17. The Nightmare Room
The Nightmare Room
Nichole
The mansion is silent. Too silent.
I move through the endless corridors, my fingers grazing the cool marble walls. The usual warmth of the Dream Room is missing. The golden glow, once rich and steady, flickers like a dying candle, its light pulsing weakly against the walls.
Something is wrong.
I swallow hard, forcing myself to keep moving, to ignore the unease curling in my stomach. The beauty of the mansion has always mesmerized me—the grandeur of the chandeliers, the towering bookshelves, the intricate carvings on the doors. It felt timeless, untouched by darkness.
But now, that beauty feels false. A mask.
The silence stretches between my footsteps, thick and unnatural. The golden light flickers again. Weaker.
I stop. Listen.
Nothing.
A slow exhale leaves my lips, but it does nothing to settle the tight feeling inside my chest.
Where is Damian?
The air grows heavier as I step into the library.
I hadn’t meant to find it. Hadn’t even been looking for it.
But the moment my fingers brush against the iron handle of the grand double doors, something slips into my mind.
Not a voice. Not a thought. A feeling. A cold, featherlight touch at the edges of my consciousness, curling against my thoughts like a whisper I’m not meant to hear.
My breath stills.
The library stretches high above me, endless rows of towering mahogany shelves disappearing into the domed ceiling. The air smells of parchment, ink, and something else. Something metallic.
I take a cautious step inside.
I’ve been in this room before, but never like this.
The books are humming. Not with sound, but with energy.
I run my fingers along the spines as I move between the towering shelves. Some bear titles I recognize—histories, philosophies, languages. Others have no words at all. Only symbols. Markings that shift beneath my gaze, twisting like they weren’t meant to be understood.
A small pulse crawls up my spine.
I should leave.
The thought slams into me, sharp and urgent. Get out. Now.
But something deeper—something insatiable—refuses to let me walk away.
Then, I see it.
A single book sits slightly ajar on the shelf, its deep blue cover gleaming beneath the golden light. Unlike the others, it looks untouched by time, its golden swirls etched into the surface like a heartbeat frozen in ink.
The pull grows stronger.
My breath shallows as I reach for it. The second my fingers brush the cover—
Cold. A sharp, electric chill races up my arm. A flicker of movement in my peripheral vision. My heart lurches. I whip around.
Nothing. Just books. Just shadows. Just the quiet crackle of the chandelier’s light overhead. I turn back to the book.
Slowly, carefully, I pull it from the shelf and flip it open. Symbols. Elegant. Curling. Beautiful and wrong.
They shift beneath my gaze, warping slightly, like they weren’t meant to be seen by my eyes.
I close the book and put it back where it belongs.
The unease doesn’t fade.
I move down the grand hallway, but the further I go, the more the mansion’s warmth seems to drain away.
The glow of the chandeliers, the shimmer of the marble floor, the intricate carvings along the gilded walls—everything is just as it has always been.
And yet, it isn’t.
The house feels different now. Fabricated.
As if I’ve stepped onto a stage rather than into a home, surrounded by beauty that has been carefully placed, not lived in.
My breath hitches as I step into the vast, open grand hall.
It stretches out before me like a ballroom, a masterpiece of towering columns and golden sconces, the polished floor gleaming beneath the low-hanging chandeliers.
The elegance is overwhelming—almost too perfect. Like something crafted to distract from the truth hiding beneath the surface.
The first notes slither through the silence, curling between the pillars, whispering along my skin. Music. Soft. Haunting. Wrong.
I recognize it immediately. Chopin’s Nocturne Op. 48 No. 1. Slow. Deliberate. Lonely. My heartbeat quickens as my gaze drifts to the center of the hall. The grand piano stands waiting, its sleek black surface gleaming beneath the chandelier’s glow. The keys move.
My breath stalls. I see them pressing down—one after another, the melody flowing effortlessly—but there’s no one sitting at the bench. No one playing. No one there.
I should turn back. I should run. But instead, I step closer.
The music softens, as if sensing my presence.
I hesitate just a breath away, staring at the empty piano, my fingers hovering above its smooth, polished surface.
The reflection in its lacquered body trembles—not from the flickering chandelier, but from me.
And then, I see it. A shape within the reflection.
My breath catches, lungs seizing as realization slams into me. It isn’t just my reflection staring back. Something else is watching.
I snatch my hand back. The music stops. Silence devours the hall.
Then, a pulse. Not sound. Not movement. Something deeper. A vibration through the air, faint but undeniable. It slithers over my skin, wrapping around my ribs, settling in my bones.
I turn my head before I even realize I’m moving. And that’s when I see it.
The upper level. A single door stands at the far end of the second floor, opposite the Dream Room. Not like the others. It is solid black, smooth, unadorned. No intricate carvings, no gilded edges, nothing to match the opulence of the mansion.
A door that does not belong.
Yet somehow— It is waiting for me.
My stomach twists. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the silence. I should leave. I should. But my feet are already moving.
The grand staircase looms ahead. I climb it slowly, my fingertips brushing along the golden railing. The warmth that always hums beneath my touch is gone. It is cold here. Heavier.
The closer I get, the stronger the pulse becomes. By the time I reach the door, the air itself seems to vibrate, charged with something unseen.
I lift my hand. My fingers hover just above the smooth black surface. There is no heat. No sound. Nothing.
I should turn back. I should. But I don’t. Instead, I touch it. And the mansion shudders.
A violent, invisible force slams into my chest. My breath vanishes, a crushing cold sinking into my bones. The walls groan, as if the house itself has been wounded.
I stumble back, gasping. Then the door creaks. A slow, aching sound that sends a bolt of ice through my veins.
It is opening. And something inside is waiting.
I freeze as the door inches open, revealing nothing beyond it. A yawning abyss. A blackness so pure it swallows the light.
The mansion behind me remains silent. Too silent. Frozen in a moment stretched too long, as if even it is afraid of what lies beyond that door.
I take a step back. Then another.
My mind screams run, but my body won’t move fast enough. Something thick and unseen presses against my limbs, weighing them down, making every motion feel sluggish.
Then a whisper. Soft. Breathless. Curling from the abyss.
"Nichole."
My stomach drops. Not because of the whisper itself. But because of the way it’s said. Familiar.
"Nichole."
Again. The exact same way. The same intonation. The same breath. The same voice. My voice.
A perfect mimicry of me echoes from inside the darkness. My lungs seize. No.
I want to scream, want to tear myself away from the sound that does not belong—the thing that is not me.
No. No, no, no.
My legs move before my mind can catch up. I turn and run.
My feet pound against the marble floor, the mansion blurring around me. The chandeliers, the golden glow, the intricate carvings—all wrong now. Twisting, melting at the edges of my vision, warping like reality itself is unraveling.
Just keep running. Just get out.
Then something wraps around my ankle. A grip—cold, clawing, unyielding.
I scream.
My body wrenches backward. My skull slams into the marble. Pain splinters through me.
My nails scrape at the floor, desperate—desperate for anything to hold onto.
But there’s nothing. I’m sliding. The grip tightens as it drags me towards the black door.
"No! No, no—NO!"
I try to kick free out of desperation. I continue to claw at the floor, nails breaking from the pressure as I’m pulled into the abyss.
A final, desperate scream tears from my throat—And then the door slams shut so hard that it opens again, slightly ajar.
The mansion shakes with the impact. The chandeliers rattle violently before going still.
Silence fulls the mansion as a sliver of darkness seeps out of the Slightly ajar door.
From the other side my screams still echo, fading further and further away.
Until there is nothing.