The whisper curled like incense smoke around Elara's ear.
> "Now we begin the calling."
She turned from the window, half-expecting to find someone — or something — behind her. The room was empty, save for the faint scent of rosemary and old ink.
The pendant pulsed against her skin. Not violently. Not even urgently. Just... persistently. A reminder. A heartbeat she hadn't earned, and yet it beat within her still.
She moved toward the journal now resting open on her vanity. Three new pages. Written in her script. Descriptions of the stones, the pact, the offering. Her thoughts — raw and unfiltered — scrawled across paper she had not touched.
> She Who Walked the Hollow.
She Who Returned Without Screaming.
A chill ghosted her arms. Not from fear.
From ownership.
Elara closed the book, her fingers resting lightly on the cover. "Alright, then," she murmured to herself. "Let's see what the hell 'calling' means in this nightmare's glossary."
She opened her door.
The hallway had changed again.
Of course.
Gone was the familiar corridor of velvet and sconces. Now it was narrow, draped in gauze and dripping with condensation. Vines pulsed along the walls like veins. The air smelled faintly of myrrh and mold. A wet cold hugged her ankles like a warning.
"Persephone?" she called. "Valen? Anyone creepy and inconvenient?"
No reply.
The pendant warmed again. This time, it pulled — not just heat, but direction. It tugged toward the southern wing.
"Okay. South it is."
---
The manor led her like a suggestion given form — stairs unfurled beneath her, doors unlocked as she neared, even the candlelight bowed slightly in her wake. She was not in control.
But she was expected.
She passed a mirror. Her reflection didn't match her.
It was her, yes, but... older. Tired. The robe of the Third Elara was wrapped tighter. Her eyes were hollowed by wisdom or war. The reflection lifted a hand in warning. Then faded.
Elara did not stop.
---
The corridor ended in a great iron door carved with glyphs. Bells hung on chains across the frame, gently chiming with a wind that did not exist.
She placed her hand against the center glyph — a spiral surrounded by six teeth.
The bells ceased.
The door opened.
Inside, a circular chamber stretched wider than it should've. Pillars of bone and coral lined the walls. A skylight — despite it being midnight — glowed with moonlight so silver it hurt the eyes.
Six chairs formed a loose semicircle.
In five of them sat figures.
And in the sixth... a space waited for her.
---
They were not fully human.
Not anymore.
The first was cloaked in feathers and wore a crown of tiny antlers. Her eyes blinked sideways. She smiled like she remembered being devoured once and rather enjoyed it.
The second was a man stitched from shadows, the seams of his coat puckered with ancient runes. His hands were gloved, but the air around them hissed like acid.
The third was made entirely of wax, with a flame for a head and waxen hands that re-formed constantly as they melted.
The fourth wore no body at all — just a wind howling within armor etched with old prayers.
The fifth looked like a child, with the eyes of someone who had seen the sun born and die a hundred times.
They turned to her in perfect silence.
One voice — perhaps all of them — finally spoke.
> "The Caller comes."
She stepped into the circle.
None invited her.
None objected.
The sixth chair accepted her weight with a sigh. The pendant flared once, then settled.
She swallowed hard. "So... this is the calling?"
The wax man tilted his head, flame flickering blue.
> "No," said the armor of wind. "This is the audience."
Elara narrowed her eyes. "Audience for what?"
> "For what comes after being chosen," said the feathered one.
> "For those who may answer you," added the child.
> "For those who already have," whispered the shadow-stitched man.
> "For the bell and the bone," said all together.
---
The center of the room opened.
Not a trapdoor. Not a pit.
Just... space. Like reality blinked.
A shape rose.
It was small at first — a tangle of branches and bells tied with red string, hovering in midair. As it ascended, the strings fell away. Bone formed from root. Iron grew from smoke. The construct that emerged was a totem, six feet tall, fashioned from the remains of things that should not have died.
Atop it sat a helm of polished obsidian, and within its hollow eyes burned coals that saw too clearly.
Elara didn't breathe.
The child-thing spoke. "This is the Caller's Totem."
The armor echoed, "A conduit. Not a weapon."
The wax-flame man intoned, "You will carry it."
Elara frowned. "To where?"
> "Wherever the house weeps," said the wind.
> "Wherever the old promises break," said the wax.
> "Wherever the Valeblood line is remembered," whispered the stitched shadow.
> "Wherever they forget," said the feathered.
> "Wherever you are needed," said the child, soft and final.
---
The totem floated toward her. Not fast. Just... inevitability made manifest.
She braced herself.
When her hands touched the base, a sound cracked through the chamber — not a bell. Not exactly.
It was the memory of a bell.
One that had rung once during a funeral long forgotten. One that had warned of plague. One that had sung the dead to rest and promised vengeance on the ones who didn't deserve it.
It was every bell.
And none.
Elara fell to one knee.
The totem didn't weigh much.
But it knew weight.
And it pressed that knowing into her.
---
When she looked up, the chamber was empty.
No chairs.
No sky.
Just her.
And the totem.
And the spiral of glyphs now glowing beneath her boots.
Her voice cracked. "What now?"
A voice — not the ones from before — whispered:
> "Call them."
She stood, shakily. The pendant burned hot against her skin.
The totem shuddered.
And the first bell rang.
---
Wind screamed through the manor.
From the North Tower to the bleeding cellars, from the Whispering Wall to the Catacomb of Teeth, every door flew open.
Ghosts fled their corners.
Portraits blinked.
Books flipped open and howled.
Even the house itself seemed to take a shuddering breath.
Elara stumbled backward as the totem split open — revealing within it six small effigies, each carved from different material: ashwood, salt bone, obsidian, red coral, cursed iron, and woven thorns.
Each bore a face.
Not human.
But known.
One looked like Valen — only twisted, dead-eyed, and smiling.
Another like Persephone — her feline face wreathed in thorns and chains.
One like herself.
The rest... still forming.
---
Someone slammed into the chamber.
It was Valen.
Disheveled. Pale. Eyes wide with something close to fury.
"Elara!"
She turned, dazed.
He stopped short at the sight of the totem.
"Damn it," he muttered. "You rang the bell."
"I didn't mean to!" she said. "It... it rang me."
He stepped forward carefully, eyes never leaving the effigies. "This wasn't supposed to happen yet."
"Yet?" Elara snapped. "How many surprise hauntings are left on the itinerary?"
Valen looked genuinely apologetic. "The Calling marks the beginning of the Woken Cycle. Once the effigies are revealed, the Bound begin to stir. The house will... change."
She gestured at the still-hovering totem. "Define 'change.'"
Valen hesitated.
Then: "It will grow."
---
Back in the Grand Hall, Elara sat slumped on the edge of a fainting couch while Balthazar climbed atop the totem, sniffing at the effigies like a connoisseur of doom.
Persephone appeared in a swirl of smoke, tail lashing. "Oh lovely. You rang the hell-bell."
"I was trying to understand something," Elara said, frustrated.
"Understanding in this house is like petting a cobra," Balthazar muttered. "Briefly satisfying. Mostly fatal."
Valen paced the rug into a new pattern. "We have to prepare the East Wing."
"Why?"
"Because the first of the Bound will answer. And not all of them were ever human."
Elara rubbed her temples. "So who are they?"
Valen looked at her.
Then looked at the effigies.
"They're what the house remembers when it dreams."
---
That night, the manor slept uneasily.
Elara did not sleep at all.
She sat at her desk, staring at a blank page.
Until it wasn't blank.
Words began to write themselves.
Her own hand hovered above the paper, unmoving.
But the ink spilled just the same.
> To summon the first, place the effigy of ashwood upon the Hearth of Bone. Burn salt. Speak the name only when the fire turns green.
The pendant flared.
The totem pulsed.
Elara looked out her window.
Far below, the gravepond shimmered.
A shape moved beneath the water.
Watching.
Waiting.
Calling.
Note: there was a mistake while writing eryx is Valen ashmoor and Balthazar is persephone a talking witch cat