Rhea's heart thundered in her chest as she slipped into the shadows, deeper into the mansion. Her footsteps echoed faintly on the cold floor, drowned by the ever-growing whispers that slithered through the air like smoke. They weren't just sounds now—they carried emotion: sadness, rage, warning.
Her flashlight flickered, then steadied, illuminating cobwebs and dust hanging like curtains. The walls were lined with faded portraits, most with eyes scratched out. Each hallway seemed longer than the last, twisted in impossible ways, as though the house was shifting, reacting to her presence.
She turned a corner and stopped.
A painting had fallen from the wall. Behind it was a message scrawled in what looked like dried blood:
"Don't trust the living."
Rhea's breath caught. She raised her camera instinctively, recording the message, but the lens showed only a blank wall. No writing. No paint. Just crumbling plaster.
"What the hell is going on?" she whispered.
The cold intensified, making her skin prickle. Ahead, she spotted a narrow door, half-open, tucked beneath the staircase. A place she hadn't noticed earlier. Her instincts screamed to leave it alone. But curiosity, that dangerous force, pushed her forward.
The room inside was small, filled with the heavy scent of dust, rot, and something faintly sweet—like decaying flowers. Broken furniture and shattered glass cluttered the floor. In the center, an old wooden table stood untouched by time, a single leather-bound book lying open upon it.
Rhea stepped closer. It was a diary.
The pages were delicate, browned with age, but the ink was surprisingly clear. Her eyes scanned the first entry:
"They say she cursed the house with her final breath. But it wasn't vengeance she left behind—it was a warning. My brothers destroyed each other, and she tried to stop them. The red door was never meant to be opened."
As she turned the pages, the entries grew more erratic. Mentions of rituals, strange lights in the woods, voices at night. And always—the red door. A place sealed with blood, holding something that refused to die.
Suddenly, the door behind her slammed shut. She jumped, dropping the diary. Her flashlight dimmed again. The temperature plummeted. Frost began to spread along the cracked mirror on the wall.
And then, a whisper.
Right in her ear.
"You shouldn't have come."
Rhea gasped, spinning around. No one was there. The room was empty—but the shadows danced, reacting to something unseen. Her flashlight buzzed, blinked, then steadied just as she caught movement outside the cracked window.
A face.
Pale, gaunt, watching her.
She screamed and backed away. The diary slammed shut on its own.
The whispers grew louder now—rising, overlapping, each one urgent, desperate.
"Free us."
"She's not gone."
"The fire wasn't enough."
"He lied."
Rhea ran. She pushed open the door, fled down the hallway, chased by the rising tide of voices. Behind her, the red door thudded—once, twice. The chains clanked violently.
She turned back once and saw something moving near the red door—something crawling on all fours, thin and fast, but not fully human. Its face was hidden in shadow, but its presence burned into her memory.
Just as she reached the mansion's main door, a hand—ice-cold and bony—brushed her shoulder.
She burst outside into the raging storm, gasping for breath. The night swallowed the house again, but something told her it wasn't over.
DaMira Mansion wasn't done with her yet.
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To be continued…....