Chapter 8: Voices from the Past
874 Words
Chapter 8: Voices from the Past
Aarav wandered through that weird, twisting hallway, and man, the whole place felt like it was breathing. Seriously, the walls kind of moved in and out, and it gave him the creeps.
Every step made the manor feel more warped, like he’d stepped into some funhouse nightmare. Smoke hung in the air, but nothing was on fire. Shadows slithered over the stone, but there was nobody else around. Just him. And his lamp, which was doing this sad little flicker, like it might bail on him at any second.
The silence wasn't just silence anymore. It pulsed—full of that itchy, crawling sense that someone (or something) was whispering right behind him, just out of earshot.
He turned a corner. Froze.
Suddenly, he was staring into a kid’s bedroom.
It looked like time had skipped right over it.
The wallpaper: faded, sure, but you could still see stars and moons drawn by some tiny hand. Bed by the window, sheets still tucked. Toys all over the rug—a spinning top, a floppy rabbit, a wooden soldier with an arm missing, like it’d been through a war.
Aarav crept in, heartbeat thumping in his ears.
There was this little mirror, right at kid-level. He caught his own reflection as he walked by—only, nope. Not his. Not anymore.
A kid stared back at him.
Same dark eyes. That scar on the cheek. His face, just… smaller. Younger. Like time-travel, but the kind that makes your stomach drop.
And then the kid in the mirror moved—lifted a hand, pointed straight at the closet.
Aarav’s skin prickled.
The closet door creaked open, all on its own. Of course it did.
Inside, it was cramped, cold as a walk-in freezer, and so dark you could taste it. But something was on the floor—a scrap of paper.
Crayon drawing. Classic. Stick-figure family: dad, mom, two kids. One of the boys circled in angry red. Underneath, scribbled in wobbly letters:
“I remember you.”
Before he could even blink—bang! Closet door slammed shut behind him.
He whipped around. No way out.
And then, that voice. High, soft. Too young to be anything but trouble.
“You left me here.”
Aarav’s breath just stopped.
Shadows inched closer, then a shape peeled out—a boy, maybe seven? Dressed like the kid in that old attic painting. Face hollow, not evil… just gutted.
“Aarav,” the boy whispered, pain dripping from every word, “you promised you’d come back. But you forgot.”
Guilt hit like a truck. Aarav felt the memory, like water rising up to drown him.
“I… I don’t remember you,” he croaked, feeling sick.
The boy’s eyes went glassy, black as pitch.
“But I remember everything.”
Then—bam, everything shifted.
He wasn’t in the closet anymore. He was somewhere else, some memory he didn’t know he had.
Same room, only new. Alive. Sun pouring in. Distant laughter.
He turned and saw himself—a tiny, happy version, maybe six, tearing around with another boy. The resemblance? Uncanny. A twin, maybe?
They played, chased each other, giggling. Then the scene jerked sideways.
Screams. The hallway turned to shadow. A door slammed. The other boy—gone, dragged by something Aarav never saw.
And little Aarav? He just ran.
The vision snapped. Back in the closet.
Alone. That boy’s voice echoing in the dark.
“You left me in the East Wing. You closed the door. They locked me in, and you forgot. Everyone forgot.”
“Except the house.”
“The house kept me.”
Aarav just sank to the floor, voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t know. God, I swear. I didn’t know.”
The boy stepped closer.
“Now you do.”
Suddenly—bang, something crashed outside.
The closet door shot open, white light blazing in.
A woman stood there, tall and dressed like she’d just walked out of a gothic novel. Eleanor Blackwood. Cool as ice, but her eyes didn’t mess around.
“You’ve seen enough.”
Aarav stumbled out, blinking in the glare. “Was he… was he my brother?”
Eleanor nodded, all slow and heavy. “Your twin. Left behind in fear. Forgotten by your father. Locked away in your head.”
“But… why don’t I remember?”
She gave him this look. “Because guilt rewrites your story. And the house? The house keeps secrets.”
She touched his forehead. Aarav flinched, but then—bam, images in his skull:
Two boys playing. Hide and seek.
A door slamming. Screaming.
A father’s voice: “Never speak of this again.”
A door closing. For good.
When it all faded, Eleanor was gone.
But the boy—his brother—stood by the window, looking almost peaceful.
“I waited,” he said. “I knew you’d come back.”
Tears stung Aarav’s eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
A faint, sad smile. “It’s time now.”
And as the room filled with a final whisper, Aarav heard it clear as day:
“The house remembers… but now, so do you.”
- Writer
