Chapter 2 The Door That Wasn't There

I didn't scream.

Mostly because my body had forgotten how.

I stood in the darkness, one hand gripping the edge of my nightdress, staring at the hallway where the voice had come from.

You're not supposed to be here yet.

Yet.

That was the word that bothered me.

Not here.

Not who are you?

Yet.

As if whoever was behind that door had been waiting for me.

I swallowed.

"Who's there?"

Silence.

Then—

Click.

A light came on at the far end of the corridor.

Not all the lights.

Just one.

A small wall lamp flickering weakly above a painting I hadn't noticed before.

There was no one beneath it.

I took one step forward.

The floor creaked.

"Miss Vale?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

Mrs. Reyes appeared around the corner holding a candle.

Her hair was loose.

I'd never seen her hair loose before.

She looked at me.

Then she looked past me.

Her face changed.

"Go back to your room."

"Who was that?"

"Nobody."

"I heard someone."

"You heard the house."

"The house said my name?"

Her jaw tightened.

"Please."

That stopped me.

Not because she had answered me.

Because she hadn't.

I looked down the corridor again.

The door to the west wing was supposed to be at the end of the hall.

I had seen it during the day.

Tall double doors.

Black wood.

Brass handles.

Now there was only a wall.

I blinked.

"Where's the door?"

Mrs. Reyes went completely still.

"What door?"

"The west wing."

She stared at me for several seconds.

Then she walked toward me and took my arm.

"Come."

"Mrs. Reyes—"

"Now."

There was something in her voice that made me obey.

She pulled me back toward my room.

But before I stepped inside, I looked over my shoulder one last time.

The hallway was empty.

No west-wing door.

No mysterious stranger.

No piano.

Just an old painting hanging crookedly on the wall.

I knew that painting hadn't been there earlier.

A woman stood in the portrait.

She wore a black dress.

Her hair was pinned high.

And around her neck hung a silver necklace shaped like a crescent moon.

I stared at her face.

She looked strangely familiar.

"Don't look at it."

Mrs. Reyes shut my door.

I turned.

"Why?"

She locked it.

"Because."

"That's not an answer."

"It is the only one you're getting."

She slipped the key into her pocket.

I stared at her.

"You locked me in?"

"For your safety."

"From what?"

Her expression softened.

"From curiosity."

Then she left.

I stood alone in my room.

For several minutes, I listened to her footsteps disappear.

Then I checked the lock.

It was definitely locked from the outside.

"Great," I whispered.

"Excellent first week."

I sat on the edge of my bed.

My hands were shaking.

I hated that.

Fear was expensive.

It made people stupid.

And I couldn't afford to be stupid.

Not anymore.

My mother's hospital balance was already overdue.

My brother had called that afternoon asking whether I could send his tuition money by Friday.

This job paid more than anything I'd had before.

I couldn't lose it because an old mansion had a creepy hallway and apparently enjoyed psychological warfare.

I reached for my phone.

No signal.

Of course.

"Perfect."

I threw myself backward onto the bed.

Then I heard it.

Three knocks.

Not on my bedroom door.

Under my bed.

I stopped moving.

One.

Two.

Three.

I stared at the floor.

Nothing.

My heart began beating harder.

I told myself it was the pipes.

Old houses made noises.

Pipes.

Wood.

Wind.

Animals.

Definitely animals.

Then something scratched the underside of the bed.

Slowly.

Once.

Twice.

I sat up.

"No."

The scratching stopped.

I waited.

Nothing.

I laughed nervously.

"Okay, Serena. You're officially losing it."

I got up.

I was going to sleep.

Tomorrow morning, I would hand in my resignation.

Find another job.

Maybe work somewhere normal.

A hotel.

An office.

A place without secret wings and talking portraits.

I reached for the bathroom door.

It opened by itself.

I froze.

The bathroom was empty.

I stared at the door.

Then at the mirror.

There was something written across the glass.

Three words.

HE REMEMBERS YOU.

My stomach dropped.

I stepped closer.

The writing looked like lipstick.

Red.

Fresh.

I touched the mirror.

Still wet.

"Who?"

The bathroom door slammed behind me.

I spun around.

And in the mirror—

someone was standing behind me.

A man.

Tall.

Dark-haired.

His face was hidden in shadow.

I turned.

Nobody.

I looked back.

The mirror was empty.

Except for the words.

HE REMEMBERS YOU.

I backed away.

Then I heard a voice directly beside my ear.

"You really should learn to listen."

I screamed.

The bedroom door flew open.

Lucien stood there.

Barefoot.

His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, his hair slightly disheveled.

For the first time since I'd met him, he looked genuinely alarmed.

His eyes went immediately to the bathroom.

Then to me.

"What happened?"

I pointed at the mirror.

He looked.

His expression hardened.

The words were gone.

Only my reflection remained.

Lucien walked toward the mirror.

He touched the glass.

His fingers paused.

"Who wrote this?"

"I don't know."

"Did anyone come into your room?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

He looked at me.

"Did you hear anything?"

I hesitated.

Then I remembered the voice.

"You."

His brow furrowed.

"I heard your voice."

"I was downstairs."

"No."

"I was."

"You said I should learn to listen."

His expression changed.

Just slightly.

"I didn't say that."

I stared at him.

Neither of us spoke.

Then Lucien looked toward the bedroom door.

His voice dropped.

"Stay here."

I almost laughed.

"That's what everyone keeps telling me."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

He stepped closer.

"Serena."

Something about the way he said my name made my stomach twist.

Not fear.

Something worse.

Recognition.

As if he had been saying my name long before tonight.

"How do you know my full name?"

He went still.

I watched his face.

For the first time, Lucien Blackwood looked like a man who had been caught lying.

"I never told you my middle name," I said.

"You don't have a middle name."

I stared at him.

"What?"

He didn't answer.

I stepped closer.

"My mother chose my name."

"I know."

My chest tightened.

"How?"

Silence.

Then he said quietly,

"Because I knew your mother."

Everything inside me went cold.

"My mother?"

He looked away.

"When?"

"Years ago."

"Where?"

"Here."

I shook my head.

"That's impossible."

"Why?"

"Because my mother has never been to this house."

Lucien looked at me.

"No."

His voice was barely above a whisper.

"She lived here."

I couldn't breathe.

He walked toward the door.

I caught his wrist.

"Wait."

He stopped.

Neither of us moved.

His skin was warm beneath my fingers.

For one second, neither of us seemed to notice that I was still holding him.

Then his eyes dropped to my hand.

I let go.

"Tell me the truth."

He looked at me for a long time.

Then he said something that made the entire room feel smaller.

"Your mother didn't leave this house, Serena."

He opened the door.

"She disappeared."

And before I could ask what he meant, the piano began playing again.

This time, the melody was one I knew.

A lullaby.

The same lullaby my mother used to sing when I was a child.

Lucien's face went pale.

"That's impossible."

The music continued.

Soft.

Slow.

Almost tender.

Then, from somewhere inside the walls, a woman began singing along.

My mother's voice.

And she sang the name she hadn't called me since I was seven years old.

"Serena..."

Lucien grabbed my hand.

"Don't answer her."

But it was already too late.

Because the voice whispered again—

"Come find me."