Chapter 5: The Old Chapel*
644 Words
Dawn came gray and thin through Blackwood Manor.
Evelyn didn’t sleep after 2 AM. She sat on the edge of the bed, the locket clutched in her fist, watching the door.
Damien left at 3:42 AM. She heard his footsteps fade. He didn’t come back.
At 5:30 AM, light flickered under her door.
Not electric light. Candlelight.
Warm. Orange. Moving.
The old chapel was forbidden.
Rule two.
She should’ve stayed in bed.
She didn’t.
The hallway was empty. Silent. The west wing doors were still. No crying. No rattling. Just the smell of old stone and cold air.
The chapel was at the back of the east wing. Double wooden doors. Black iron hinges. A rusted cross above them.
Light bled through the crack at the bottom.
Evelyn pressed her palm to the wood. It was warm.
The locket pulsed against her skin.
“Rule two,” she whispered to herself. “Forbidden.”
She pushed the door.
It opened.
The chapel was small. Stone walls. Stained glass, cracked and gray with dust. No pews. Just a single altar. And on it—
A candle. Burning.
No one was there.
But the air moved. Like someone had just stood up and left.
Evelyn stepped inside. Her shoes echoed. The locket got hotter with every step.
On the altar, under the candle, lay a photograph.
Her.
Eight years old. At an orphanage. Holding a book. Wearing the silver locket.
On the back, handwritten: _She returned._
Evelyn’s hands shook. “How—”
The chapel doors slammed shut behind her.
She spun. Locked.
“Hey!” She ran to them. Pulled. Nothing. “Damien?”
Silence.
Then footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Coming from the other side.
The handle turned.
The doors opened.
Damien.
He wasn’t supposed to be up this early. His shirt was wrinkled. Eyes bloodshot. He looked like he’d been fighting something all night.
He saw her. Saw the photo in her hand. Saw the candle.
His face went white.
“You opened it,” he said. Not yelled. Worse. Quiet.
“I—there was light—”
“Did you touch anything?”
She held up the photo. “This. It’s me. As a kid.”
Damien took it from her. His fingers brushed hers. Cold.
He stared at it for a long time.
“This chapel has been locked for twenty years,” he said. “Since the night my mother died.”
“Then who lit the candle?”
He didn’t answer. He walked to the altar. Moved the candle aside.
Under it, carved into the stone:
_E.C. + D.B. Forever._
His initials. Her initials.
Evelyn stepped back. “I didn’t—”
“I know,” Damien said fast. Too fast. “You weren’t here twenty years ago.”
He turned to her then. Really looked at her. Not like a contract. Like a man seeing a ghost.
“The locket,” he said. “Let me see it.”
“No.”
“Evelyn.”
She unclasped it. Handed it over.
Damien held it in his palm. The silver was warm. He flipped it open.
Inside wasn’t a picture.
It was a key. Tiny. Ornate. Black iron.
Evelyn frowned. “A key to what?”
Damien’s answer came from behind them.
A voice. Female. Soft. From the shadows near the altar.
“To the west wing.”
Evelyn spun.
No one was there.
Just dust. And candle smoke.
And the sound of a child giggling.
Damien grabbed her hand. Hard.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
He dragged her out of the chapel. The doors slammed behind them on their own.
As they ran down the hall, Evelyn looked back once.
The candle was still burning.
And in the stained glass, for half a second, she saw a woman in a white dress watching them.
It looked exactly like her.
- Writer
