Claire turned in slow circles, eyes darting from one door to the next. Each had a brass knob and an engraved plate with no name, just deep scratches—like something had clawed to get out.
She reached for one, heart hammering.
"Don't," a voice warned. Not in her ear, not out loud, but in her head. A voice that felt ancient.
The door creaked open on its own. Claire stepped back, but the cold air pulled her in.
The room inside was empty—at first glance. Gray walls. A wooden floor warped with moisture. But in the center, kneeling, was a figure. Not a ghost. Not a person. Something in between.
Its back was to her, body thin and trembling, as if made from smoke and ash. It whispered constantly—not to her, but to itself.
Claire whispered, "Who are you?"
The thing turned.
It had no eyes. Just hollow sockets dripping black. But its mouth… its mouth stretched far too wide, and from it came the sound of every voice Claire had ever known—her mother's laugh, her brother's scream, her own cry as a child.
"I collect what the house hears," it said, the words slithering out of all the mouths at once.
It moved toward her.
Claire stumbled back, slamming the door shut. The whispers didn't stop. They multiplied.
From behind the other doors came banging, scratching, sobbing.
She ran down the corridor, unsure where it led, only knowing she couldn't stay.
She turned a corner—
And found herself back in the foyer.
But something had changed.
The portraits on the wall—those of past Ashwood residents—now had no faces.
Except one.
Her brother's.
Trapped in paint, his eyes followed her. His mouth slightly open.
Whispering again.
"Find me… before it does."