Beneath the hollowed walls
Chapter 8 – Beneath the Hollowed Walls
Ava Carter – POV
Damon’s apology still clung to the air like smoke—thick, unresolved, painful. When he closed the door behind us, it was with a hesitant finality. The single candle on the nightstand cast flickering shadows that danced like restless spirits on the old wallpaper. The floor creaked beneath our feet, as if the house itself disapproved of our truce. We had kissed like desperate people gasping for air, like two souls crashing into one another in the dark. Now, everything between us teetered on the edge of something fragile and unknown.
He stood by the doorway, his broad shoulders tense, one hand still on the knob. His other hand hovered in midair—indecisive. His jaw flexed like he was holding back a storm.
I reached out, fingers trembling, and slid my hand into his. The contact was electric. He stared down at me in stunned silence, like he hadn’t expected me to reach for him—not after everything. Honestly, I hadn’t expected it either.
“I want to help,” I whispered, my voice low and urgent.
He exhaled slowly. “Ava, I—” He swallowed whatever pain was in his throat. “I need to keep you safe.”
“Then let me help you keep us safe,” I said, squeezing his hand. “No more secrets, Damon. If we’re going to survive this, we do it together.”
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You always were the brave one.”
“And you’re the one who never stops carrying the weight alone.”
He nodded, letting go of a breath he’d probably been holding for years. “Tomorrow, we start digging. The archives, the old journals—there’s still so much we don’t know about the curse… or what’s feeding it.”
As he blew out the candle, darkness fell like a shroud. I lay in bed, eyes open, heart pounding. Sleep danced just out of reach, cruel and taunting. The house around us breathed, groaned, whispered in tongues only the dead could understand. Somewhere in the stillness, I thought I heard the lullaby again—soft, warbled, distant.
---
I found Damon in the library the next morning, buried in a sea of yellowed pages and crumbling leather spines. Dust floated in slanted shafts of light. He was slumped forward, forehead resting on a tall stack of brittle records, his hair mussed from restless sleep.
I set a cup of tea beside him. “Morning.”
His eyes fluttered open. “I must’ve passed out. I was going through warding records. There’s a whole section about sealed chambers.”
“Find anything useful?” I asked, moving to sit beside him.
He lifted a sheet of parchment—a hand-drawn map of the East Wing. It was fragile, curled at the edges, and inked with strange symbols and Latin inscriptions. One room was marked with looping script: Ravencroft. Beneath it, a note scrawled in a feminine hand: Where sorrow sleeps.
I stared at it. “Ravencroft? That name feels… wrong.”
He ran a finger along the map’s edge. “It’s connected to my great-grandmother’s protective wards. These rooms weren’t just sealed to keep something out—they were locked to contain something already inside.”
I frowned. “You think it’s Isobel?”
“No,” he said, his voice almost a growl. “Worse. Something that feeds on loss and mourning. Something that binds spirits to this house. Whatever it is, it’s getting stronger. And Emilia... she's at the center of it.”
A shiver ran through me. “Then we stop it. Before it takes her—and us.”
---
Later, I found Emilia in the playroom. The once-cheerful room felt dim and hollow, like joy had bled from its corners. She sat cross-legged on the floor, gently rocking a ragged porcelain doll in her arms. Her lips moved as she hummed the lullaby again—the same haunting tune I had come to loathe.
I knelt beside her, brushing her curls back from her pale face. “Emilia, baby, what are you doing?”
She looked up slowly. Her eyes weren’t entirely her own. They were distant—glassy with shadows.
“She told me to stay,” Emilia whispered.
My throat tightened. “Who told you that?”
“The lady in white,” she said, voice barely above breath. “She says I belong here.”
A surge of dread filled my chest. I pulled her into my arms. “No, sweetheart. You belong with me. With us. Not with her. Do you understand?”
Emilia leaned her cheek against mine. “Promise?”
I held her close. “Promise. Always.”
---
That night, Damon and I descended into the mansion’s belly—the basement archives. The air turned colder the deeper we went, thick with mildew and forgotten memories. Our lantern cast trembling golden light along the brick walls, revealing rusted tools, broken mirrors, and portraits with scratched-out faces.
In the far corner, a massive iron-bound chest waited like a coffin. Damon reached into his coat and produced a strange, antique key. My eyes widened.
“You never told me you had that,” I said.
“I didn’t know it would work until I found the inscription this morning,” he replied, fitting it into the lock. The mechanism groaned, and with a click, the chest creaked open.
Inside were decaying letters tied with ribbons, photographs of girls in white dresses—all with solemn expressions and vacant eyes. One photo caught my breath: a girl standing beside a large fireplace… the same fireplace in Emilia’s room.
Damon reached for an envelope addressed in curling script to Maria Sinclair. He opened it carefully and read aloud:
“The circle remains incomplete until the last blood echoes in the hall. Break the vow, and we all shall fall.”
My skin prickled. “What vow?”
His jaw clenched. “A blood vow. A ritual sacrifice that was never finished.”
A sound broke the silence—a soft cry, high and thin. Emilia.
“Emilia!” I shouted, already running. Damon was right behind me.
We tore through the labyrinth of crates and shelves, following the sound of her voice. We found her at the foot of another massive door, carved with strange runes and a familiar crest: the Sinclair family seal.
She stood perfectly still, hands pressed against the wood, humming.
“Emilia,” I said, reaching for her, “Sweetheart, come here.”
“She’s waiting,” Emilia whispered, eyes blank.
Damon stepped forward, face pale and resolved. “This leads to the Ravencroft chamber.”
My heart pounded. “We can’t let her go in there.”
“I’m not letting anything take her,” he said, and pulled a dagger from inside his coat. It was beautiful and terrifying—etched with intricate runes, the hilt dark and cold.
“Icarus’ blade,” he said, reverently. “It was forged to sever the binds of the cursed. Only it can open the sealed chamber.”
I nodded. “Then do it.”
He pressed the blade against the lock. The iron screamed as it met the dagger’s edge. Sparks flew. The metal groaned and cracked, then—suddenly—shattered inward.
A rush of cold wind burst through, extinguishing the lantern. The air filled with the scent of lilacs and rot. Whispered voices poured into the hallway, sobbing, pleading, singing.
I scooped Emilia into my arms.
Inside the chamber, the walls were lined with mirrors—tarnished and broken. At the center stood a figure in a white gown, her back turned. Her hair was matted, falling in gray tangles down her back. Her hands, skeletal and long, lifted in welcome.
“Welcome home, my child,” the Lady in White rasped, voice like leaves in autumn wind.
Emilia whimpered, burying her face in my neck.
Damon stepped beside me, holding the dagger forward. “You’re not taking her.”
The figure turned slowly. Her face was a ruin of beauty—eyes hollow, mouth stretched in a mournful smile. She raised her hands. The mirrors began to rattle.
“You broke the vow,” she said. “Now you all shall fall.”
Before I could move, the candles around the chamber exploded in flame, then immediately died—plunging us into darkness.
A breath, cold and angry, rushed past us.
And then the chamber screamed.