That Night

Chapter 4 ,5 & 6

Chapter 4: The Locked Doors

Suddenly, the doors slammed shut behind Mia with a force that sent a gust of cold air rushing through the ballroom. The echo reverberated through the chamber, making the flickering candlelight tremble.

Mia turned sharply, her pulse quickening. She reached for the heavy brass handles, her fingers wrapping around the ornate metalwork. She twisted, pulled—but the doors wouldn’t budge.

She wasn’t the only one who noticed.

A woman in a crimson dress—her mask adorned with delicate golden filigree—moved swiftly to another set of doors on the far end of the hall. She grasped the handles, tried to push them open. Nothing.

“They won’t move!” she called, her voice laced with growing unease.

A man, taller and broader than the rest, strode toward a window. His mask, shaped like a stag’s head, did little to hide his frustration. He lifted a gloved fist and slammed it against the glass.

The window didn’t break.

It didn’t even rattle.

Mia’s stomach tightened as a ripple of tension spread through the room. Murmurs rose from the masked guests, their voices hushed but urgent. A woman near the fireplace whispered to her companion. Another guest pulled fruitlessly at a smaller side door.

Panic seeped into the air like a slow-moving poison.

Mia turned back to the center of the room. The cloaked figure in the gold mask stood still at the foot of the staircase, watching. Unmoved. Unbothered.

“You locked us in,” the stag-masked man accused, stepping forward. His voice was sharp, demanding. “What the hell is this?”

The masked figure tilted their head slightly. The gesture was eerily slow, deliberate.

“No one leaves until the truth is revealed,” they said.

A silence stretched through the room, thick and suffocating.

“This is absurd,” the woman in the crimson dress snapped. “Some kind of elaborate performance? A test?” She reached up, as if to rip off her mask, but the figure’s voice cut through the room before she could.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

The woman froze.

Mia saw something flicker in her posture—a moment of hesitation, of fear.

“Why not?” Mia asked, stepping forward.

The gold-masked figure’s gaze—or what she imagined was their gaze—turned toward her. For the first time since the night had begun, Mia felt truly exposed.

“Because the masks are not just for show,” they said. “They are for protection.”

A sharp gust of wind rattled through the room, though the windows remained unbroken, the doors sealed shut. The candles in the chandeliers trembled, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own.

Mia swallowed.

Something was very wrong.

The whispers returned.

Soft at first. Then growing.

Mia turned her head slightly, trying to pinpoint their source, but they came from everywhere at once—murmurs from unseen mouths, words that dissolved before they could be understood.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered, but she knew the answer before she even asked.

They all did.

The stag-masked man took a cautious step back. The woman in the crimson dress wrapped her arms around herself. Another guest, wearing an ivory mask shaped like a raven, looked toward the shadowed corners of the room, as if expecting something—or someone—to emerge.

The gold-masked figure slowly ascended a few steps up the grand staircase.

“This house is old,” they said. “Older than you know. It remembers everything. It does not forgive. And it does not let go.”

The wind howled outside. The flames in the fireplace guttered.

And then, from deep within the house, something knocked.

A single, deliberate knock—from behind one of the locked doors.

The guests turned toward the sound. A man in a navy-blue suit stepped closer to the source, a heavy wooden door carved with intricate floral patterns.

He hesitated, then reached out and knocked back.

Silence.

Then—

The knocking came again. Louder. More insistent.

The man stumbled back. A woman near him gasped.

Mia’s breath hitched as the air seemed to grow heavier, charged with something unseen.

The whispers swelled.

And then—

A voice.

Faint. Muffled. But unmistakable.

“Let me out.”

Mia’s blood ran cold.

The woman in the crimson dress let out a strangled gasp and turned back to the gold-masked figure. “Who is in there?” she demanded.

The figure did not answer.

The knocking continued, more frantic now. The voice from behind the door wavered between desperation and something else—something hollow.

Something wrong.

The stag-masked man strode toward the door, gripping the handle with renewed force. “We have to open it,” he said.

“No.”

The gold-masked figure’s voice rang through the room, sharp and final.

The man hesitated. “But someone is trapped—”

“They are not trapped.” The figure took another step up the staircase. “They were put there.”

The room fell into a suffocating silence.

Mia stared at the door, heart pounding. The voice behind it was still pleading, whispering.

The gold-masked figure continued, their tone measured but firm.

“This house has many doors. Some are meant to open.”

A pause.

“Others must never be unsealed.”

The whispering behind the door stopped.

The knocking ceased.

And then—

A scrape.

Something dragging against the wood.

The sound of nails—or something far worse—tracing down the length of the door.

Mia felt an unbearable cold seep into her bones.

The woman in the crimson dress took a slow step back.

The stag-masked man’s breathing was heavy, measured.

No one spoke.

And then, the gold-masked figure turned toward Mia once more.

“You came here seeking answers,” they said. “But the truth is not without cost.”

Mia’s grip tightened around the empty wine glass in her hand. She felt as though she were standing at the edge of something vast, something hungry.

The house was not just a house.

It was watching.

Waiting.

And it was far from empty.

Chapter 5: The Whispered Warning

Mia felt a slight tug at her sleeve, so faint she almost didn’t notice. She turned and found a young woman standing close to her. She wore a delicate lace mask, her wide eyes filled with something just shy of panic.

“We shouldn’t be here,” the girl whispered, her voice barely audible over the heavy silence in the room. “They do this every year.”

Mia’s pulse quickened.

“Do what?” she asked under her breath.

Before the girl could answer, the silver-fox-masked man stepped forward, raising a gloved hand.

“Shall we begin?” he said, his voice carrying an edge of amusement.

The guests shifted, some casting wary glances at one another. Mia saw the woman in the crimson dress tense. The stag-masked man took a slow, measured breath. No one moved toward the doors anymore. There was an unspoken understanding now—they were trapped, and whatever was happening had only just begun.

The silver-masked man strode toward the center of the room with practiced ease, his polished shoes clicking against the marble. His posture exuded confidence, but there was something off about him—something too rehearsed, too deliberate.

Mia's fingers twitched at her sides.

The young woman beside her leaned in again. “We need to—”

“Silence,” the gold-masked figure interrupted from the staircase.

The girl went rigid, lips pressing together, her breathing uneven.

Mia swallowed hard.

The silver-masked man tilted his head slightly, studying the room. “Tonight, we honor an old tradition,” he continued, “one that has bound this house for generations.”

Mia’s throat felt tight. “Bound?”

His gaze flicked toward her, though his mask concealed any expression.

“This house remembers,” he said. “It remembers the choices made within its walls. And tonight, we shall witness another.”

A low murmur spread through the guests. Some shifted uneasily. Others remained eerily still, as though they had expected this all along.

Mia looked at the young woman again. Her hands were clenched into fists, her knuckles pale.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Mia whispered urgently.

The girl hesitated. Then, finally, she spoke.

“They choose someone.”

Mia felt the breath leave her lungs.

“What?” she whispered.

“Every year,” the girl said, her voice trembling. “One guest. One sacrifice.”

Mia’s stomach dropped.

She turned back toward the silver-masked man just as he extended his arms theatrically.

“The House of Ravenwood requires balance,” he declared, “and so, a choice must be made.”

The whispers returned, curling through the air like smoke.

Mia’s skin prickled.

“This is insane,” the stag-masked man muttered.

The woman in crimson took a sharp step forward. “A game. That’s all this is, isn’t it? A twisted little game?”

The silver-masked man chuckled, the sound smooth but utterly devoid of warmth.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But games have consequences.”

Another knock echoed through the room.

Not from the locked doors this time.

From beneath the floor.

A collective shudder ran through the guests. Mia felt the cold seep deeper into her bones.

Then the silver-masked man’s gaze settled on her.

“A choice must be made,” he repeated, his voice softer now, almost gentle.

Mia’s breath quickened.

The young woman beside her gripped her wrist suddenly.

“Run,” she whispered.

Mia barely had time to process the word before the candles flickered violently.

And the room was plunged into darkness.

Chapter 6: The Game Begins

A large envelope, its edges yellowed with age, was placed on the center table. The room, already heavy with tension, grew still as the guests gathered around. The silver-masked man remained standing a few steps back, watching with amusement as one of the guests hesitated before lifting the envelope’s flap.

The parchment inside was brittle, its ink dark and unyielding against the aged paper. The words, written in an old-fashioned script, sent a fresh wave of unease through the group:

Find the traitor among you before the clock strikes one, or none shall leave.

A suffocating silence followed.

Mia’s fingers curled into fists. She could hear the uneasy shifting of the other guests, could feel their glances darting toward one another behind the elaborate masks.

A game.

A deadly one.

The stag-masked man exhaled sharply. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

The woman in crimson crossed her arms, her posture rigid. “You’re expecting us to turn on each other?” she demanded, her voice laced with anger.

The silver-masked man chuckled.

“No,” he said, his voice smooth. “I expect you to play.”

Mia's stomach churned.

A distant chime rang through the house—quarter past midnight. Forty-five minutes until the deadline.

A new kind of fear settled over the group.

The young woman beside Mia shifted uncomfortably.

“They won’t let us leave,” she whispered. “Not until someone is named.”

Mia felt the weight of the parchment in her hands. “And if we refuse?”

The gold-masked figure spoke from the staircase, their voice calm, deliberate.

“Then the house will decide for you.”

The words sent a chill down Mia’s spine.

The guests looked at one another now—not just in suspicion, but in dread.

Mia took a slow breath, trying to steady herself. If this was a game, there had to be a way to beat it.

“We need to think,” she said, her voice breaking the tense silence. “There has to be a reason for this.”

The woman in crimson scoffed. “Oh, you think? We’re trapped in a house full of lunatics playing some twisted murder mystery, and you want to think?”

The stag-masked man cut in. “She’s right. There has to be a pattern. A reason.”

The silver-masked man clapped his hands together once, the sound crisp in the otherwise silent room.

“Now you’re catching on,” he said.

Mia turned sharply toward him. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps.”

She gritted her teeth. “Then tell us.”

He smiled beneath the mask.

“That wouldn’t be fun.”

Mia resisted the urge to hurl something at him.

Instead, she looked at the parchment again.

Find the traitor.

The word traitor stuck in her mind.

“Does anyone here actually know each other?” she asked. “Before tonight?”

The guests exchanged uncertain glances.

“No,” said the woman in crimson. “I don’t.”

“Same,” the stag-masked man muttered.

Others nodded in agreement.

Mia frowned.

Then how could there be a traitor if none of them had any connections?

Unless—

She turned back to the masked hosts at the staircase.

“You’re playing with words,” she said slowly.

The gold-masked figure inclined their head slightly. “Are we?”

“The traitor isn’t one of us.” Mia’s heartbeat thundered in her chest. “It’s one of you.”

The silver-masked man let out a soft, amused laugh.

The gold-masked figure was silent.

And then—

Another knock.

This time, from the mirror.

Mia turned sharply toward it.

The glass—once smoky and still—was shifting.

Something moved within.

Something watching.

Waiting.

A whisper slid through the air, just above a breath:

Time is running out.

Chapter 6: The Game Begins

A large envelope, its edges yellowed with age, was placed on the center table. The room, already heavy with tension, grew still as the guests gathered around. The silver-masked man remained standing a few steps back, watching with amusement as one of the guests hesitated before lifting the envelope’s flap.

The parchment inside was brittle, its ink dark and unyielding against the aged paper. The words, written in an old-fashioned script, sent a fresh wave of unease through the group:

Find the traitor among you before the clock strikes one, or none shall leave.

A suffocating silence followed.

Mia’s fingers curled into fists. She could hear the uneasy shifting of the other guests, and could feel their glances darting toward one another behind the elaborate masks.

A game.

A deadly one.

The stag-masked man exhaled sharply. “What kind of sick joke is this?”

The woman in crimson crossed her arms, her posture rigid. “You’re expecting us to turn on each other?” she demanded, her voice laced with anger.

The silver-masked man chuckled.

“No,” he said, his voice smooth. “I expect you to play.”

Mia's stomach churned.

A distant chime rang through the house—quarter past midnight. Forty-five minutes until the deadline.

A new kind of fear settled over the group.

The young woman beside Mia shifted uncomfortably.

“They won’t let us leave,” she whispered. “Not until someone is named.”

Mia felt the weight of the parchment in her hands. “And if we refuse?”

The gold-masked figure spoke from the staircase, their voice calm, deliberate.

“Then the house will decide for you.”

The words sent a chill down Mia’s spine.

The guests looked at one another now—not just in suspicion, but in dread.

Mia took a slow breath, trying to steady herself. If this was a game, there had to be a way to beat it.

“We need to think,” she said, her voice breaking the tense silence. “There has to be a reason for this.”

The woman in crimson scoffed. “Oh, you think? We’re trapped in a house full of lunatics playing some twisted murder mystery, and you want to think?”

The stag-masked man cut in. “She’s right. There has to be a pattern. A reason.”

The silver-masked man clapped his hands together once, the sound crisp in the otherwise silent room.

“Now you’re catching on,” he said.

Mia turned sharply toward him. “You know who it is, don’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Perhaps.”

She gritted her teeth. “Then tell us.”

He smiled beneath the mask.

“That wouldn’t be fun.”

Mia resisted the urge to hurl something at him.

Instead, she looked at the parchment again.

Find the traitor.

The word traitor stuck in her mind.

“Does anyone here actually know each other?” she asked. “Before tonight?”

The guests exchanged uncertain glances.

“No,” said the woman in crimson. “I don’t.”

“Same,” the stag-masked man muttered.

Others nodded in agreement.

Mia frowned.

Then how could there be a traitor if none of them had any connections?

Unless—

She turned back to the masked hosts at the staircase.

“You’re playing with words,” she said slowly.

The gold-masked figure inclined their head slightly. “Are we?”

“The traitor isn’t one of us.” Mia’s heartbeat thundered in her chest. “It’s one of you.”

The silver-masked man let out a soft, amused laugh.

The gold-masked figure was silent.

And then—

Another knock.

This time, from the mirror.

Mia turned sharply toward it.

The glass—once smoky and still—was shifting.

Something moved within.

Something watching.

Waiting.

A whisper slid through the air, just above a breath:

Time is running out.