Chapter 9: The First Blood*
776 Words
The west wing smelled like rust.
Evelyn knew that smell. Copper. Wet metal. Like the time James cut his hand on a broken can and she had to press her shirt to it for 20 minutes.
But this was stronger. Older.
She stood at the end of the hall with the key in her fist. Cold. Heavy. The locket at her throat was humming now. A low buzz against her skin.
Behind her, Damien’s voice was sharp. “Don’t.”
“I have to,” Evelyn said. She didn’t turn around. “The voice said ‘don’t let her have the key’. So I’m going to see what it opens.”
“It opens a grave, Evelyn.”
She turned then. “Then I should see who’s in it.”
Damien was pale. His jaw was clenched so tight she could see the muscle jump. For the first time, he looked scared.
“Please,” he said. Just that. Please.
It almost made her stop.
Almost.
She walked to the last door in the west wing. Door 13. No number plate. Just scratches in the wood, like someone had tried to claw their way out.
The key slid in.
_Click._
The sound was too loud. It echoed.
The door opened on its own.
Cold air hit her face. It smelled like wet stone and old blood and roses. Dead roses.
Inside: a room. Small. No windows.
And in the center, a stone tub. Like a baptismal font. Except it was full.
Not with water.
With red.
It wasn’t fresh. It was dark. Sticky. Coated the sides. But it was moving. Slow ripples, like something was breathing under it.
Evelyn’s stomach turned. “What is this?”
Damien was in the doorway. He wouldn’t come in. “The Blackwood ritual,” he said. His voice was hollow. “Every 20 years. To keep the house alive.”
Evelyn stared at the liquid. “With blood?”
“With a Blackwood,” he corrected. “The firstborn girl.”
The words hit like ice water.
Evelyn looked down at her hands. At the locket. “Me.”
“You were supposed to die that night,” Damien said. “The fire was to cover it. But someone took you. Someone saved you.”
The surface of the blood rippled again.
And a hand came up.
Pale. Wet. Fingers splayed.
Evelyn screamed. She couldn’t help it.
The hand dropped back in with a soft _plunk_.
“Don’t,” Damien said, grabbing her arm. “Don’t look.”
“Then tell me the truth!” Evelyn yanked away. “Who’s in there?!”
Damien finally met her eyes. And she saw it. Grief. Guilt. Rage.
“My sister,” he said. “The one who lived. The one they didn’t find.”
Evelyn shook her head. “You said I was—”
“I lied,” he cut in. “I had to. If the house knew you were here, it would try to finish what it started.”
Footsteps. Above them. On the ceiling.
Slow. Bare feet.
_Drip. Drip. Drip._
Something was walking.
The blood in the tub started to bubble.
Evelyn backed up until she hit Damien’s chest. “What’s happening?”
“The house knows,” Damien whispered in her ear. “It smells you. And it’s hungry.”
The lights flickered. Once. Twice.
And in that half-second of darkness, Evelyn saw it in the blood.
A face. Her face. Under the surface. Eyes open. Mouth open in a scream.
Then the lights came back and it was gone.
Evelyn couldn’t breathe. “Get me out.”
Damien pulled her out of the room. Slammed the door. Locked it.
But the key didn’t turn.
It was stuck.
From inside: scratching.
_Skkkk. Skkkk. Skkkk._
“Run,” Damien said.
They ran. Down the hall. Past the portraits. Past the black cloth that was now on the floor again.
Behind them, the door to Room 13 creaked open.
A wet footstep.
Then another.
Evelyn didn’t look back. She couldn’t.
They burst into the main hall. Damien shoved her toward the stairs.
“Go to my room. Lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“What about you?”
He picked up a letter opener from the table. It was all he had.
“I’m going to see who let her out,” he said.
And he walked back toward the west wing.
Alone.
Evelyn stood at the bottom of the stairs. The locket was burning.
And from upstairs, a whisper. Close to her ear.
_“Thank you, sister. For coming home.”_
- Writer
