Chapter 2
Nadia
Ibalanced my wineglass, phone, and bundle of nerves with questionable coordination. The phone was recording, because if I ended up murdered by a colonial ghost, someone should at least get a good podcast out of it.
“Update,” I whispered into the mic, stepping into the main hall. “The house definitely has needs-a-priest energy. But like… in a sexy New England way.”
The place was absurd. A massive mahogany staircase curved up the center, dramatic and unapologetic.
Stained-glass windows glowed faintly even in the dark, all of them featuring angels who looked vaguely like they’d stab you for fun.
A chandelier hung from the ceiling, swaying just enough to groan with each whisper of wind from the open window.
Cobwebs glittered in the corners. Dust floated lazily.
And the umbrella stand? A full-on griffin. Because why settle for normal furniture when you can own something that looks like it guards cursed treasure?
I sipped my wine and pushed open a pair of double doors.
“Oh my god.”
It was a library, complete with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and ladders on rails.
Dust rose the moment I stepped in, disturbed after what felt like centuries of silence.
I spun slowly, clutching my glass, heart pounding with the thrill of discovery.
This was the exact reaction I always hoped to spark in my students.
“This is… everything.”
I climbed halfway up the ladder, scanning the titles.
Boston’s Hidden Tunnels: A Cartographer’s Obsession.
Folk Healing and Herbal Lore of Eastern Europe.
Silence Is a Weapon: A Guide to Stoic Communication.
“Okay,” I said to the phone, “whoever owned this house was either an academic or a warlock.”
The ladder squeaked, and I nearly spilled my drink.
Leaving the library was like walking away from my soulmate, but I forced myself to keep exploring.
I ended up in a fancy parlor straight out of a murder mystery.
Velvet armchairs. Heavy curtains. A fireplace with scorched stone, and portraits of people who all looked like their lives had been hell and death couldn’t come soon enough.
Out of pure curiosity, I opened a cabinet and found a drawer full of old coins, a fan made of real feathers, and a broken silver compact with something dark crusted in the hinge.
“Yeah, that’s gonna be a no from me.” I shut the drawer carefully.
My wine was dangerously low, so I headed back down to the kitchen for a refill. “Ah. Stainless steel.” I sighed as I walked in. “My modern friend.”
I refilled my glass, then took the bottle with me so I wouldn’t have to come back to the kitchen for the next refill.
“Field research requires hydration,” I told my phone. The flashlight was still on, though it was bright enough in here without it. I knew I couldn’t resist poking through the rest of the house, even as my heart rate ticked up a bit more with each room I explored.
The next hallway I found was so narrow I had to turn sideways to pass through it. “Was everyone a waif in the seventeen hundreds?”
My hand brushed the wallpaper. The pattern was faded, and underneath I could just make out the outline of a cross someone had painted over. My shoulders tensed.
“Okay, that’s not creepy at all,” I said, and instantly drank more wine.
At the end of the hall, I found a narrow staircase with a frayed rope instead of a railing. The air was colder here. My phone’s flashlight cut a weak beam through the dust.
“This feels like another solid life choice,” I muttered, taking another long sip before putting the bottle under my arm. The stairs groaned as I climbed, the sound echoing. My heart pounded, but my mouth wouldn’t stop running.
The attic was a time capsule of every horror trope I’d ever laughed at from the safety of my couch. Trunks stacked like coffins. Dolls with cracked faces. A wedding dress draped over a chair, yellowed and stiff with age.
“Exhibit A,” I said into my phone, “mannequin with no head. Exhibit B, the smell of grandma’s trauma.”
If I didn’t joke, I’d have to admit I was scared out of my mind.
The floorboards shifted under me. My flashlight caught a row of dusty portraits leaning against the wall—each one turned backward. I didn’t look closer.
“Okay,” I whispered, “quick look, then back downstairs to watch something aggressively cheerful.”
I took another step. The board under my boot creaked louder than the rest. I froze, testing it again with my weight. It gave an ominous crack.
“Sh—”
The world tilted as the plank snapped loose. My wineglass hit the floor, shattering, and wine splashed across the boards. I dropped to my knees, catching myself on the edge of the broken wood.
Something beneath shifted—a hollow sound, followed by a soft click.
A section of floor beside me lifted, hinges groaning, until a small panel popped open like a hidden door. Cold air rushed out, smelling like damp stone.
I stared into the darkness gaping up at me. “Oh, cool,” I said. “Trap doors. That’s totally normal.”
My phone, still recording, slid a few inches toward the opening.
The beam from my phone’s flashlight caught a narrow staircase leading into shadow.
“Nope,” I said firmly. “No thank you.”
I picked up my phone, steadied my wine-smeared hand, and stepped through anyway. Because apparently, I don’t make good choices when I’m scared. Or tipsy. Or alive.
The stairs ended in a small room with stone walls, cold air, and the faint smell of mildew. My flashlight beam caught on dust motes drifting through narrow cracks in the floorboards above, where slivers of light spilled down like lazy spotlights.
“Well,” I said to no one, because apparently that was my thing now, “this feels perfectly normal and not at all like a mistake.”
The space was small but deep, carved into the bones of the house. A tapestry hung crooked on one wall, its fabric stiff with age and dust, the image too faded to make out. In the middle of the room sat a massive stone coffin.
Of course there was a coffin.
It was big enough to fit two grown adults plus a male ego. The lid was covered in intricate carvings—spirals, runes, and faint lines that glistened when my flashlight swept over them. I crouched down for a better look.
I should’ve left it at that. I should’ve gotten my ass downstairs, locked myself in the guest room, and crocheted my anxiety into something wearable. But I was wine-bold and deeply unbothered by common sense.
I brushed my fingertips over one of the symbols. The stone pulsed faintly beneath my touch, warm for a second, then cool again. Or… I was drunk. Hard to tell.
“That’s… probably fine.”
There was a Latin phrase carved across the center, the letters so deep they caught the light. Squinting, I leaned closer.
“Dominum ex tenebris,” I read in the worst British accent imaginable. “That’s right, I’m a classy bitch and bilingual.”
I took a triumphant sip of wine. Satisfied, I turned to leave—
—and the floor shivered.
A low hum spread through the air, quiet at first, then building. My skin prickled. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no.”
One by one, the symbols began to glow. The hum became a vibration that rattled through the floorboards. Static filled the room, a fizzing pressure that buzzed behind my teeth. The flashlight on my phone faltered.
“Okay,” I said, backing up, my voice wobbling. “Cool party trick. Love the vibes.”
Papers fluttered from the corners, wind coming from nowhere, swirling dust around me in a frantic spiral.
“Fuck,” I said, clutching my wine like it could save me.
Then the coffin lid groaned.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The sound was deep and heavy, the kind that came from something that had been still for far too long. The slab shifted, stone grinding against stone.
I froze.
My brain, ever helpful, provided commentary: Congratulations, Nadia. You’ve opened your first cursed tomb.
The wind, which appeared from nowhere, whipped. My hair stuck to my face. The tapestry flapped against the wall ominously.
The lid slid another inch.
“Nope,” I said, taking one slow step backward. “Nope. This is where I die. Love you, Mom.”
I glanced toward the stairs, calculating my odds of outrunning whatever was about to crawl out of that thing.
The symbols flared once more—blinding white—and the sound of the coffin’s final grind filled the space.
Then came silence.
My heartbeat was the only sound.
I swallowed hard, clutching the neck of my wine bottle like a weapon. “Okay,” I whispered, eyes fixed on the coffin. “If you’re undead, please be hot.”
Because if I was going to die in a haunted attic, I at least wanted it to be interesting.