That night, the mansion didn't sleep. And neither did Amira.
The silence was deceptive. It wasn't the kind that comforted or soothed—it was dense, suffocating. A silence that seemed to hold its breath. One that listened.
She lay on the enormous canopy bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ornate ceiling. Her camera rested beside her on the pillow like a weapon. Her door was locked. A chair was jammed under the handle. But still, unease crept into her bones.
At precisely 2:00 AM, her door creaked.
Softly. Deliberately.
She sat up with a jolt, clutching her camera. No footsteps. No shadows. Just a folded note slid underneath the door, as if delivered by a breeze.
She waited five long minutes before crossing the room. The note was hand-written in a jagged, elegant script.
Don't trust the bride.
Her blood ran cold. She turned the note over. No signature. No explanation.
Suddenly, the violin music started. Faint, slow, and haunting. It came from the ballroom beneath her room—the one she hadn't been allowed to enter. She moved to the window. Outside, the estate was cloaked in silver fog. No lights, no stars. Just darkness pressing against glass.
Against her better judgment, she crept into the hall.
Every mirror she passed was still covered in white linen. The hallway stretched longer than she remembered. Doors she hadn't seen before now lined the walls—some cracked open, some tightly shut. One of them emitted a low hum, like a generator behind the wall.
As she reached the staircase, the music stopped.
The silence returned, heavier than before.
She descended slowly, each step groaning beneath her weight. The grand corridor leading to the ballroom doors stood ominous and cold. Candles flickered in their holders. Her breath came in shallow gasps.
Then—movement.
At the far end of the hallway, the bride stood.
Not moving. Not breathing. Just… watching.
Amira froze. The bride's veil fluttered slightly though there was no breeze. Her gown shimmered unnaturally, like it absorbed the light around it.
Then she turned and disappeared into the ballroom.
Amira hesitated, then followed.
Inside, chandeliers blazed to life as she entered. The room was stunning—white marble floors, frescoes of angels and lovers on the ceiling, a gold harp tucked into a corner. The scent of lavender and old books clung to the air.
And in the center: a grand mirror. The only one uncovered.
Amira approached it slowly. Her own reflection looked pale, exhausted. But something was off. In the mirror, the bride stood behind her, closer with each blink. Closer. Closer—
She turned around.
No one.
Her reflection smiled.
But she hadn't.
Heart racing, she stumbled backward. The lights flickered and went out.
She fumbled for the door, but it had vanished. The wall was solid, unbroken.
She wasn't in a ballroom anymore.
She was in a small, candlelit chapel. Pew benches. A red carpet leading to an altar. And behind it—paintings. Dozens of them.
Each one a different bride.
Each one missing a face.
Whispers rose around her, unintelligible and cold. They echoed through the stone chamber like wind caught in a crypt. Amira backed toward the center aisle, spinning to find a way out. The candle flames twisted, dancing against the unseen current of voices.
She turned to the nearest painting. Her fingers hovered inches from the canvas.
The face on this bride—though faint—seemed to be forming.
Eyes. Lips. Curls of hair.
Her features.
Amira recoiled, nearly dropping her camera.
She wasn't just being watched.
She was being recorded—catalogued—prepared.
The whispers crescendoed. A dozen veiled figures appeared in the pews, seated silently, hands folded. She gasped and ran. Toward where the chapel's entry might have been—toward any sliver of escape.
But every step only brought her deeper.
Into the heart of the estate.
Into its secrets.
Into the ceremony.