
Just once.
Not forced. Not rushed.
Then silence.
She didn't move for hours.
Morning arrived quietly.
A small note had been slipped under her door.
The handwriting was shaky — not quite cursive, not quite print.
"Breakfast. Come before the third chime. And never answer whispers."
Under the note… a key.
Brass. Old. Still warm from whoever had left it.
She looked at the door again.
It was locked.
But for how long?