Chapter 11
11
I sit on the edge of the bed, the comforter—as always—wrapped tightly around me, staring at the dark opening in the wall. It hadn’t been there when I disappeared into the bathroom not more than thirty minutes ago. The wall slid away to reveal the opening the moment the sun began its slow descent—silent and waiting.
They’re offering me a choice. Or at least, that’s what they want me to think.
When I finally woke a couple of hours ago, the sun had already begun its descent toward the horizon. I stretched, and the moment I realized where I was, I jumped out of bed, desperate to brush my teeth and shower. I’d been making do the best I could with whatever I could find since leaving this room three nights ago.
The thought of taking a long, hot shower and scrubbing my body after thoroughly brushing my teeth—multiple times—made me giddy. While I wished for real clothes, I couldn’t deny the relief of finding a new negligee draped over the end of the bed. My lips pursed as I took in the black, nearly sheer fabric. As if being half-naked wasn’t bad enough, this one almost seemed pointless to wear. Yet, I wore it. It was better to feel clothed than not at all.
It wasn’t until I was drying my hair with a towel that I happened to glance toward the dresser. There, on top, sat something unexpected—my purse.
I dropped the towel and rushed to clutch it with trembling fingers, my heart pounding as I yanked open the zipper. Everything was there—my phone, my wallet, my charger, and the envelope that held all the documents for my new life. I opened it and shuffled through each of the papers, checking to make sure it was all as it should be. Which it was.
They’d returned it all.
Just as I’d asked.
Dusk came and went without any sign of them—only the opening in the wall. They hadn’t given me any specific instructions. I’d thought for sure they would show when I made no move to enter the secret entrance.
They didn’t.
That was at least an hour ago. I stare at the hidden doorway, thinking. It feels as though they are giving me a choice. I can take my things and leave, or I can step into the dark and continue our game. The darkness within me throws her hands up in annoyance. She’s known all along. The moment the opening appeared, she was waiting—impatient, eager. Whispering for me to go.
It doesn’t feel like a decision I should make lightly, even if it should be an easy one. Not that I’m certain I could leave—I’m not. This is an illusion of control. We all know it. But I let myself believe the lie anyway.
I bite at my bottom lip and twist a corner of the comforter over and over as the decision settles over me. If I’m being honest, it’s the choice I knew I was going to make the entire time. The darkness rolls her eyes, as if to say, I told you so.
Letting the comforter fall from my shoulders, I cross the room with slow, measured steps. I hesitate. If I walked away now, would they stop me? Something tells me they wouldn’t, but the truth is…
I don’t want to leave.
The moment I cross the threshold, the entrance behind me vanishes with a quiet click. I whirl around, pressing my hands against the wall, searching for the seam where the open passage had just been. There’s nothing—no edges, no latch, no way back.
I step forward, peering into the narrow passage hidden between the walls. Dim light offers barely enough visibility, while the walls close in, swallowing the space around me. I can’t stretch my arms without touching the sides. The air is thick—stale, as if undisturbed for decades. It feels like I’m being buried alive, the weight of dust and time pressing in from all sides.
Maybe decades.
My bare feet move silently over the rough wooden floor, each step an exercise in caution. I refuse to think about what might be crawling in a space like this. I exhale sharply, forcing myself to keep walking—my pulse gradually steadying as I take slow, deliberate steps through the dark corridor.
The walls are rough and unyielding beneath my fingertips as I trail them lightly over the uneven surface. There are no doors or windows, only left and right turns that wind me further into its depths.
It’s a maze.
And I am well and truly lost.
I’ve already doubled back more times than I can count, each turn leading to another dead end. Every time I retrace my steps, I only become more disoriented. The lights flicker weakly above, from naked bulbs hanging in irregular intervals, as if they, too, struggle to find their way through this labyrinth.
I pause at an intersection, trying to ignore the slow creep of unease curling up my spine.
Which way? Left again? Or had I gone right last time?
I bite my lip, forcing myself to focus on the problem at hand, as moments from last night invade my mind. The blindfold had been tight—stealing my sight but heightening everything else. I gave them my trust as their hands, rough and teasing, mapped the shape of my body. Their touches were possessive, claiming every inch of me.
Soft lips caressed my skin, sending warmth pooling deep in my belly as sharp teeth nipped at the tender flesh of my thighs. Tension coiled inside me, winding tighter and tighter—only to be abandoned, untouched. The frustration was maddening—the tension built with no release, leaving nothing but the ghost of their lingering touches beneath my skin.
Just as I’d been on the verge of breaking, they stopped—covering me in my comforter, whispering low, indecipherable words before leaving me.
Alone.
Lost in these hidden halls, that memory feels like it belongs to someone else. I press forward, sighing as I take another turn—only to be met with yet another solid wall.
Dead end. Again.
My heart pounds in my ears as I turn back. I need to keep track of where I’ve been, but everything looks the same: the rough wood, the dim lighting, the thick, musty air. Every corridor stretches endlessly ahead—until, abruptly, it doesn’t.
A sharp exhale slips from my lips, hot with irritation. I press my forehead against the cool wall for a moment, grounding myself. This isn’t like the punishments in Josiah’s cellar. There’s no chain around my ankle, no locked door sealing me in. I’m not seventeen anymore—starving, afraid, waiting for footsteps on the stairs.
I have control now.
I push away from the wall and pivot, retracing my steps and committing each turn to memory. If there’s a way in, there’s a way out. I just have to find it. There’s always a way forward.
Always.
A flicker of light ahead snaps me back to the present. A faint red glow emanates from around the next turn. My stomach clenches, and I push forward—following it. Following him.
Beckett.
Last night, the moment I was shoved against the wall, I knew. His hand wrapped around my throat—firm, but not enough to choke. “Red,” I whispered, without hesitation.
His fingers tightened slightly, as he swore under his breath. Then he leaned in, warm against my ear.
“Beckett.” Then he was gone, slipping into the dark as if he’d never been there at all.
The hallway is empty. But I’m not alone. The sound of construction echoes through the space—the rhythmic pounding of a hammer against stone.
At first, I think it’s part of their game. That they’re leading me somewhere—or just trying to frighten me, as usual. That is, until I see him.
A figure lingers at the edge of the dim light, hammering at the wall with slow, mechanical precision. His head turns slowly, his gaze locking onto mine—I suck in a sharp breath.
Oh, God.
The left side of his body is crushed inward—bone and flesh collapsed like rotting fruit. He lifts the hammer again, but this time, it’s aimed directly at me. I scream and stumble backward, my feet catching on the uneven floor.
I land hard on my rear, the cold air pressing against my skin, and scramble away on desperate hands and feet. My pulse races, a frantic rhythm in my ears as I push myself up and bolt, fear gnawing at my heels.
I don’t know how long I stumble blindly through the maze before I see another flicker of light—orange this time. Relief rushes through me as I follow it—follow him, last night’s final guess.
“I know this one will be particularly difficult for you,” he’d said, arms crossed in amusement as he leaned against a table.
I smiled. “Orange.”
“Quinton,” he murmured. “But no one calls me that.”
Tilting my head, I asked, “Oh? What do they call you, then?”
“The greatest, perfect, gorgeous… the list goes on—oh, you mean my name?” He chuckled softly before stepping behind me, his voice low against my ear.
“Quinn.”
Then the blindfold slipped over my eyes, his voice soft but firm. “Don’t take it off, Celest, or you’ll make Beckett cranky.”
I turn another corner, expecting him to be there, but—yet again—nothing. The orange glow is gone, and I’m starting to wonder if it was ever there to begin with.
Instead, there’s only the sound of footsteps. My pulse spikes. It could be one of them—but something tells me it isn’t. I hesitate, lick my lips, then whisper, “Quinn?”
No answer.
Just the footsteps—their rhythm unchanging, growing closer with every beat. My breath catches in my throat as I inch forward, heart hammering violently against my ribs. I try to convince myself it’s one of them, my mind screaming for it to be, desperate for the familiarity. But deep down, I know…
It’s not them.
Another ghostly figure—twisted and grotesque, its form hunched and unnatural—lurches toward me. My breath stalls in my throat, panic squeezing my lungs as my mind races, flashing to the article I read earlier.
No.
Impossible.
It can’t be.
Malcolm Blackthorn.
They’d found his body at the foot of the grand staircase, his nails bloodied and broken, as though he’d tried to claw his way out of something with his bare hands.
The figure’s bloodied fingers twitch—reaching for me.
I freeze, paralyzed by fear, as it inches closer, its presence a cold suffocating weight. Just as its fingers graze my arm, I snap back to myself and scream, heart pounding as I tear off in the opposite direction.
I have no idea where I’m going.
I don’t care.
As long as it’s away from that .
I can’t breathe.
My legs move, but they don’t feel like my own.
I stumble.
Trip.
I can’t…
Each step a scramble.
…breathe.
My chest burns.
Shallow gasps, too fast, too ragged.
The walls close in.
Then, finally—finally—I see it.
Blue.
He’d been the first one to find me last night. His arms wrapped around me from behind and said, “Well, little thief, who am I then?” I didn’t need to think about it, I’d known the second I heard his voice.
“Blue.”
“I guess you do know us better than we thought,” he said laughing.
“Are you going to give me my prize?”
“Greedy little thing, aren’t you?” He laughed again, the sound making me smile. “Whitmore, but anyone who matters calls me Whit.” It was a relief to learn all of their names and know for certain that none of them were Ambrose. The moment I turned around to speak to him, he was gone.
His faint, electric glow appears in the distance. I run toward it, drawn to him like a lifeline, desperate to see the face of his neon mask.
“Whit!” My voice cracks. “Please… h—he’s following me!” Just as I reach the end of the hall, the blue light vanishes.
Nothing.
There’s no one there.
I spin in circles—disoriented, frantic. I wonder if it hadn’t been the guys who opened the secret passage in my room after all. Perhaps the ghosts of this house used it to lure me to my death.
Would they search for me, or would they forget about me? Maybe they’d think I took my things and left.
More footsteps, growing closer. More running in a directionless path, and more wrong turns.
There! An opening—a doorway into the unknown, into darkness.
I throw myself through it, desperate for escape. Hoping and praying that another ghostly figure isn’t waiting for me beyond it.
The second I’m through, I yelp as something slams shut behind me, and I plunge into pitch black. There’s no light, no sound—nothing but my own frantic breathing.
My skin grows damp with cold sweat as I press my shaking hands against the walls, frantically searching for a way to open the door again.
A way out.
I need a way out.
There must be…
Oh, God.
I can’t breathe.
… a way out.
There’s nothing.
I’m trapped.
The darkness within me jumps, clapping with excitement while terror grips me. I find it impossible to trust her. She clearly knows something I don’t. What still remains to be seen.
But I think she’s been waiting for this moment all along.