Chapter 10
10
W rapped in my comforter at the kitchen counter, I scoop another bite of peanut butter onto a stale cracker from the nearly empty jar. It’s a poor excuse for a meal, but it’s better than nothing. The rough texture clings to the roof of my mouth, forcing me to scrape my tongue against it before I can swallow.
I clutch the comforter tighter. I hate how much I need it, but after the last couple of nights, I can’t let it go. It’s pathetic—how I panicked when I thought I’d lost it.
I know I dropped it in the room portraits.
I know I did.
And yet, somehow, it ended up on that chair, right outside the exit of the hall of mirrors. One of them must have put it there. It has to be. Right?
But why?
I force another bite, my teeth grinding against the stale cracker. The dryness sticks to my tongue, but I barely notice. My skin prickles, as though I’m still being watched. The game is over. So why do I feel like it’s not?
Because it’s not—not really.
It feels like it’s only paused till dusk.
Not long after Orange Mask disappeared from the closet, I slid back to the floor, exhaustion dragging at my limbs. Sleep should’ve come easily.
It didn’t.
My body remained on edge, hyper-aware of every shift in the dark. Of the air against my skin. Of sensations I told myself weren’t real.
After waking in the cramped space, I wandered for what felt like an eternity before stumbling upon a bathroom. The hallways blurred together, each turn leading me nowhere. Every door I opened mocked me—empty rooms, locked spaces—anything but what I needed.
By the time I found what I was looking for, frustration gnawed at my patience, and my bladder threatened to burst. I could swear someone—or something—had been toying with me.
With my stomach barely full, I twist the lid back on and stare at the nearly empty jar. Two days—maybe less—if I ration. If I stretch it. But I know better. Hunger doesn’t listen to reason. And soon, I’ll have nothing left.
With a deep sigh, my body still thrumming from last night’s game, another realization settles over me.
I’ve been wandering this house day and night, searching every room, yet—there’s no sign of them actually living here. The kitchen is practically abandoned. The fridge holds nothing edible; the pantry, just forgotten remnants. No dishes in the sink. No lingering scent of food. The hallways are eerily pristine—no clutter, no shoes by the door, no clothes draped over furniture.
Nothing.
Even their presence feels transient, as if they exist only in the shadows, emerging solely to play their games. I’ve seen them, touched them, felt them against me—but nothing in this house proves they truly live here. It’s as if they live outside the house.
Or beneath it.
The thought chills me. What if there’s some kind of crypt under this twisted house?
They only come out at night.
They leave no trace of themselves during the day.
The house shifts—bending around them like something alive.
There have been too many unexplainable moments, too many ghostly touches that have me questioning my sanity. It unsettles me in a way I can’t explain, like they materialize only when they want to be seen, dissolving just as easily.
They aren’t human.
They can’t be.
At least—not normal ones.
The idea makes my heart stutter, a sudden, uneasy flutter in my chest. I’ve had the thought before, but I’ve never allowed myself to truly consider it. I mean, that’s crazy, right?
As soon as the thought begins to solidify, a darker one creeps in.
What if I’m crazy?
What if none of this is real?
What if I never actually left?
What if I’m still trapped in Josiah’s grip, rotting away in some locked room, my mind desperately clawing for an escape that doesn’t exist?
My breathing grows erratic, matching the frantic surge of panic. I grip the counter, fighting to hold myself together.
It would make sense, wouldn’t it? None of this should be possible—the shifting hallways, the way they move unseen, the way my body responds to their touch—as if it belongs to them.
Maybe I made all of this up. Maybe I fractured somewhere along the way, and this is just an elaborate hallucination—a final, desperate attempt to stay sane.
I squeeze my eyes shut and inhale slowly, forcing my body to obey.
No.
That can’t be right.
How could my mind conjure something like this?
I’ve never seen men or masks like them, and I’ve certainly never been touched this way. I’ve never lived in a house like this—I’ve never even heard of a house that moves like this one.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it, not even in the few stolen moments I spent watching television.
If this were a delusion, wouldn’t I imagine something familiar? Something safe?
As impossible as it seems, this place—and the men who apparently reside here—must be real. That leaves me with only one logical conclusion:
I don’t know what they are, but there’s no way they’re human.
Even so, the thought of seeing them again tonight, at dusk, sends a thrill of anticipation through me. Human or not, my body doesn’t seem to take issue with it.
Which isn’t particularly comforting.
I set the jar down with a soft clatter, my pulse steadying as determination takes hold. They have to be here somewhere.
And I’m going to find them.
With my hunger barely satiated, I move through the halls, determined to find something— anything —that could explain all of this. I push open doors at random, peering inside darkened rooms with heavy drapes and dust-covered furniture.
No signs of life.
No sign of them.
Then, I find it.
The library.
The one room with the potential to completely derail my plans.
I was never allowed to read anything that wasn’t pre-approved by my father or Josiah, but even with my limited options, I’ve always loved to read. Books were a safe place. I could lose myself in another world, escape for a few hours—live someone else’s life, even if only temporarily.
This is the first time I’ve found the library during the day. The two other times I’ve been here, I was too focused on running to notice much more than the basics. I could still make out the towering shelves, the heavy stillness in the air, and—of course—the scent of books filling the room. But now, bathed in the soft afternoon light, it’s breathtaking.
The ceiling stretches impossibly high, lined with the intricate molding seen throughout the manor. Rows upon rows of bookshelves dominate the space, filled with a mix of new and ancient volumes. A massive fireplace, cold and lifeless, stands at the far end. Above it, a large oil painting stares down at me.
It’s a man, frozen in time from another era entirely, his sharp gaze assessing all those that dare stand beneath him. I stare at his eyes for a few minutes as I move around, then sigh in relief when they remain lifeless. After last night’s discovery, I never want to see another painted portrait again.
I shake the thought away, letting my eyes roam until they land on a bookstand near the center of the room. It’s grander than the others, almost as if begging to be noticed. I’m surprised I never ran into it while rushing out of here in the dark. My fingers brush the cracked leather of the old book, and my pulse quickens as I read the faded title.
The Blackthorn Estate: A History
I scan the pages, my breath catching as I take in the handwritten words and sit on the couch facing the fireplace. The manor was built by a man named Ambrose Blackthorn. I glance above the mantle at the painting and wonder if that’s him. He looks aristocratic enough.
His earliest entries seem fairly normal—if not slightly boring. He mentions the progress of the manor and some issues with the land. It’s not until several entries later that things begin to take a darker turn. There’s mention of workers going missing on days they stayed past dusk—many refused to remain once the sun began to set after that.
After several more entries, he notes the deaths of multiple men after a wall caved in, crushing them all. No one had ever built a house like this before, with so many moving pieces. He even writes that sacrifices must be made to achieve greatness. I look back up at the man above the fireplace, his unblinking gaze seeming to linger on me.
“I think you might’ve gotten along with Josiah,” I say with obvious disdain as I squint at him judgmentally. I glance out the window. The sun is still high in the sky—plenty of time.
As I read on, his writing takes a darker turn. His paranoia deepens, and his egotism grows with each passing entry. He reports strange occurrences—flickering lights in places they shouldn’t be. He even mentions having dreams that aren’t his, dreams that seem to belong to someone else.
Several entries later, his tone shifts again. He boasts about entertaining esteemed men—those like him, who don’t fear the unseen. Instead, they wish to control it, using ancient rites from forgotten times. Blood rituals that promise immortality—if one is willing to give up the sun.
Well that doesn’t sound very safe—or sane.
Although…
Something like that might make you not quite human anymore.
Oh, God.
What if the men are Ambrose and his friends? That’s impossible—right? I exhale sharply, my heart hammering against my ribs.
It’s absurd—ridiculous.
And yet…
I think of the silent way they move—how they appear and disappear at will. I’ve never seen them in daylight, and the house seems to answer to them, silent at night only at their behest.
I flip ahead until something catches my eye—the handwriting has changed. Someone named Elias Blackthorn took possession of the manor after his grandfather, Ambrose, disappeared. He claims the official story is that Ambrose got lost somewhere in the woods and perished while trying to find his way back. But Elias doesn’t seem to find that plausible.
Much like his grandfather, Elias’s interests are far from ordinary. He’s a historian, captivated by forbidden knowledge—whatever that means. Apparently there was a rumor of a room where his grandfather hid manuscripts and artifacts so powerful that even Ambrose feared them. It was during his search for this hidden room that the handwriting changed again.
Victor Blackthorn feared the manor. He writes about sealing off entire wings and never hosting guests. His staff left before nightfall every day. Several pages are covered with old newspaper clippings about the estate—some of which age has made it difficult to read.
1867 – Whispers in the Walls
BLACKTHORN ESTATE: A HOME… OR A PRISON?
Boston Daily Journal
Rumors are beginning to spread that the grand Blackthorn estate, once the pride of its eccentric owner, has turned into something of a fortress. Local villagers report that no one has entered or left the manor in months, with deliveries being left at the gates and taken only under the cover of night. Some claim to hear voices and music drifting from the empty halls, though no guests have been seen arriving.
1879 – The Vanishing Servants
WHERE HAVE THEY GONE? STAFF CONTINUES TO DISAPPEAR FROM BLACKTHORN ESTATE.
New England Chronicle
At least six domestic servants employed at Blackthorn Manor have seemingly vanished in the past two years, their disappearances unexplained. Families of the missing claim their loved ones mentioned ‘strange happenings’ in the house before they were never seen again. Elias Blackthorn, current master of the estate, refuses to address the claims, stating only that ‘the house is not for the weak-hearted.’
1902 – A House Abandoned, a Mystery Deepens
BLACKTHORN MANOR LEFT TO ROT – CURSED OR SIMPLY FORGOTTEN?
New York Herald
Victor Blackthorn, the reluctant new owner of Blackthorn Manor, has declared the estate uninhabitable and shut its doors indefinitely. He has refused to set foot inside, instead managing the property from a distant city. The house, once a marvel of gothic architecture, now stands as an eerie monument to a family consumed by secrecy. Some claim shadows move within when no one is inside, and that on quiet nights, a soft whispering can be heard from the windows.
I turn the page, my breath catching as I scan the final lines of Victor’s last entry:
Some say they are monsters. Some say they are the damned. But one thing remains constant—when the sun falls beyond the horizon, the house no longer belongs to the living.
Voices drift through my subconscious—low and velvety—a half-heard melody that tugs me toward consciousness. I’m warm, cocooned in my comforter—reluctant to wake. Until the uncomfortable press of my cheek against the book’s worn pages pulls me from sleep.
“Do we let her sleep a little longer?”
“Or maybe we wake her with a story of our own—something like Goldilocks and the Three Bears,” another voice suggests, amusement ringing in every word.
Before the third can weigh in, there’s a slight shift in the air, and I feel a presence leaning in closer. “She’s awake,” he murmurs.
My lashes flutter open.
For a moment, I forget where I am. The towering shelves of the library stretch into darkness; the sun must’ve gone down a while ago. Their glowing masks are the only source of light. Not that I need it; I can feel them—three figures standing just beyond the periphery of my vision, waiting.
I should feel fear.
Their presence should freeze my veins, send my pulse thrumming in my ears.
Instead, the sight of the masked men surrounding me feels almost normal. I stretch, arms lifting above my head, spine arching as I let out a small sigh. I carefully close the book and rise to place it back on its pedestal, the cold air making me instantly regret leaving my comforter on the couch.
“Have any of you read this?” I ask as I turn toward them. I sigh when they don’t answer, wondering why I expected them to. A long silence stretches before, as if reaching an unspoken agreement, they step closer.
“It’s past dusk,” Orange Mask says, his voice low, the hint of his constant smirk creeping through. “You know what that means.”
I take a page from their book and stay silent. Instead, I observe them. They don’t move, and I can barely see the rise and fall of their breaths. It’s unnatural. The silence stretches beyond comfort. I tilt my head, considering my next words.
“I’ve been thinking,” I say, walking back to the couch and sinking into it, wrapping myself in my warm comforter. “It’s not entirely fair that y’all know my name, and I don’t get to know yours.”
Orange Mask chuckles, slow and mocking. “Fair?” he echoes. “Do you need to be reminded where you are, little thief?”
Blue Mask joins in. “You think you get to make requests?”
I square my shoulders, emboldened by the fact that they haven’t shut me down completely. “Just a small one. A game. I thought you liked those.”
That gets their attention.
A pause stretches between us, thick with something like consideration. Then Red Mask says, “Go on.”
I turn to face them fully. “Tonight, don’t turn on your masks. If I can guess who’s who, you’ll tell me your name.”
“And if you guess wrong?”
I hesitate for only a second. Of course, they’d want something in return. “Then you get to…” I pause before blurting the first thing that comes to mind. “Make a request—something I have to obey.”
“You’re confident,” Blue Mask muses after a beat of silence, interest evident in his tone.
I shrug. “I know you better than you think.”
“Is that so?” Orange Mask’s words, as usual, drip with amusement. I nod, careful not to reveal how I tell them apart. They exchange glances before Red Mask delivers the verdict.
“We accept.”
A thrill rushes through me. This is the first time we’ve started a game where I feel like I have the upper hand. Even this small control is intoxicating.
I push to my feet and reach for my comforter, shaking it out to wrap it around myself more easily. I’m almost ready to head out to the hall, but something flutters to the ground.
A single sheet of aged newspaper.
I frown, kneeling to pick it up. It must have slipped from the book, likely when I used it as a pillow. I move to tuck it back where it belongs, but my eyes catch on the bold headline.
951 – The End of the Blackthorn Line?
MALCOLM BLACKTHORN FOUND DEAD IN GREAT HALL
— New York Times
Malcolm Blackthorn was discovered lifeless at the foot of the grand staircase in Blackthorn Manor. His body was found in a state of distress, his nails bloodied as though he had tried to claw at the very walls around him. Officials list the cause as cardiac arrest, though local whispers tell another story—of shadows that move when no one is looking and whispers that beckon from the dark.
I stare at the words, my stomach twisting as I stare up at them.
Shadows that move.
Whispers that beckon.
A chill slides down my spine, as if something unseen trails icy fingers along my skin. I’d been thinking they were something… other, but it’s at this moment I actually believe it. They emerge only at night, slipping through shadows, whispering things I never imagined I’d want to hear.
The things I’ve seen—the things I’ve felt—should be enough to convince me. I guess there’s something about knowing others have seen the same things I have that makes me trust my mind a bit more. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry.
I draw a slow breath that does nothing to steady me and raise my gaze, finding them watching me.
Waiting.
“Run,” Red Mask commands, his voice smooth and deliberate, just before they turn off the lights of their masks, plunging me into darkness. I blink rapidly, my eyes struggling to adjust to the sudden blackness. Panic surges, swallowing the thrill I’d felt earlier, replacing it with something cold and sharp.
Something deadly.
My mind conjures Malcolm Blackthorn’s lifeless body sprawled in the great hall, twisted in terror. That image warps, and suddenly, it’s my own body lying there instead.
My mind screams at me to move.
So I do.
I run.