CURSED HOUSE

Elena – POV

"You want the key to my brother’s mansion?” Damien asked, one brow arching in suspicion as he leaned against the doorframe of his office.

I met his gaze, unreadable. “Yes.”

He studied me for a moment. I didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just waited.

“Why?”

I shrugged, pretending I didn’t care more than I did. “To get information. How else am I supposed to uncover the truth?”

He didn’t say anything at first. The silence between us stretched long enough to make the walls feel smaller. But then, wordlessly, he turned to his desk, pulled open the drawer, and tossed the key toward me.

I caught it midair.

“Thanks,” I said simply.

As I turned to go, I paused. “Also… can I take your car?”

That earned me a slow, suspicious glance. “Gas tank’s full. Don’t crash it.”

I smirked. “Wouldn’t dare.”

I left his room with the cold metal key pressed into my palm. I didn’t know what I’d find at Lucas’s house if anything but I needed to try. Time was bleeding out fast, and I wasn’t about to waste it sitting in the shadows while the truth danced just out of reach.

It felt surreal, being back in my own room again after so many nights cooped up in the appliance room like a forgotten housecat. The warm bed, clean sheets, and soft lighting felt like a luxury hotel compared to where I had been. No more leaking pipes. No more damp walls. No more pretending to be invisible in my own hell.

And no more Damien at my throat.

At least for now.

By late afternoon, I was in his car, fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary as I navigated toward the outskirts of town where the Blackwood estate gave way to open land, old stone, and silence.

Lucas’s mansion stood like a monument of isolation. Abandoned. Forgotten. Ivy crept up the sides of its walls, and the windows, once grand, looked like empty eyes staring back at me. The gate creaked open with a protest, the wind rustling the dead leaves that carpeted the long driveway.

I parked the car and stepped out, the keys jangling in my hand. Every step toward the front door felt heavier than the last. Like something or someone was watching.

The key turned with a groan, and the door gave way with a hollow thud.

Inside, it was exactly what I’d imagined. Maybe worse.

Cobwebs hung from the ceiling corners like silent witnesses to the years gone by. Dust floated in the beams of dying sunlight slipping through the grimy windows. Furniture stood shrouded in white cloths like ghosts frozen mid-conversation.

I took a step forward, then another.

Creak.

The floor groaned beneath my boots.

I heard a scuffle a small, rapid movement and froze.

Then something darted across the hallway.

I screamed, stumbling backwards, heart racing.

“Shit!” I hissed, hand over my chest. It was a rat. Just a rat.

Then, just to spite me, the damn thing ran across again, this time inches from my foot.

I screamed again, louder.

This house was cursed. Definitely cursed.

But I didn’t come here to be scared away by vermin.

I moved deeper inside and I found the library on the second floor, tucked behind an unmarked door in the east wing. The door creaked open to reveal rows of dusty books, shelves sagging under the weight of time and secrets.

I stepped in slowly, careful not to disturb too much at once. Dust coated everything. The smell of old paper, mildew, and forgotten ink hit me like a wave.

I moved toward the back corner of the room, scanning for anything that might stand out.

Then I saw it partially obscured by a fallen tapestry. A small safe box embedded into the wall behind a cracked shelf.

My pulse kicked up.

I pulled the shelf away and knelt, examining the dial. It wasn’t locked. Just closed.

Which meant someone either didn’t care to hide it… or wanted someone to find it eventually.

I opened it carefully.

Inside were paper letters, to be exact. Neatly bundled, yellowed at the edges, but intact.

My hands trembled slightly as I pulled them out, walked over to the nearest chair, dusted it off with my sleeve, and sat.

 To go through them one by one.

The letters had no names on them. No sender. No recipient. But the handwriting was familiar. Too familiar.

Every word was tense. Emotional. Filled with hidden meanings and confessions written like they were meant to be burned.

Then I found a stack of photographs.

One in particular made my breath catch.

Lucas… and Damien.

They looked younger. Laughing. Standing on the balcony of the Blackwood estate, arms over each other’s shoulders like brothers who hadn’t yet learned to betray or hurt or destroy. There was a gentleness in Lucas’s eyes I hadn’t seen in any portrait, and something oddly human about Damien his smile, relaxed and carefree.

I didn’t know I was crying until a tear hit the edge of the photo.

My throat tightened.

That wasn’t the Damien I knew now.

And that wasn’t the Lucas who’d been found dead in a pool of blood with me beside him, blamed for it all.

I wiped my face and pushed the photos aside, grabbing the bundle of letters at the bottom of the pile. These weren’t bundled tightly like the others. They were loose, written in different inks and on thinner paper.

I opened the first one.

Read the first few lines.

And froze.

My hands gripped the page, my eyes wide. The words weren’t addressed to anyone, but they mentioned secret meetings, coded exchanges, and a plan buried beneath lies. What truly froze me was the name scribbled halfway down one that didn’t belong in any of this. And then, folded between the pages, a photo fell out. I picked it up, heart racing. No… it couldn’t be. The face staring back at me didn’t align with anything I thought I knew. It shattered the timeline, the truth everything. It was a confession letter. And at the bottom, one name was signed. “Charlotte,” I whispered.