4. FOUR
FOUR
LENORE
They say a house carries the memories of all the people who lived in it. But what if those memories are horrors? What if the house remembers? What if it knows ? What if it makes you remember?
They say when you return to the place where you were broken, the cracks inside you open like old wounds.
I walked through the hallway, fingers brushing along the green wallpaper. The texture was rough beneath my touch, brittle in places, like the walls themselves had been holding their breath. I kept moving, footsteps soft on the black-and-white tile, until I reached the staircase.
That’s when I heard it, footsteps behind me.
I gasped, turning quickly.
At the front door stood a man in his thirties, wearing a blue suit. He was handsome in that polished, clean-shaven kind of way. But the wedding ring on his finger told me he wasn’t here to flirt. He held an envelope in one hand, walking toward me.
“Miss Thorn?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, it tightened his jaw instead.
“Yes,” I said, clearing my throat. “That’s me.”
“My name is Cameron. We spoke on the phone earlier,” he said, holding out the envelope.
“Here are the documents to finalize the transfer of ownership for Gloomsbury Manor,” he explained, pulling a paper and pen from the envelope. “Sign here.”
“Okay,” I replied, taking the sheet from him and beginning to read.
I’m not dumb. I’d walk straight into a toxic relationship, sure—but when it came to paperwork? I read everything .
My eyes skimmed the document. The words blurred slightly, but I kept reading. Line after line of legalese, dry and suffocating: inheritance clauses, estate transfer, property taxes.
And then— Clause 7B:
“The inheritor agrees to remain on the premises for a minimum of thirty consecutive days following the transfer of ownership.”
I tapped the paragraph with my nail. “What’s this?”
Cameron shifted slightly, his smile frozen like a mask. “Oh, that. Just an old stipulation from your father’s original will. Sentimental, really. Think of it as… honoring the estate before it officially changes hands.”
“So I’m locked in here for a month?”
“Not locked in,” he said, too quickly. “Just… contractually encouraged to stay.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Encouraged sounds like a very polite word for coerced .”
He chuckled. “You can leave, Miss Thorn. Of course. But the ownership won’t be finalized, and if you’re planning to sell, you can’t legally proceed until the condition is met.”
Convenient. Too convenient.
“I mean, it’s not that I have nowhere else to go?!” I waved the paper between us, “So after a month house is mine?”
“House, money, everything with it,” he stretched a wide smile on his lips.
“Money?” I asked, looking at him, “I thought I just got the house?”
“Your father also left behind sixty-five million dollars,” he said, “It’s on the other side...” he came closer turning around the paper, “paper,” he said, clearing his throat.
I exhaled, looking down.
As a person who reads these documents before rushing into something, I suck.
“Okay,” I said, “I guess I have to stay.”
He nodded, handing me a pen. “Sign here,” he said, and just like that, I took the pen and leaned it on the small table in the hallway, and I signed the document.
Just like that, I will be trapped here for a month.
He took the documents, slipping them back into the yellow envelope.“Very well,” he said, turning toward the front door.
But he paused. Something held him there. And then, he turned back to me.
“Don’t you want to know what happened to them?”
“I do,” I said quietly, my gaze falling to the floor, landing on my worn-out All-Star sneakers.
But the truth was, I didn’t want to know what happened to him . Not really. Because the moment I knew, the moment it became real, my heart would break all over again. And now, I had to be here. In this house. With the ghosts. With his ghost.
“Their bodies were never found,” Cameron started.
But I cut him off. “Then how do you know they died?”
He met my eyes. “Blood. So much blood,” he said, shaking his head. He stepped onto the porch like the memory clung to his shoes. “The detective said there were signs of twenty-three people. The walls were painted in blood. The floorboards were soaked. But no bodies. None.”
“Twenty-three?” I whispered, glancing around the hall, the staircase, the silence.
“Who cleaned the place up?”
His face went pale.“That’s the thing,” he exhaled, like it cost him something to say it.”No one did.”
A cold chill crept along my spine, curling over my skin in slow, crawling waves. Goosebumps bloomed down my arms. The air felt suddenly thinner. Heavier.
“Oh,” was all I could manage.
“If you need anything else,” he said, voice quieter now, “anything at all… call me.”
“I will,” I replied, stepping toward the front door. “Have a nice day.”
He raised one hand, a slow wave, then turned and walked away. And just like that, he was gone.
I reached for the door. But before my fingers could touch the handle, it slammed shut with a bang. The wind howled through the cracks. I stood frozen, watching the fog press against the windows, watching my breath rise in the air like a ghost of its own. I rubbed my arms, trying to warm myself.
The house had already begun to remember me.
I walked into the living room. The old brown leather sofa still sat in front of the fireplace, unchanged by time. I brushed my fingers across the leather—faded, cracked, but familiar.
And then I was back.
Back in 2012.
A month after Dorian moved in.
One of those nights when sleep was impossible, when your body refused to stay still, and your soul needed to move anywhere except the direction of your bed. That night, I found myself walking toward the living room.
The light was still on. I heard the soft crackle of firewood burning, and the pop of embers. I stepped silently down the stairs, creeping in slowly. And then I saw him.
Dorian was lying in front of the fireplace on a dark blue blanket, his back to me.
And his back—His back was covered in scars. Burns. Cuts. Words carved into flesh: bastard , brat .
I slapped a hand over my mouth to stop the sob that tried to rise.
They had treated him like he was an animal. Like he didn’t deserve kindness. Like he belonged in pain.
I moved closer, my hand brushing against the sofa, breath caught in my throat.
I heard him growl, “It’s not polite to stare.”
“Do I have a choice?” I said, kneeling in front of him.
He turned toward me, his eyes shadowed, his skin smudged with ash. Even then, covered in pain and soot, he was still beautiful.
He was drinking. The glass was still half full. The firelight shimmered in the whiskey like it was alive.
He sat up, looking at me.“See anything you like, sister ?”
I scanned him, from top to bottom. His arms were tattoed with meaningless tattoos, but somehow, they told a story. A full sleeve, reaching up to a snake that coiled around his neck, its tongue flicking at his collarbone like it was alive.
I swallowed hard, dragging my eyes back up to meet his.
“No,” I said, clearing my throat.”And I’m not your sister.”
He rolled his eyes, a low chuckle rumbling from his throat. “Step-sister,” he said, lifting a brow, his smirk turning cold. It crawled over my skin like frost.
His gaze dropped to the edge of my nightdress; white, vintage, too big for me by two sizes.
It drowned my shape. Compared to him, in his sharp clothes and sharper presence, I felt like a ghost wearing someone else’s past. But that dress was all I had left of my Mom, and sometimes, I needed to feel close to something that wasn’t already gone.
I turned to leave, not trusting myself to speak. But I barely shifted when his voice snapped behind me.
“Sit down.”
I tilted my head, smiling without warmth. “Why would I?”
I stepped closer, turning fully to face him.
“We can play a game,” he said.
“What game would that be, huh?” I crossed my arms, already bracing.
“Memory Lane,” he replied, sipping slowly from his glass. “You know, so I can really get to know my little step-sister. ”
I hesitated, then lowered myself onto the couch. “Alright. How do you play?”
He leaned forward. “Simple. I name a memory—say, first kiss—and you tell the story. Or maybe your first time…” His eyes narrowed, watching me too closely.
I bit down on my lip, a lump rising in my throat. “I haven’t... I never kissed anyone.”
His laugh was loud, disbelieving. “You’re joking, right?”
“No.” I stood abruptly. “I don’t.”
“Sit down,” he said, gripping my wrist and tugging me back.
I shook him off. “What’s the point of your game if I’ve never done the things you want to hear about?”
“Fine,” he said, voice dropping. “Then let’s just talk.”
I sighed, eyeing his drink. “Can I have a glass?”
He moved it out of reach, meeting my eyes. “You’re sixteen.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.”
“So,” he began, slow now, “what are you most afraid of?”
I blinked. That wasn’t a casual question. Not a get-to-know-you question. The way he asked it… it was like he already knew the answer.
“I don’t know,” I muttered.
I lied.
He leaned in, his voice a murmur. “I think you do. You just don’t want to say it. Saying it makes it real.”
His stare pinned me, too long, too intense.
“I’m not scared of anything,” I said again, but softer. Less sure.
His smile was slow, almost pitying. “Not even me?”
Silence dropped. The fire popped. Outside, the wind stirred. Inside, the air tightened.
“I’m afraid of my dad,” I blurted.
He didn’t flinch.
“Did he…” Dorian’s voice faltered, then steadied. “Did he do something to you?”
I pulled back my sleeve. Showed him the burn scar on my wrist. I’d been twelve.
His jaw clenched as his eyes scanned me, searching for more. But he didn’t say a word. Instead, he reached out, fingers brushing against mine, holding onto me.
“You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he said. His hand stayed on mine, grounding me. He leaned closer and pushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear. And then—
Creak.
A door opened somewhere down the hall. A gust of cold air slid from the basement, brushing over us like a cold breath.
“Did you hear that?” I whispered, backing away.
We moved together, quiet. At the wall, we leaned in, listening.
Whispers. Steps.
Then they appeared.
Four men in black robes, hoods tall and triangular, gliding out from the basement like they had always been there.
I gasped. Dorian’s palm clamped over my mouth, his body pressing mine into the wall. “Quiet,” he whispered against my ear.
Voices drifted from them:
“…the offering must be made after she turns eighteen. She must not leave the house.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Dorian’s breath was warm on my cheek, but his body was stiff like he’d known this was coming.
As they disappeared into the west wing, he slowly removed his hand from my mouth.
“Go to your room,” he whispered, “and lock the door.”
I didn’t say a word, I just nodded and ran. He stayed below, watching. When I reached my door, I turned the lock and stood still, pressing my back against the wood.
What is happening?
I stared down at my hands—nails dug so deep into my palms, they left bruises. This wasn’t a dream.
I used to hear whispers in the hallways at night, but I told myself it was just my imagination. That maybe the house was old. That maybe it was haunted.
But houses don’t haunt. People do.
I opened my eyes.
The same old couch sat there. The cold fireplace. The family portrait still hanging above it, untouched by time.
Green wallpaper with white roses curled around a golden frame. The oil painting inside showed my father, my stepmother, and me—ten years old, smiling like I didn’t know better.
No Dorian.
Like he never existed.
But he did.
He was part of this family.