The Door Behind the Wall

I should have run. Any sensible person would have slammed the wall shut and prayed it stayed that way.

But curiosity isn’t sensible, and I’d travelled too far to stop at a whisper.

“Where are you?” I called.

The voice came again—smooth, low, threaded with amusement.

“Closer than you think.”

I stepped toward the crack. The air that leaked through was colder than the room behind me and smelled faintly of rain on iron. The seam widened a little, just enough to let me see candlelight glinting off stone steps that spiralled down.

“Evelyn,” the voice coaxed. “You wanted truth.”

My candle sputtered but held. I told myself that if the stairs led nowhere, I could always come back. That lie was enough to move my feet.

The passage was narrow, carved straight into the mountain’s bone. Each step sank deeper into cold. The walls breathed faintly, the same slow rhythm I’d felt last night—the pulse of the house itself.

After a dozen turns, the passage opened into a chamber lit by three thin candles. At its centre stood a tall mirror framed in black wood, its glass so dark it looked like a pool of still water.

Dracula stood before it.

He didn’t turn as I entered. “The house wanted to show you this,” he said. “She likes to share her secrets when she’s jealous.”

“Jealous of what?”

“Of your questions.” He turned then, eyes reflecting the candlelight like garnet. “You ask as if you expect answers. Most who come here only want stories.”

“Stories don’t frighten me,” I said.

“I know. That’s why you’re dangerous.”

He walked once around the mirror, hands clasped behind his back. “Every guest hears her eventually. Some run. Some listen. A few… stay.”

His gaze flicked to mine. “Which will you be?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Good. Certainty is the death of discovery.”

I tried to keep my voice steady. “Is this where you sleep?”

A hint of amusement curved his mouth. “No. I do not rest here. I watch.”

He lifted his hand; the mirror shimmered like disturbed water. Images flickered: the great hall, the library, a narrow stair. Then—the chamber I was standing in, but empty.

“It shows me what the house sees,” he said. “Sometimes it shows me more.”

“And now?”

“Now it shows me you.”

The reflection shifted until my face stared back at me, pale and startled. Behind me, he moved closer until his outline merged with mine in the glass. The candlelight caught his features—not monstrous, but too precise, as though he’d been drawn by someone who loved every line of him a little too much.

“Why does it do that?” I whispered.

“Because it knows what I want,” he said quietly. “And it hopes to give it to me.”

His breath brushed the side of my throat. I turned before I could stop myself, almost colliding with him. For a heartbeat we stood like that—close enough that I could count the faint gold flecks in his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured.

“You asked me to stay inside the library.”

“I said stay inside the room,” he corrected. “You never listen.”

“Would you prefer I obeyed?”

“No,” he said, and the word came out like a confession.

He reached toward my face, stopped an inch away, and let his fingers fall. “Not tonight.”

The mirror darkened again. A faint tremor passed through the floor—like the house shifting in its sleep. Dracula’s expression sharpened. “She’s waking.”

“The house?”

He nodded once. “You should go. Before she remembers you’re not hers.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I will keep her attention.” His tone softened. “Go, Evelyn. Please.”

It was the first time he’d used please.

The passage closed behind me with a sigh, leaving me in the library’s half-light. My hands shook as I set the candle down. The door I’d entered was gone, smooth stone once more. Only the scent of resin and roses lingered.

“Evelyn?” a voice called—Elias’s this time.

I jumped. He stood in the doorway, eyes scanning the room until they found me. “You’re pale.”

“I found a passage,” I said. “And him.”

Elias’s expression darkened. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I didn’t plan to.”

“You never do.” He came closer, lowering his voice. “He’ll make you believe the danger is only in the dark. It isn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“The house changes when you’re with him. It listens harder.” He looked at the shelves, then back at me. “If it whispers again, promise me you won’t follow.”

I hesitated. “Why do you care?”

Something unreadable crossed his face. “Because I’ve seen what happens when he cares.”

Before I could answer, a clock somewhere above struck once. Elias’s shoulders stiffened. “Dawn,” he said. “He’ll be gone soon. Rest while you can.”

He left me with the echo of footsteps fading down the corridor. I stood there until the last flame in the library guttered out.

I must have dozed in the chair, because when I opened my eyes, daylight filled the room. For a moment everything seemed harmless—the shelves, the dust, the faint smell of coffee someone had left on the table. Then I saw the mirror.

It leaned against the far wall, black frame, dark glass, just as it had been in the chamber below. Only now it stood here, in the library, where it hadn’t been before.

I crossed the room slowly. My reflection swam into view: tired eyes, hair loose, candle soot on my fingers. Behind me, the door remained shut. Nothing moved.

I reached out.

The glass was cold, colder than stone. A ripple ran through it at my touch, faint as breath. I jerked my hand back.

Across the surface, words bloomed in pale silver script—as if written from inside the mirror itself.

Don’t trust the servant.

My pulse stuttered. “Elias?” I whispered. “What are you—”

The letters vanished. The glass cleared. My reflection looked back at me, wide-eyed and alone.

Then, faintly, from somewhere deep in the castle, the violin began to play again.

And underneath the music, almost lost to it, another voice whispered:

“He’s already chosen you.”