Evelyn didn't speak to Elias the next day.
She moved like a phantom through the halls, but not the way Lenore had—Evelyn had a purpose.
Every step was rebellion.
Every breath was defiance.
She made coffee. She wore jeans and a black t-shirt—no lace, no silk. She opened windows the house had kept locked for decades and let the outside air in.
The walls groaned. The floorboards wept.
She smiled.
For the first time, the house felt smaller than her.
She took the staircase to the basement.
Not because she was drawn there—but because she had avoided it since the first week.
It smelled like mildew and secrets.
She carried a flashlight. A real one. No candles. No romantic flicker.
The stairs moaned beneath her weight.
And at the bottom, she found them:
Books. Jars. Bones. A cradle.
Another one.
This one was made of black wood, carved with roses—and something deeper. Scratches. Etchings. Names.
Her name.
Evelyn Marrow.
She touched it.
The wood pulsed.
Behind her, something whispered: "You were always meant for this."
She turned. No one.
But she felt it.
The air behind her shifted.
Lenore was near.
A diary lay beside the cradle. Not Lenore's.
Elias's.
She flipped it open.
"She said the child would be mine, but it was not. It looked like her, but I saw the house in its eyes. I buried it in the garden. But it came back. It always comes back."
Another entry.
"Evelyn is more stubborn than Lenore. That may save her. Or doom her faster. Either way, the house is pleased."
Another.
"Last night, I dreamt of them both—Evelyn and Lenore—sitting across from me at the dinner table, feeding each other roses. I couldn't tell which one loved me. I couldn't tell which one was alive."
She dropped the book.
She was done.
Done being fed illusions. Done being groomed into a memory.
If the house wanted a bride, it would get a funeral instead.
That night, Evelyn stole back into the greenhouse. The air was thick with rot.
She collected what she needed.
Alcohol.
A lighter.
Dried vines and petals.
She returned to the ballroom and doused the walls.
She left a trail of soaked rose petals down the hallway.
Lenore's voice echoed faintly through the chandeliers.
"You're making a mistake."
"No," Evelyn whispered. "You did."
She struck the match.
Flames bloomed like red mouths across the walls.
The portraits screamed.
The piano shattered.
The floor cracked beneath her feet.
The fire moved fast—too fast.
It wasn't just flames.
It was the house's blood burning.
The house was alive, and now it was dying.
Elias appeared in the smoke.
His eyes wide. Stricken.
"Evelyn, what have you done?"
She stepped back from him.
"Set myself free."
"You've doomed us both."
"No. Just the part of you that doesn't belong to you anymore."
He stepped forward. The fire haloed his face.
"Lenore will never let you go."
"Then she can burn with the rest of it."
She turned and ran as the walls began to collapse.
Outside, the rain had started again—but it couldn't stop the fire.
She stood in the garden, watching the mansion devour itself.
Behind her, the roses withered.
Black petals floated down like snow.
The house screamed once.
Then fell silent.
She didn't cry.
Not when the roof gave in.
Not when the windows burst.
Only when she saw Elias walk out of the fire—clothes scorched, skin blistered—holding the velvet cradle.
He dropped it at her feet.
Empty.
Still empty.
"Now," he rasped, voice hollow, "there's no place left for her to hide."
Evelyn knelt.
Looked into the ashes.
And whispered, "Then she can come and get me."
[End of Chapter 12]