Chapter 2

Dawn came reluctantly, a pale grey light filtering through the grimy windows. Eleanor sat up, her neck stiff, her clothes wrinkled. The moth from yesterday had found a companion, and they fluttered together near the chandelier like tiny, dusty ghosts.

"Right," she said to the empty room. "Day one. Let's make this place livable."

She found a broom in the kitchen, its bristles worn to stubs, and began sweeping the foyer. The dust rose in clouds, and she coughed, waving her hand in front of her face. The smell of old roses and rust clung to everything, as if the house itself had a scent memory it refused to release.

As she swept, she noticed something she hadn't seen in the dark: a small door tucked beneath the grand staircase, barely visible behind a sagging tapestry. She pushed the tapestry aside and tried the handle. Locked.

"Of course," she muttered. "Because nothing says 'welcome home' like a mysterious locked door."

She searched the kitchen drawers for a key, finding only a tarnished spoon and a single, rusted nail. The pantry was bare, shelves lined with mouse droppings and the brittle husks of dead insects. The stove was a cast-iron beast that looked like it could kill a person if they looked at it wrong.

"I'm going to need supplies," she said. "And a locksmith. And probably an exorcist."

She was rummaging through a cupboard when she heard it: a soft, rhythmic sound, like someone rocking in a chair. It came from upstairs.

Eleanor's heart lurched. She set down the spoon and listened. The sound continued, steady, unhurried. A rocking chair. Someone was rocking in a chair on the second floor.

She thought about ignoring it. She thought about walking out the front door and never coming back. But the car was empty of gas, her phone had no signal, and the nearest town was fifteen miles away. She was stuck.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth. "Let's get this over with."

She climbed the stairs, each step creaking under her weight. The hallway upstairs was lined with doors, all closed. The rocking sound came from the last door on the left. Eleanor approached it, her hand trembling as she reached for the knob.

The door swung open before she touched it.

Inside was a bedroom, frozen in time. A four-poster bed with tattered lace curtains. A vanity with a cracked mirror. And in the corner, a rocking chair. It moved slowly back and forth, as if pushed by invisible hands.

Eleanor stepped inside. The air was warmer here, almost pleasant, and smelled of lavender. The rocking chair continued its steady rhythm.

"Hello?" she said, her voice barely a whisper.

The chair stopped.

The silence that followed was heavier than any sound. Eleanor stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. Then, from the vanity, a soft voice spoke.

"You see me."

Eleanor turned. The cracked mirror reflected not her own face, but a woman's. She was beautiful in a fragile, haunting way, with dark hair piled loosely, a high-collared dress of deep blue, and eyes that held centuries of sorrow.

"You're Isabella," Eleanor said. It wasn't a question.

The woman in the mirror nodded. "He doesn't know I can speak to you. He thinks I am only a memory, a ghost of his grief. But I am more."

"What do you want?" Eleanor asked, her voice steadier now. "To scare me away? To drive me mad?"

Isabella's lips curved into a sad smile. "I want to be remembered. Not as he remembers me—as a treasure he lost, a prize stolen from him. But as I truly was."

"And how was that?"

Isabella's eyes flickered with something dark. "I was his prisoner."

Eleanor's blood ran cold. "Prisoner?"

"He loved me," Isabella said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But his love was a cage. He would not let me leave, would not let me breathe, would not let me be anything but his. When I tried to escape, he..."

She stopped, her form flickering. The rocking chair began to move again, faster now, its rhythm angry.

"He killed me," Isabella finished. "And then he killed himself, so we could be together forever. But he did not understand. I do not want to be with him. I want to be free."

Eleanor's mind raced. The portrait with the scratched-out face. The shattering mirror. The cold fury in Silas's eyes. "So the curse isn't his grief. It's yours."

"Yes." Isabella's reflection stepped closer to the mirror's surface, her hand pressing against the glass. "I am the one who keeps the house cold. I am the one who drives away intruders. I am the one who screams in the night. But he thinks it is him. He thinks his love is so powerful it holds me here. But it is my rage that binds us both."

"What do you want me to do?" Eleanor asked.

Isabella's eyes met hers. "Find my body. He hid it somewhere on the grounds, sealed it away so I could never leave. If you find it, if you give me a proper burial, I can break the curse. I can finally rest."

"And Silas?"

"He will fade," Isabella said, a note of longing in her voice. "He will have to let go. He will have to accept that I am gone."

Eleanor nodded slowly. "I'll try."

"Be careful," Isabella said. "He can feel when you are close to the truth. He will try to stop you. He will try to make you believe I am the monster, that I am the one who cursed him. Do not trust his words."

Eleanor opened her mouth to ask more, but the reflection flickered and vanished. The mirror showed only her own pale, frightened face. The rocking chair was still.

She stood there for a long moment, her heart pounding. Then she turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

At the bottom of the stairs, she paused. The locked door beneath the staircase seemed to pulse with a faint, dark energy. She pressed her ear to it and heard nothing. But she felt it: a cold draft seeping through the crack, carrying the scent of damp earth and decay.

"Find her body," she whispered to herself. "Right. No pressure."

She went to the kitchen to find something to use as a pry bar. The house groaned around her, settling, waiting. But now, the groans felt different. They felt like a warning.