Chapter 6: Watchers in the walls

Back in her room, Camela waited until he left. Then she searched the attic again, this time with purpose. The key trembled in her hand—perhaps it was her hand that was shaking. She stood before the heavy wooden door at the end of the hall, the same one Vincent had told her never to open, the one that never seemed to belong.

She turned the key slowly.

Click.

The door creaked open.

The room was dim, brightened by a single flickering bulb from the ceiling. She stepped inside, barefoot.

Behind the photos, she found a small locked box, and the same key opened it. Inside was a letter, old and torn, dated ten years ago.

“To whoever finds this—”

“He lies. Vincent Castellano is not a prince. He is a cage in human skin.”

“I was the first bride. My name is Anna. If you’re reading this, he thinks he owns you too.”

“There’s a door under the wine cellar. That’s where the real secrets live.”

Camela dropped the letter.

She whispered, “Anna…” and froze.

Rows of dresses filled the room—not just wedding dresses, but red ones, black ones, and torn ones. A mirror covered with a white cloth stood in the center. She pulled it off.

And screamed.

Her reflection looked back, but it wasn’t quite her. The girl in the mirror wore her face, eyes, and body, but blood was on her hands and a smile on her lips.

Camela stepped back, heart racing. The mirror fogged up, as if it had exhaled. Then a single word appeared in the glass, written as if from the inside:

RUN.

“Who’s doing this?” she whispered, touching the glass.

It felt cold. Real.

She turned to leave—quickly— and slammed into Vincent.

He didn’t speak at first; he just stared at her.

Camela’s voice came out cracked. “What is that room?”

“It’s just a memory,” he said.

“Of what? Your other brides?” Her hands were shaking. “Tell me!”

Vincent didn’t flinch. “They weren’t like you,” he said.

“Because they died?” she asked bitterly.

He paused. “I never touched them like I touch you.”

“That’s not comfort,” she snapped, her voice rising.

He stepped closer. “Do you want to leave, Camela?”

“You already asked that,” she hissed.

“And you’re still here,” he replied. “You still want to know more.”

She slapped him.

He didn’t stop her.

Then she stomped out of the attic.

Midnight came.

The house slept, or pretended to. Camela snuck down into the wine cellar. Her bare feet made no sound on the stone steps. She found it—the trapdoor under the old wine rack, hidden beneath a rug.

It creaked open.

Cold air hit her face, and the smell struck first—dust, something metallic… and something else, sweet, rotting.

She climbed down.

Stone walls, Iron bars.

It wasn’t a cellar; It was a dungeon.

Chairs with straps. A tray of syringes, and old dried blood on the floor. She swallowed a scream.

Then she heard it—footsteps above. Someone was coming.

She turned to climb back up, slammed the trapdoor shut, and hurried back to her room in the Castle.

Whispers.

Scratch. Scratch. Pause. Scratch again.

The sound came from behind the wall, just above the headboard. Camela sat up quickly in her bed, holding her breath.

Not a rat. Not a pipe. Too slow. Too steady.

She reached for the lamp on the nightstand. Nothing. Power was out again, or cut off. The room glowed only from the full moonlight spilling through the tall windows.

She whispered, “Who’s there?”

Silence.

She pushed the blankets off and walked toward the wall. The sound had stopped.

I’m not crazy. I heard it.

She placed her palm against the cold wallpaper. It felt still, lifeless. But deep inside, she could feel something… listening.

Camela shot up in bed, heart pounding. The room was quiet, but not silent. Something shifted behind the wall near her headboard.

“Hello?” she whispered, hugging her blanket tighter.

The whispers stopped.

She waited. Nothing.

Her eyes darted to the wall. She got out of bed, knees weak, and pressed her ear against the paneling.

Nothing.

Then—

Knock. Knock.

She screamed and stumbled back.

The door flew open.

Vincent stood there, shirtless, his eyes dark. “What happened?”

“There’s—there’s something in the wall,” she said.

Vincent’s eyes flicked to the panel. “Dreams again?”

“No. I heard it. It knocked.”

He stepped in, walked to the wall, and ran his hand over it slowly.

“Nothing’s here.”

“You think I’m crazy?” she asked.

He turned to her, eyes calm but sharp. “I think this house is full of ghosts, and some of them live in your head.”

Then he left.

“Vincent!” Camela’s voice echoed down the hallway the next morning. She stormed past the housemaids, who quickly looked away. No one made eye contact in this house.

She found him in the parlor, pouring himself a glass of red wine at 9 a.m.

“You called for me, dove?” he asked smoothly, not looking up.

“There’s someone behind the walls,” she said.

He smiled without warmth. “Are we chasing ghosts now?”

“I’m serious. I heard it last night. Scratching. Like something crawling behind my room.”

He walked over and handed her the glass of wine. “Drink this. You’re shaken.”

“I don’t want wine—”

“Drink it.” His tone dropped an octave.

Camela stared at him, trembling slightly. She took the glass but didn’t sip.

Vincent sat across from her, crossing his legs. “This house is old. The walls shift. Rats live better than kings in homes like this.”

“Then check it,” she said firmly.

“I will send someone,” he replied, sipping slowly. “But first, I have a gift for you.”

Camela blinked. “A gift?”

“Yes. To show there’s nothing to fear. Come.”

Vincent led her down the hall to a locked room she had never been inside. He opened the door with a gold key from his pocket.

Inside was a grand library—books from floor to ceiling, soft leather chairs, and a piano covered in dust.

In the center sat a cage, and a white dove fluttered inside. Its wings were tucked tightly and its eyes black and still.

“You can name her,” Vincent said softly.

Camela took a step back. “You gave me… a bird?”

He nodded. “So you won’t feel alone. She’ll watch over you. Sing for you.”

Camela looked at the cage. The bird was silent. “Does she ever make a sound?”

Vincent’s smile sharpened. “Only when she wants something.”

That morning, Camela found Maria scrubbing the hallway near her door.

“Maria,” she whispered. “Do you ever hear sounds in this house?”

The maid looked up quickly. “What kind of sounds?”

“Voices. Footsteps. Knocking behind the walls.”

Maria’s hand froze on the mop handle. “Don’t listen to them,” she said softly. “Don’t answer.”

Camela blinked. “You hear them too?”

Maria looked around, lowered her voice. “This house… It’s not just big. It’s alive. Some rooms listen. Some walls watch.”

“That’s not possible.”

“Then why don’t you try sleeping tonight with the lights off?” Maria asked.

Camela felt a chill.

Maria leaned in. “Whatever you do, never knock back.”

That night, Camela sat on the floor near the wall again. No sounds yet.

She turned off the light herself this time.

She waited.

Minutes passed. Then—click.

The sound was faint, but there. Her head whipped toward the wardrobe. She saw the corner of it move slightly.

Heart racing, she got up and pulled the heavy wooden cabinet forward.

Behind it was a square cut into the wall—just large enough for a person to slip through. Her fingers shook as she ran along the edge. It was real.

No lock. No handle.

But then—scratch—again from inside. Closer this time.

The next day, Camela couldn’t stop thinking about it. She searched the wall where she had heard the knocking.

Camela pushed on the wall. Nothing. Then, she pressed harder with her shoulder. A small panel slid open, revealing a narrow tunnel behind the wall and dusty, opening into pitch darkness.

She grabbed a flashlight.

Inside was barely wide enough to crawl. The wood creaked under her palms.

She followed the path. It twisted left, right, down.

Behind her, the panel closed with a soft click.

“Okay,” she whispered to herself. “Just look. Then get out.”

She crawled slowly, her hands tracing the walls. She could barely see. She thought she heard movement ahead—soft, like cloth sliding over stone.

She passed vents that peeked into other rooms.

She turned a corner and saw faint light from a crack in the wood. She leaned close.

One vent looked straight into her bedroom. It was her bedroom. A peephole.

Someone could’ve been watching her every night. Someone had been watching.

Her breath caught.

Then she saw something else—

A torn ribbon.

Her wedding veil.

Camela kept crawling.

She reached another small room—bare walls, scratched floors.

A mattress lay on the ground.

And drawings—hundreds—on the walls.

All of her.

Some showed her brushing her hair, sleeping, crying, and undressing.

She dropped the flashlight.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.”

A photo pinned in the center caught her eye.

It was her, on her first night here.

She never knew that photo was taken.

Then—

A breath.

Not hers.

She turned the flashlight around.

Someone was standing at the other end of the passage.

Watching her.

She screamed and crawled backward, faster, scraping her knees.

The watcher didn’t move.

She reached the start of the tunnel and pushed the wall panel.

It didn’t open.

She pounded on it. “Open! Please—!”

Silence.

The tunnel behind her was empty now.

No footsteps. No voices.

Just silence.

She waited.

Then the whisper came again, this time next to her ear.

“Knock three times… if you want him to find you.”

Camela froze.

Her hands trembled above the wooden panel.

“No.”

More whispering from inside the walls—hundreds of voices laughing, crying, calling her name.

Camela screamed.

A hand covered her mouth.

“Shhh,” the voice whispered in her ear. “He’s watching too.”

Darkness swallowed them both.