德里克被打破后的寂静并不平静.它厚重,沉重,就像炸弹爆炸后空气中弥漫的空气,耳鸣耳鸣,浑身因惊恐的余波而嗡嗡作响.伊芙琳站在布莱克伍德庄园的走廊里,剧烈地颤抖着,但不再是因为寒冷.那种深沉,不自然的冰冷正在消散,逐渐回归到这栋老房子惯常的湿冷.压抑的压迫感和墙壁里愤怒的低语都消失了.但那种安静...让人感觉像是 在倾听...
她凝视着破旧地毯上父亲——那个还没死的男人,那个纯粹的毒药——曾经站立的地方.那股冰冷的愤怒将他吞噬殆尽,留下...一片空白.甚至连一丝污渍都没有.只有淡淡的,刺鼻的臭氧味,如同雷击过后,迅速被灰尘和老木头的气味吞噬.
她双腿发软,瘫倒在大楼梯的底层,即使隔着牛仔裤,木头也冰冷刺骨.她用手臂环抱住自己,努力抑制住颤抖.此刻,她感到的不仅仅是恐惧,还有疲惫.是眼睁睁看着纯粹的邪恶在她眼前崩塌,这股彻骨的震撼.是她那令人眩晕的认知:那个让她恐惧的鬼魂——阿加莎姨妈——刚刚救了她的命.
"坚强起来."这句话,伴随着最后一声冰冷的叹息,在她脑海中回荡.这不仅仅是一句悄悄话,而是如同抛在波涛汹涌的大海上的一颗锚.
她久久地坐在那里,呼吸着,聆听着.房子在她周围安定下来.老木的呻吟声现在听起来几乎恢复了正常.外面的雨声减弱成了稳定的淅淅沥沥.没有音乐盒的声音.没有刮擦声.墙上也没有幽灵般的霜冻蔓延.
渐渐地,麻木的手指和脚趾恢复了知觉.她微微摇晃着撑起身子.她需要光亮.真正的光亮,而不是透过脏兮兮的窗户透进来的微弱灰暗.她需要 看到 那片黑暗,那名为德里克的鲜活的黑暗,真的消失了.
她在楼梯下狭窄的壁橱里找到了断路器箱.深吸一口气,她按下了总开关.墙内深处,古老的电线嗡嗡作响.走廊尽头,一盏落满灰尘的吊灯闪烁了一下...然后发出微弱的黄光.散落在壁灯和灯具上的其他灯泡也纷纷亮起,投下长长的,舞动的阴影,驱散了最深沉的阴暗.
伊芙琳走回走廊,突如其来的亮光让她不禁眨了眨眼.走廊看起来不一样了.依然腐朽,依然堆满了裹着厚厚毯子的家具和令人毛骨悚然的玩偶.但那种 感觉...令人窒息的恐惧已经消散.感觉...空荡荡的.或许是悲伤.确实阴森可怖,但并非 恶意.就像一个地方在一声长长的尖叫后屏住了呼吸.
She needed to move. Needed to do something. Cleaning felt absurd, impossible. But she couldn't just sit. She grabbed a dust cloth she'd found earlier from the kitchen and attacked the ornate frame of a nearby portrait – a severe-looking man with eyes that no longer seemed to follow her, just stare blankly. The simple, physical act of rubbing away years of grime was grounding. Each swipe revealed a little more detail, a little more history trapped under the neglect.
As she worked her way down the hall, wiping surfaces, pushing aside cobwebs with a broom handle, the silence began to shift. Not back to whispers, but to… sounds. The settling of the house became more distinct. The wind outside rattled a loose shutter rhythmically. The rain dripped from a leak somewhere onto a tin surface. It was the sound of an old house being an old house. Not a predator.
Her stomach growled loudly, reminding her she hadn't eaten properly in days. The kitchen was a horror show of grime, but she found a relatively clean mug and a box of ancient tea bags. While the kettle wheezed on the old stove, she leaned against the counter, looking out the grimy window towards the overgrown driveway where Derek's sleek black car still sat. Abandoned.
He's gone, she thought, the reality sinking in deeper. He came for the house… and the house took him instead.
A sharp knock on the heavy front door made her jump, sloshing hot water onto her hand. Her heart hammered back into her throat. No. He can't be… But the knock came again – firm, impatient, but human.
Cautiously, clutching the steaming mug like a weapon, Evelyn peered through the side window by the door. Outside stood a stout woman in a bright yellow rain slicker, her face weathered but kind, peering up at the house with a mixture of concern and deep wariness. Evelyn didn't recognize her.
She unlocked the heavy door and opened it a crack. "Yes?"
The woman blinked, taking in Evelyn's pale face, the dust smudged on her cheek. "Oh! Hello there! Didn't know if anyone was… well, alive in here, frankly." Her voice was brisk, no-nonsense, a thick Maine accent coating her words. "Saw the lights come on. And that fancy car out front… belongs to someone?" She nodded towards Derek's vehicle.
Evelyn hesitated. "It… did. He's gone." The truth felt too bizarre, too dangerous to share. "I'm Evelyn Thorne. Agatha was my great-aunt."
The woman's eyes widened. "Thorne? Well, I'll be. Agatha never mentioned… well, never mind that. I'm Martha Gable. Live down the road a piece, past the bend." She stuck out a work-roughened hand. Evelyn shook it cautiously. "Saw the car earlier," Martha continued, her sharp eyes missing nothing. "Fancy thing like that sticks out around here. Saw a man get out. Looked… familiar. In a bad way."
Evelyn's pulse quickened. "Familiar?"
Martha leaned in slightly, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Looked like Derek Thorne. Spitting image of the old pictures Agatha showed me once, years back, when she'd had a nip too much sherry and got talkative. Nasty piece of work, by all accounts. Thought he was dead?"
"So did I," Evelyn said quietly, the words tasting like ash.
Martha nodded grimly. "Figured as much. Agatha was terrified of him. Said he was poison. Said he'd come back someday for the house, even if she was gone. Looks like she was right." She eyed Evelyn carefully. "He give you trouble?"
Evelyn met Martha's gaze. The woman's eyes held no judgment, just a hard practicality. "He tried. He won't be coming back." She left it at that.
Martha held her look for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "Good. The world's better off. Agatha… she was a tough old bird, prickly as a sea urchin, but she didn't deserve what he did. Or tried to do." She shivered, pulling her slicker tighter, though the rain had nearly stopped. "Place feels… different now. Less… heavy. You feel that?"
"Yes," Evelyn breathed, surprised. "I do."
"Well," Martha said, straightening up. "Just wanted to check. Saw the lights, saw that car… worried he'd done something. Glad you're alright. Place needs someone. Been empty too long, lets the bad feelings settle in. You need anything – milk, bread, someone to help haul junk – you come down the road. Blue house with the lobster pots out front. Can't miss it." She gave Evelyn another appraising look. "You've got Agatha's eyes. Be seeing you, Evelyn Thorne."
With that, Martha Gable turned and trudged back down the overgrown driveway, leaving Evelyn standing in the doorway, feeling a strange, unexpected warmth bloom in her chest. Connection. Community. Something she hadn't felt in a long time.
Buoyed by Martha's visit, Evelyn spent the next few hours tackling the huge, oak-paneled study. It was Agatha's sanctuary, dominated by a massive desk littered with papers, dried-up inkwells, and more dust. She was clearing a space, piling old newspapers into a box, when her hand brushed against something solid and cold beneath a stack of yellowed ledgers. A small, ornate key, tarnished silver.
Her eyes drifted to the desk's center drawer. Unlike the others, which had simple knobs, this one had a small, intricate keyhole. It had been locked tight when she'd first explored. Heart thumping with a different kind of anticipation now – curiosity, not fear – Evelyn slid the key into the lock. It turned smoothly.
Inside the drawer wasn't more paperwork. It held only two things: a faded, velvet-covered jewelry box, and a single, sealed envelope, brittle with age. Written on the front, in Agatha's familiar spidery hand: For Evelyn. When he is truly gone.
Evelyn carefully lifted the envelope, her hands trembling slightly. She broke the brittle seal and unfolded the single sheet of paper inside. The writing was shaky, more hurried than the journals, penned with a desperate urgency.
Evelyn,
If you are reading this, it means you are here, and it means he came. And it means, I pray, that the House protected you. That it did what I could not do in life.
I knew Derek wasn't dead. The "accident" was too convenient. I hired investigators. They found traces. He went deep underground, changed his name, but he never stopped wanting what he thought was his. He was biding his time, waiting for me to die.
But he didn't just bring greed, Evelyn. He brought something else. Something cold and dark that clung to him like rot. I felt it the night he came to threaten me. It wasn't just him in the room. It was something ancient and hungry that fed on his malice. It amplified him. Made him more than just a cruel man. It made him… a conduit.
I believe it followed him back from… wherever he hid. It seeped into the House. That's why the haunting changed. Why it became so violent, so personal when he was near. The House wasn't just remembering my pain. It was sensing it. Sensing him.
I fought it as best I could from beyond, warning you, trying to shield you. But the House… the House absorbed it too. It used Derek's own darkness against him, channeling the cold thing he carried. I pray it consumed them both.
But be watchful, child. Evil like that… it leaves stains. Echoes. The House is scarred. The little box holds your grandmother's pearls. She would have wanted you to have them. Be strong. Live. Don't let the shadows win.
- Agatha
Evelyn read the letter twice, the warmth Martha brought leaching away, replaced by a new, colder dread. Derek hadn't just been evil. He'd been infected. And he'd brought that infection here. The terrifying cold fury that destroyed him… Agatha believed it was partly this thing he carried, amplified by the House's own pain. Was it truly gone? Or was it just… diminished? Waiting?
She opened the jewelry box. Nestled in faded satin lay a single strand of luminous pearls, cool and heavy in her hand. A tangible connection to a grandmother she'd never known. A symbol of beauty amidst the decay.
As dusk fell, painting the cliffs in bruised purples and oranges, Evelyn made a decision. She wasn't leaving. Agatha's warning was dire, but so was her plea: Live. Don't let the shadows win. And Martha Gable's words echoed: The place needs someone.
她把一把没那么脏的扶手椅拖进干净的书房.她第一次点燃了壁炉——壁炉冒着烟,发出阵阵咳嗽声,但最终,温暖闪烁的灯光充满了房间,驱散了渐渐笼罩的暮色.她小心翼翼地把祖母的珍珠项链放在壁炉架上,算是对昏暗的一点反抗.
她喝着炉子上热着的简简单单的汤.周围的房子嘎吱作响,叹息不已.是正常的声音?还是别的什么?现在根本说不准.每一个阴影都显得更深沉,每一个陌生的声音都像是 阿加莎描述的那个冰冷东西的潜在回声.
疲惫终于将她拉向了她原本占着的,略显干净的卧室.她换了衣服,日常的日常感觉有些奇怪.她爬上冰冷的床,拉紧毯子,望向那扇半开着的门.门外的走廊一片漆黑.
要小心, 阿加莎的信在她心中低语道.
睡意迟迟未至.她脑海里不断回放着过去那些恐怖的画面——那些低语,那些严寒,德里克毫无生气的眼神,还有碎裂的冰块.但这一切的背后,涌动着一股新的潮流:决心.她在这里.她要留下来.现在,这是她的战斗.
就在她渐渐睡去的时候,寂静的房子里传来一阵声音.不是耳语,也不是呻吟.
那是音乐.
微弱的叮当声,萦绕心头的美妙.音乐盒.从楼下图书馆传来的.
伊芙琳僵住了,呼吸都哽住了.她把它放在架子上了.她还没给它上发条呢.
它演奏着她以前听过的那首忧郁的催眠曲.但这一次...这一次,在这细腻的旋律之下,如同不和谐的丝线交织在音符之间,她仿佛听到了别的声音.一种微弱而有节奏的声音.像...指甲?轻轻地,缓慢地, 敲击 着旁边抛光的木质架子.
嗒…嗒…嗒…
不慌乱,不愤怒.耐心,等待,试探着寂静.
伊芙琳静静地躺在黑暗中,房间里早已没有了壁炉的温暖,她听着美妙而令人心寒的音乐,以及壁炉下轻柔而持续的敲击声.这栋房子记得她.但 还有什么 记得这栋房子呢?阿加莎最后的警告回荡在耳边: 小心.
她房间角落里的阴影似乎更深了.战斗远未结束,只是变了.