That night, Evelyn dreamed in velvet and blood.
She stood in the locked bedroom—the one she hadn't entered again since the mirror blinked—and everything was brighter. Alive. The wallpaper was pristine. Candles glowed. A perfume lingered in the air: roses and something musky beneath.
She was wearing a dress. Deep crimson. Bare shoulders. Her hands gloved in black silk.
Music played beyond the walls—a piano, slow and aching.
She turned toward the mirror.
Lenore looked back.
Only... it wasn't just Lenore.
It was her.
Same cheekbones. Same lips. But her eyes—those weren't Evelyn's. They were older. Wiser. Wounded.
The reflection smiled. Then mouthed something.
Evelyn leaned in.
"I remember you."
She gasped and woke, tangled in her sheets, a thin sheen of sweat glistening on her neck.
The next morning, she didn't pretend the house was normal.
She didn't open the windows.
She didn't make coffee.
Instead, she walked directly to the locked bedroom, hand trembling slightly as she turned the knob.
It opened easily now.
Inside, the air was warm. The bed undisturbed. And on the vanity, the silver hairbrush had moved.
Someone had used it.
And on the floor by the mirror—footprints. Bare. Damp.
She knelt and touched the floorboards.
Still wet.
Evelyn spent the day in the study, digging. The old journals were a labyrinth—some filled with mundane entries about weather and gardening, others with deeply personal ramblings that teetered on the edge of madness.
One stood out.
"He comes to me still, in dreams. Elias. His mouth, his hands, his voice — I want to forget, but the house won't let me. It keeps him alive. It makes me remember. And I… I want to."
The date was unreadable. The name at the bottom was smudged by what looked like water damage… or tears.
But the handwriting was familiar now.
Lenore's.
She sat back, the name ringing through her like a bell.
Elias had said he loved someone.
Had he meant Lenore?
No—he couldn't have. That was over a century ago.
Wasn't it?
That evening, she found herself in the garden again.
The roses were blooming more vibrantly than before—somehow. She crouched, running her hand along a blossom, then froze.
A petal had bled.
She touched her thumb to it.
Red. Sticky. Warm.
Behind her, a voice: "They're jealous, you know."
She turned.
Elias.
He stood just beyond the rose arch, pale in the dying light, his eyes shadowed but sharp.
"Jealous?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"They remember her." He walked slowly toward her. "They think you're her."
"And what do you think?"
"I think this place twists love into something hungry."
He stepped closer, their breath visible between them in the suddenly cold air. Evelyn didn't move.
"You said you loved someone here."
"I did."
His eyes met hers. Intense. Unblinking.
"I still do."
She swallowed. "Was it Lenore?"
He said nothing for a long time.
Then: "I don't know anymore. You wear her face. But your soul feels… different."
Evelyn's voice trembled. "Do you want me to be her?"
"I want you to be real," he whispered. "Before the house takes that from you, too."
Their bodies were close now—his gloved fingers brushing hers. Static passed between them, sharp and cold and alive. Her breath hitched.
"I don't know what this is," she murmured. "You, this house, the dreams... I'm starting to forget what's mine and what's memory."
Elias leaned in, his mouth near her ear.
"Then let me remind you what's real."
His lips brushed her jaw. Barely. Heat flooded her chest, but beneath it—dread. She pulled back suddenly, eyes wide.
There was blood on his lips.
She touched her own.
Her lip was split.
"How—?"
Elias backed away quickly. His face darkened with pain—or guilt. "You should stay inside tonight. Lock the door. Don't answer if you hear anything."
"Elias—"
But he was already gone.
And behind her, the roses trembled, though there was no wind.
That night, the manor came alive.
The radio turned on by itself.
The mirrors reflected rooms she wasn't in.
The piano played a slow, haunting waltz.
Evelyn stayed in her bed, trembling under the covers, listening as footsteps passed her door.
Soft. Bare. Pausing.
Then continuing down the hall.
And again, a voice—
"Evelyn…"
And then, closer—
"Lenore…"
She couldn't tell which name belonged to her anymore.
[End of Chapter 4]