The silence of the mansion is heavier than any scream.
It envelops me, follows me, watches me. There's something here... a tension in the walls, as if the marble itself is trying to hide a secret too heavy.
It's been three days since I married Dylan Kingsley. Three days without tenderness, without a sincere glance, without conversation. He's physically present at our obligatory dinners, but his mind is elsewhere. He speaks little, barely eats, and always disappears after 9 PM.
I don't know where he goes. I don't even know if he sleeps. But I do know one thing: he's hiding something from me.
The first time I heard noises was last night. I had left the window ajar to get some air, when a strange creak echoed through the corridor.
A step. Slow. Uneven.
Then a whisper.
Almost a breath.
> "Ari... ana..."
>
I got up, chilled. My heart pounded in my chest. I opened my bedroom door, but there was nothing. Only that long, dark corridor, where the paintings stared at me like silent judges.
I wanted to tell Dylan about it at breakfast, but he read his newspaper without a word, a coffee cup in his hand.
"Did you sleep well?" I ventured.
He looked up at me, distracted.
"Hm? Yes. And you?"
I watched him. He looked exhausted. His dark circles were more pronounced than usual, and his fingers trembled slightly as he brought his cup to his lips.
"I thought I heard... something last night. Like footsteps."
He raised an eyebrow, then took another sip.
"Probably the wind. This mansion is old. It likes to play with nerves."
His answer was too quick. Too confident. As if it were rehearsed.
I didn't reply, but a nagging doubt remained in my head like a thorn.
That afternoon, I decided to explore the mansion.
The housekeeper allowed me to wander, as long as I didn't "venture into the west wing," according to her exact words.
The west wing.
Why not that one? Too old? Too dangerous? Too... inhabited?
I didn't say anything. But of course, that's where I went.
I waited until everyone was busy. I went down a small, narrow staircase I'd never noticed before. It led to a solid wooden door, secured by an old lock. I pressed my ear against the wood. Nothing. And yet... I felt a presence. Something. Someone.
Then a sharp noise. Like a chair falling over.
I pulled away abruptly, short of breath.
And then, I heard a name.
Whispered, muffled, almost inaudible:
> "Damian..."
>
I froze. That name was unfamiliar to me. No more than it should exist within these walls.
That evening, Dylan came home earlier.
He had changed his suit, his hair was damp, as if he'd showered. He seemed nervous, tense.
"Did you go out today?" he asked me without preamble.
"Yes. I walked in the garden."
He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on me.
"Just in the garden?"
My stomach twisted. He knew. Or he suspected. And I wondered:
What if he had seen me? What if he had followed me?
I preferred to look away and not answer.
He approached me slowly. His voice was calm, but his gaze burned with a strange intensity.
"There are places in this house where you must never go. Do you understand?"
I stared at him, defiant.
"Because they're dangerous? Or because they hold your secrets?"
A heavy silence settled. Then, for the first time, his gaze wavered. As if he wasn't sure of himself anymore. As if my question had touched something true.
But he quickly resumed his cold mask.
"Because they don't belong to you. This mansion is mine. And some truths are not good to discover."
I almost answered, but I felt a dull fear rise within me. Not because of him. Because of what I might discover.
I locked myself in my room early that night.
It's midnight now.
I can't sleep. I keep thinking about that name.
> Damian.
>
I whispered it in the darkness, as if to test its resonance.
And suddenly... a scratching against the wall.
Like nails. Or fingers.
I hold my breath. My heart beats so hard I feel like it's going to choke me from the inside.
Then a voice, faint, hoarse, almost inhuman:
> "You're not welcome here... Ariana."
I jump up, grab my bathrobe, and rush into the hallway, but everything is quiet. Too quiet. Not a breath. Not a step.
And yet... I feel it.
Someone is watching me. Someone else.
And it's not Dylan.