Chapter 55: The Touch That Owns

The fall seemed never-ending. Cold and thick air rushed around them, accompanied by threads. Camela held Vincent’s hand tightly as the silk crown pressed against her head while her gown dragged like heavy chains. His fire flickered, but the deep red darkness consumed every spark.

“Vincent!” Her scream strained her throat.

“I’ve got you…hold on…” His voice faltered, then suddenly the world slammed them down.

Not into stone. Not into silk.

But wood.

Camela's cheek slammed against something solid—splintered floorboards, dust swirled up in a choking cloud. Her body throbbed with pain, yet there were no cuts or broken bones. She blinked and coughed to clear her throat.

It appeared to be—a hallway.

They were wallpaper peeling in strips, with faded roses curling at the edges. A lamp sat crooked on a small table, its shade leaning with its bulb unlit. Windows lined one side, casting grey light through grimy curtains.

The air was thick with the smell of mildew, roses long dead, and something faintly sweet—like perfume that had lingered too long.

Vincent pushed himself up, his fire dimming as embers clung to his hands. He panted heavily while scanning the walls.

“This isn’t the mansion,” he whispered.

Camela slowly sat up, brushing dust off her gown. “Then where are we?” she asked.

Silence enveloped them in response. No sounds of life or wind—only a stillness that pressed heavily against her chest.

And then—

Tick.

They both froze in place.

Camela's gaze shot to a crooked clock nailed to the wall; its hands pointed at midnight. The tick echoed loudly—too loud for a clock that didn’t seem to move at all.

Vincent growled softly as he stepped closer to inspect it. “It’s a trick,” he said.

Camela shivered while standing beside him as she spoke. “It feels…different somehow…like home.”

He looked at her quizzically. “Your home?” he asked.

Yes, the peeling wallpaper with the faded roses was the same as in her childhood home. She remembered the lamp that used to stand by her father's chair and the curtains that her mother had sewn before she left.

Her lips parted, quivering as she spoke. "This isn’t real," she murmured.

Vincent's jaw clenched tightly as he responded. "No, it isn’t. And that makes it even worse."

Together, they walked down the hallway. Each step creaked as the floorboards sagged beneath them.

Camela grasped his sleeve tightly, her eyes darting around at the walls and the crooked photographs hanging up. Suddenly, she stopped in her tracks.

"Vincent…look," she whispered, giving a signal.

He turned to see what she was pointing at. His fire glowed a dim red against the photographs on the wall. At first glance, they appeared to be ordinary sepia-toned portraits in cheap frames. But as Camela focused on them, her heart raced with fear.

It was her face staring back at her. Every picture portrayed Camela—her as a child, a teenager, and in her wedding gown.

But something was off about the eyes—too wide, too hungry. In one photo, her mouth curled into a smile she had never made before.

"That’s not me," her voice trembled.

Vincent wrapped his arm around her shoulders protectively. "No, it isn’t." His gaze darkened further. "She’s trying to pull you into this place…to make you think you’ve always belonged here."

With shaking hands, Camela reached out toward one of the photos, her fingertip hovering just above the glass—

Then it moved.

Her double in the picture blinked.

Camela flinched back with a gasp, causing the frame to rattle violently as the entire hallway vibrated around them.

From the ceiling above, threads slipped down—fine and nearly invisible until they brushed against Camela’s arm.

She flinched and swatted at them, but the silk clung to her skin. It felt warm and faintly pulsing.

Vincent grabbed hold of it, his fire flaring up again and burning it to ash. His voice boomed through the space and shook the floor beneath their feet.

"Stay behind me," he said fiercely.

But more threads continued to fall slowly like drifting spider silk, brushing against her gown, hair, and wrist. Each touch sent shivers across her skin—not from pain but from an unsettling warmth.

Her breath hitched as she said softly, “Vincent…it feels…”

His fire blazed fiercely, burning everything in its path. His gaze was fixed on hers. “Don’t pay attention to it.”

Her legs felt weak. The threads didn’t just burn; they whispered to her. In her head. In her chest. “You're stunning in silk. You're safe. You're mine.”

She faltered and said, “She’s here.”

Vincent steadied her grip and lowered his voice sharply. “No. I’m here. Focus on me.”

Her wide eyes met his, and for a moment, the whispers faded.

And then a laugh sounded—smooth and low, echoing from the wall:

“You can’t burn touch, fox.”

They moved forward quickly, Vincent pulling her by the hand as his fire sliced through every falling thread.

At the end of the hallway stood a door.

Vincent flung it open—only to reveal another hallway with the same wallpaper and crooked lamp.

Camela gasped. “No. We just passed this,” he muttered.

He marched ahead, pulling her with him. Another door awaited them. Another hallway.

She turned, with panic in her eyes. “Vincent…we’re trapped! It’s the same place repeating.”

His jaw tightened as flames roared down his arm. He punched the nearest wall, causing the wallpaper to peel and the wood to splinter. For a brief moment, they caught a glimpse of outside—a gray sky with rain pouring down.

But when the wall closed again, it wasn’t raining. It was silk threads pressed against the window as if the whole house floated within a sea of them.

Camela covered her mouth in fear, trembling. “She wrapped the house,” she said.

Vincent's voice was low and bitter. “No, she is the house,” he responded.

They halted in the middle of the hallway as Camela's breath trembled.

“Vincent…she doesn’t want to kill us here,” she whispered, looking around.

He glanced down at her sharply. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Her hand rested on his chest, quivering as she replied. “She wants to keep us like dolls…that’s why everything feels so soft, like it’s waiting for me to say yes.”

His fire flickered for a moment. He reached out and gently brushed the dust from her cheek, with a tenderness that almost stung. “You won’t say yes. You’re not hers.”

Her lips quivered. “But she’s inside me. I can feel her when the threads touch me.”

His hand wrapped around hers, rough yet strong. “Then I’ll burn every thread until there's nothing left.”

Before she could respond, the lights began to flicker. The lamps on either side of the hallway buzzed to life, with their yellow glow shaking.

From the end of the hall—voices erupted.

Ordinary voices. Laughter and the sound of silverware clinking together.

Camela felt her stomach drop. “No.”

They moved slowly toward the sound, the light guiding them to a slightly open door.

Vincent nudged it open with his shoulder, his fire flickering and ready for a fight.

And then he froze.

It was a dining room.

A long wooden table stretched down the center, covered in a white cloth with gleaming plates and half-filled wine glasses. The scent of roasted meat and sweet bread drifted in the air.

Chairs surrounded the table—with each occupied.

Camela's breath caught in her throat. Her father was there, Mayor Siegel, raising a glass to a toast. Her mother, who had left years ago, sat across from him with a soft smile. Neighbors, cousins—familiar faces from her past, all were seated, all smiling and waiting for something to begin.

And at the head of the table—

Camela.

Perfect Camela. Her silk gown shimmered, her crown sparkled, and her smile was warm as if she had always belonged there. She looked up and locked eyes with them.

“Stop running,” she said sweetly. “Dinner is served.”

Vincent pulled Camela closer to his chest as his fire crackled up his arm, his voice trembling. “That’s not you.”

The double tilted her head and folded her hands gracefully. “But it could be. Sit down, Vincent. Sit beside your bride; this is where you belong.”

Camela's nails dug into his sleeve urgently. “Don’t listen to her,” she whispered.

But his fire wavered and began to fade, because the other Camela's smile wasn’t cruel. It was warm and welcoming.

The clinking sound of cutlery rang as everyone at the table turned slowly, in perfect unison—toward the real Camela. Their eyes shone bright red.

And the double stretched out her hand directly towards Vincent’s chair.

“Sit,” she said softly.

The lamps buzzed. The walls trembled.

And the door behind them slammed shut.