Novel-novel oleh Meghan Goff

The mirror’s words hadn’t faded.They hovered still on the glass in smoke-gray script, trembling faintly in the dimnessSHE KNOWS YOU’RE CLOSE.DON’T TURN AWAY.Sloane stood frozen, her breath fogging slightly in the heavy air. The door remained sealed behind them. No handle now, no seam. Just stone.Theo paced once behind her, eyes scanning the room, looking for mechanisms, levers, anything.“There’s no way out,” he said, voice tight. “We’re locked in.”“No,” Sloane said. Her gaze didn’t leave the mirror. “We’re being kept.”Theo moved to her side. “By Lenore?”She shook her head slowly. “Not her. The house.”As if in agreement, the air shifted. The temperature dropped, not with a rush, but gradually, like breath being drawn away.And then the mirror flickered.Not violently. Not even noticeably unless you were watching.Sloane stepped closer.The image shifted.Her reflection was gone.Now the glass showed a bedroom with soft light, wallpaper faded blue, a dollhouse in the corner. T

The lines on the sketchbook bled darker as they climbed.Upward now. The stairway from the drawing was narrow, cut into the stone with the same sharp curve as the one below, but everything here felt newer and not freshly built, but freshly revealed. Like the house had shifted again to make room.Sloane led the way, the flashlight trembling slightly in her grip. Theo followed close behind, his steps measured but quiet. Neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t empty. It was strained. Listening.They passed through a low arch at the top. A heavy door stood before them, not wood, but iron, the frame fused into the stone. Ivy crept in from somewhere above, brittle and dead.Sloane pressed her hand to the center of the door.It gave way instantly.The room beyond was quiet. Choked in shadows.The light from her flashlight flicked across the space. Bare stone floors, shelves that held nothing but dust, and in the center of the far wall:A mirror.Seven feet tall. Ornate frame twisted with i

The sound came again.A low creak, unmistakable. Not random. Not wind.A door opening.Sloane turned toward the hallway, the air shifting around her like a held breath finally exhaled. The fire in the drawing room dimmed behind them, the flames curling low, as though the house wanted them to leave the warmth.Theo was already moving.He didn’t speak, just crossed the room and opened the door to the corridor. The light from the antique fixtures on the walls flickered. Not out, but dimmed, as if watching them pass.Sloane followed him into the hall, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, the brandy left untouched on the table. Her feet made no sound on the runner, but her pulse thundered.They moved past the grand staircase, past the ornate frames and faded portraits. The sound had come from the far side of the corridor, near the west wing, but deeper, where the plaster showed cracks like veins and the wallpaper curled at the seams.Theo stopped at a narrow arch she hadn’t noticed before

The fire hissed softly in the grate, the last of the brandy clinging to the curve of Sloane’s glass. She hadn’t moved since she found the drawing slipped loose beneath the portfolio. Her fingers still held the page, edges trembling, the words written in a child’s uneven scrawl echoing in her mind:She has to open it. Not him.Theo hadn’t moved either. He stood nearby, eyes still on the sketch. The flames carved shadows along the sharp planes of his face, but his expression was unreadable.Finally, Sloane spoke. “That’s my coat. My scarf. But I didn’t draw this.”Theo’s voice was low. “No. But it’s your hand.”She looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”“I’ve seen that shape in your lines. The way you sketch tension into the doorframe. The tilt of the stairs. The motion of fear.” He paused. “Even if you didn’t draw this, the house knows your hand.”She set the page gently on the low table. “Then it’s not just showing me what’s happened. It’s showing me what will.”Theo reached beside

The fire in the drawing room had burned low, casting soft flickers across the wood-paneled walls. Sloane sat on the edge of the rustic sofa, still coated in dust from the passage, her coat draped over one arm, the weight of the sketchbook heavier than ever against her side.Theo poured two glasses of brandy and handed her one without a word. His fingers brushed hers as she took it. They didn’t speak for a moment, just listened. To the pop of embers. To the hush in the corners of the room that felt too deep.“Did you ever think the house was… alive?” Sloane asked, voice low.Theo took a slow sip, then sat beside her. Not too close. But not far.“Not alive,” he said. “Just aware.”She nodded, absently, eyes fixed on the fire. “When I started writing The Crimson Letter, I thought it was fiction. I had no outline, no plan. The words came all at once like they already existed.”“And then it disappeared,” Theo said.“Yes.” Her jaw tensed. “It wasn’t just stolen. I think… it wanted to be los

A narrow draft curled down the back of Sloane’s neck as she stepped away from the wall, pulse still caught between disbelief and recognition. The room seemed smaller now, as if sensing its discovery and retreating inward. Theo stood beside the sealed door, his brow drawn, hands grazing the edge of the wood as though he could will it open again.Theo tried the door again.Nothing.No resistance. No lock. Just absence. Where an opening had been moments ago, now stood smooth wall, seamless and unmoved.“It closed behind us,” Sloane said, voice low. Not frightened. Observant.Theo ran his hand along the wood paneling, jaw tense. “No mechanism.”“Or none we’re meant to find.”They stood in the hush, the house listening.Then Sloane’s gaze shifted to the opposite wall. Her hand brushed along the baseboard until it knocked against something hollow.Theo stepped beside her, crouched. “There.”A faint line, almost imperceptible. He pressed the edge and a narrow panel popped open with a quiet c