Chapter 5: The Locked Room
791 Words
Chapter 5: The Locked Room
Aarav perched on the edge of his bed, knuckles white. His hands? Shaking like he’d downed five espressos.
He’d seen her.
Not some half-baked shadow or weird fever dream. A real woman—except, you know, no face—just standing in his room. Not gliding around all ghost-like, either. She was planted there. Watching him. Waiting. Like she’d been expecting him or something.
The painting above the fireplace was still there, quiet as ever. But the woman in the window? Gone. Atmosphere felt off. Like the air had changed gears.
And that voice, echoing in his head:
“The house remembers… even when you forget.”
Seriously—what the hell was that supposed to mean?
Alright, enough creeping himself out. Aarav wanted answers. If Malcolm was gonna keep playing mysterious old butler, maybe the house itself would spill the beans.
He grabbed his lamp and headed out, determined not to wimp out this time. Past the dining room, past the music room—he wound up at the far west end of the manor. The forbidden zone.
End of the hallway: a hulking wooden door.
Locked, of course.
Above it, a brass plaque so tarnished it was basically green:
“East Wing – Private”
The doorknob bit cold into his palm. No luck—the thing wouldn’t budge.
He peered through the keyhole. Nada. Just pitch-black nothing.
He stepped back, frowning. This wasn’t your standard “keep out” door. Felt more like a warning. Like something behind it didn’t want to be found—or maybe, shouldn’t be.
He poked around nearby. Storage closet? Dust and cobwebs. Study? Wall-to-wall books. Bedroom? Collapsed, total wreck. Useless.
Except—wait. In the study, something caught his eye.
Red leather book, sitting all alone on a shelf.
No title, no author. Just this ominous black wax seal, already cracked open.
Aarav cracked it open, too.
Inside: notes, journal entries, all scribbled in a sharp, looping woman’s script. Ink faded, words still there if you squinted.
First page:
“I have sealed the east wing. No one must enter. The dreams are growing louder, and the walls are beginning to whisper truths I am not ready to face. If you find this… you are already too deep.”
— Eleanor Blackwood
Instant chill down Aarav’s spine.
Eleanor. The woman from the painting. She’d lived here. She’d heard the whispers. She was the one who locked the place up.
He flipped through. Dates from, like, 1907 or something. Mentions of weird visions, freezing spots in the halls, and a “shadow that wears my face.”
One entry practically leapt off the page:
“Malcolm does not age. I see him just as he was when I was a girl. I don’t think he’s human anymore. I think the house has kept him, the same way it’s keeping me.”
Aarav slammed the book shut, heart rattling.
Outside, the hall had gone even darker. Wind howled, rattling the windows so hard they sounded like they might shatter.
He headed back for the locked door.
And there it was—a key. Just lying right there in the middle of the hallway. He was 100% sure it hadn’t been there before.
He picked it up. Weirdly warm, like someone had just dropped it.
He stuck the key in the East Wing door.
Click.
The lock turned.
The door groaned open, not happy about it.
And, man, the darkness behind that door? It was thick, almost alive. The air felt like he was breathing water. He lifted the lamp and stepped in.
The East Wing… was something else.
Older. Heavier.
Walls stained, furniture untouched, like the place was frozen in time. Paintings—some slashed, some flipped to face the wall. Mirrors all hidden under sheets.
But the room felt… aware. Like it was paying attention.
His footsteps echoed way too loud. The lamp’s light shrank, like the dark was swallowing it up.
He caught a flicker in a cracked mirror.
Whirled around—nothing.
Looked back. His reflection hadn’t moved.
Except… it smiled.
Aarav sure as hell didn’t.
Reflection lifted a finger to its lips.
“Shhh.”
And then it was gone. Poof.
Aarav staggered back into a cabinet. Door swung open like it’d been waiting.
Inside: a black box, locked tight, and a folded slip of paper.
He opened it, hands still shaking.
“They’re trying to remember you, Aarav.
You’ve been here before.
Don’t believe everything you were told.”
No name. No signature. Just a little drawing at the bottom.
The manor, sketched quick and creepy.
And in the attic window—a child.
Eyes black as midnight.
- Writer
