The veil Between
Chapter 6 – The Veil Between
Ava Carter – POV
Damon stood beside my bed, his chest rising and falling as if he'd sprinted up the stairs. The sharp scent of his cologne cut through the panic, grounding me for half a second—but only half.
"She was there," I whispered. My voice cracked, breath hitching. "Outside the window. She smiled at me."
He didn’t speak immediately. Just stared at me with that unreadable expression. Not disbelief. Not concern.
Something colder.
"You're not safe here," I said, still backing away even as my knees trembled. "You knew about this. You know what's going on."
He didn’t deny it.
Instead, he crossed the room and shut the curtains. “You’re letting the house get to you.”
“I’m not hallucinating. Damon—” I choked on his name. “I heard whispers. They said my name. Then she appeared.”
He turned to me slowly. “Describe her.”
I blinked. “What?”
“The woman. What did she look like?”
“Dark hair. White gown. Pale skin. Her smile was—” I shivered. “Wrong. Like she knew me. Like she wanted me to see her.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He ran a hand through his hair and looked away for a moment before muttering under his breath, “It’s starting again.”
I heard it.
“You do know her,” I accused.
He finally met my gaze. “There are things about this house, this family, that don’t make sense to outsiders. I didn’t want to drag you into this.”
“Too late.”
Silence wrapped around us. Even the fire had died down, casting the room in a chilled gloom.
Then, he said something that made my blood run cold.
“She chose you.”
The next morning passed like a blur.
Margaret was careful around me—offering a smile too tight, glancing too often. She didn’t ask what happened last night, but her eyes told me she already knew.
I barely touched my breakfast. My hands were still trembling.
The memory of that face—so eerily similar to Emilia's—wouldn’t leave me. And Damon’s words haunted me more than the humming or whispers ever could.
She chose you.
Who was she?
Why me?
After dressing, I found Emilia again in the playroom. She was painting this time, smearing reds and blacks across the canvas in sharp, chaotic swipes. There was something wild in her movements—like she was trying to trap something on the canvas and kill it.
I approached carefully. “Emilia?”
She didn’t look up. “She’s angry.”
“Who is?”
“The lady in white.” Her voice was flat. Robotic. “You opened her door.”
A chill spidered up my arms. “What happens now?”
“She watches.”
I swallowed. “From where?”
Emilia finally turned toward me. Her eyes were too knowing for a child’s. “Everywhere.”
I sat beside her, not even pretending to ignore the pounding in my chest. “Do you know her name?”
She hesitated. “She doesn’t have one anymore. It was taken.”
“By who?”
She didn’t answer.
Just dipped her brush in black and painted long, streaky lines over the canvas, burying the red beneath them.
Later that day, I did what any rational person would consider insane.
I went back into the hidden passage.
Armed with a flashlight and my phone, I pried the door open and stepped inside. Dust choked the air. The cold was sharper now. The silence—deeper.
But something about it called to me.
The corridor twisted in ways I didn’t recall from before. Or maybe I hadn’t noticed, too panicked the first time. Either way, I pressed forward, heart in my throat.
When I reached the room again, the porcelain doll was gone.
I froze at the doorway.
The bed was still there. The vanity. But on the wall, scrawled in thick black ink, was a new message.
YOU SEE HER NOW
I staggered back, nearly tripping over a loose floorboard.
I didn’t scream.
I couldn’t.
Something in me had shifted. It wasn’t just fear anymore.
It was awareness.
I wasn’t imagining this. And whatever she was—spirit, memory, curse—she had seen me, too.
That night, I tried to confront Damon again.
He was in the study, sipping something dark from a crystal glass. Firelight painted his face in shadows, making him look older. Harsher.
I stood in the doorway until he acknowledged me.
“You went back,” he said without turning.
I stepped inside. “You knew I would.”
He nodded slowly. “You remind her of someone.”
I flinched. “Who?”
“My wife.”
The world tilted for a second.
“You never mentioned a wife,” I said, voice hollow.
“She died five years ago.” His tone was careful, practiced. “Emilia doesn’t remember much. It’s better that way.”
I moved closer, needing more. “How did she die?”
He looked at me then. Really looked. And what I saw there wasn’t grief.
It was guilt.
“There are truths that don’t heal when spoken,” he said. “They only spread.”
“Try me,” I said, echoing my words from before.
He stared at his drink, swirling it once. “She changed after Emilia was born. Heard things. Saw things. Claimed the house was alive. That something was watching her.”
I didn’t speak.
“She... stopped sleeping. Started walking the halls at night. Humming. Talking to the walls. Eventually, I had her moved to the east wing, where she could be supervised. But she escaped one night.”
He swallowed hard.
“They found her in that hidden room. Rocking a doll. Whispering the same words over and over again.”
I already knew what he was going to say.
“She never left.”
My blood froze.
“What happened after that?” I asked.
“She vanished. The room was sealed. No trace of her was ever found.”
“She’s still here,” I said. “Isn’t she?”
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
That night, I placed a chair under my doorknob before going to bed.
But it didn’t help.
Around midnight, the whispers returned. Softer this time. Almost coaxing. I curled into myself, hands over my ears, willing them to stop.
Then—music.
A soft piano tune floated through the vents, a lullaby with no words. Familiar. Too familiar.
I sat up, realization dawning like a strike of lightning.
It was the same song I heard from Emilia’s music box the first night I arrived.
Only... it wasn’t in the playroom.
It was beneath me.
I rose slowly, heartbeat thudding against my ribs. I padded across the room and crouched, pressing my ear to the floor.
Plink... plink... plink.
Delicate keys. A fragile melody.
Then—
A voice.
Not a whisper. A voice.
Clear. Sad.
“Ava... come home.”
I shot to my feet, heart threatening to split my chest.
The house wasn’t just haunted.
It was calling me.