Chapter 3
1066 Words
A House That Breathes
Liana stood frozen in the dimly lit library, the weight of the journal pressing against her palm.
The whispers had stopped, but the air still felt thick—charged, like the atmosphere before a storm. The door had slammed shut, but there was no wind.
No explanation.
She swallowed hard, trying to steady her breath.
Maybe it was just old wood shifting.
Maybe she was losing her mind.
But deep inside, she knew.
This house was alive.
It watched. It listened. It remembered.
And it was trying to warn her.
Liana forced her feet to move, gripping the journal tightly as she made her way back to the fireplace. The flames flickered, casting long shadows across the bookshelves.
She opened the journal again, scanning the last words Eleanor Blackwood had written.
"He never grows older."
"They disappear. One by one. And I know… I will be next."
The final page had been ripped out.
Why?
Liana’s fingers ran over the jagged edge. Had Eleanor written something she wasn’t supposed to? Had someone taken it to hide the truth?
Her mind raced.
Damian had said nothing about his past wives. If Eleanor had been one of them, then…
What had happened to her?
Where had she gone?
A chill ran down Liana’s spine.
She had to find that missing page.
And she had to do it before it was too late.
Liana shut the journal and took a slow breath.
She needed answers, but she also needed to be careful. If Damian was hiding something, she couldn't let him know she was searching.
Moving quietly, she slid the journal back onto the shelf, aligning it perfectly with the others. She’d come back for it later.
As she turned toward the door, she hesitated.
The handle was missing.
Liana’s stomach clenched.
No. No, it had been there before. She had seen it when she came in.
She pressed her palm against the wood, heart hammering.
The library was trapping her.
A cold gust of air whispered against the back of her neck.
Liana whirled around.
A shadow flickered in the corner of the room, just past the rows of bookshelves.
Her pulse thundered.
“Who’s there?” she whispered.
Silence.
She took a step forward, every nerve in her body screaming against it. But she had to see.
She rounded the bookshelf—
And nothing was there.
Just a pile of books stacked on the floor.
Her breath came fast. She pressed a hand to her chest, trying to slow her heart.
Maybe it was the flickering light. Maybe she was imagining things.
But then—
A voice.
Soft. Whispering. Right behind her.
"Run."
Liana’s throat closed.
She turned so fast she nearly stumbled, searching the dimly lit room. But she was alone.
At least, alone in the way the human eye could see.
The air in the room felt wrong. It was colder, heavier, charged with something unseen.
And then—
A knock at the door.
Liana jumped, pressing a hand over her mouth.
The knock came again.
A slow, deliberate thud. Thud. Thud.
She hesitated, then reached for the wood, her fingers trembling.
When she touched it, the handle was suddenly back in place.
A shudder ran through her.
She turned it and pushed the door open.
The hallway outside was empty.
But she wasn’t relieved.
Something—or someone—had been in that library with her.
And whatever it was, it wanted her to leave.
Liana didn’t go back to her bedroom.
Instead, she headed toward the west wing, where she had seen the portraits of the Blackwood men.
She needed to look again.
To study the faces.
To see if any of them had wives.
The hallway was dim, the light from the antique sconces flickering against the polished floor. The air smelled of aged wood, old books, and something faintly metallic.
She stopped in front of the portrait of Damian.
Or rather—the Damian from 1892.
The painting was massive, framed in an intricate gold border. His silver eyes were piercing, just as they were in real life. But now, standing closer, Liana noticed something she had missed before.
In the background of the portrait, barely visible, was the silhouette of a woman.
She was standing behind Damian, her form blurred and shadowy, as if the painter had almost erased her but not completely.
Liana’s pulse spiked.
She looked at the small plaque beneath the painting.
Damian Blackwood, 1892.
No mention of a wife. No name for the shadowy figure.
But Liana knew what she was looking at.
Whoever that woman was—
She was never meant to be remembered.
---
A Midnight Encounter
Liana returned to her bedroom, locking the door behind her. She had barely shut it when she heard a knock.
Soft. Controlled.
She stiffened.
“Liana,” Damian’s voice came through the wood.
She hesitated, then opened the door.
He stood in the dim hallway, dressed in a black silk robe. His silver eyes gleamed in the faint candlelight.
“You’re awake late,” he murmured.
Liana forced a smile. “Couldn’t sleep.”
His gaze flickered over her, unreadable.
She hesitated, then took a step forward. “Damian… I need to ask you something.”
He didn’t move.
“Who was Eleanor Blackwood?” she asked.
A shadow passed over his face. It was brief, but it was there.
“I don’t know who that is.”
Liana’s fingers curled into fists.
“She was married to a Blackwood. She lived in this house.”
Damian tilted his head slightly. “And where did you hear that?”
Liana swallowed.
She couldn’t tell him about the journal. Not yet.
“Just… something I read,” she said carefully.
Damian studied her for a long moment. Then, he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
His fingers were ice cold.
“Don’t go digging into things that don’t concern you, Liana.”
His voice was soft. Almost gentle.
But the warning in it was clear.
Liana held her breath.
Damian’s lips barely parted, as if he was going to say something else. But then he turned and walked away, disappearing down the darkened hall.
Liana exhaled slowly.
Her pulse thundered.
He was lying.
And if she wasn’t careful—
She might be the next Blackwood bride to disappear.
- Writer
