Chapter 3

The first night was supposed to break me.

Gerald showed me to my room—a lavish suite on the second floor with a four-poster bed, silk curtains, and a bathroom bigger than my old apartment.

"Dinner is at eight," he said. "I'd recommend you lock your door tonight."

"From what?"

He paused. "From the house."

After he left, I took a long shower, changed into pajamas, and climbed into bed.

At exactly midnight, it started.

The walls began to bleed.

Thick, dark liquid seeped from the wallpaper, running down in slow rivulets, pooling on the hardwood floor.

The room filled with the sound of whispering—hundreds of voices, overlapping, speaking in languages I couldn't understand.

The temperature plummeted until I could see my breath.

And then the shadows moved.

They peeled off the walls like living things, crawling across the ceiling, reaching toward the bed with long, clawed fingers.

Any normal person would have been screaming.

I rolled over and pulled the blanket up.

"Could you keep it down?" I mumbled. "I haven't slept in three weeks."

The shadows froze.

The whispering stopped.

For a solid ten seconds, nothing happened.

Then the bleeding walls slowly… dried up. The shadows retreated. The whispers faded.

I was already half asleep.

Something cold brushed my cheek—like fingers made of ice.

"Strange," a deep voice murmured, barely audible. It was Damien's voice, but it sounded different. Softer. Confused.

"You don't scream."

"Mmm," I mumbled into my pillow. "Screaming takes energy. Go away."

Another long pause.

"You truly feel nothing?"

"I feel annoyed," I said. "Does that count?"

The cold presence lingered for a moment longer. Then it pulled back.

When I opened my eyes in the morning, everything was normal.

No blood. No shadows. No claw marks.

Just a single black rose on my nightstand that definitely hadn't been there before.

I picked it up. It was beautiful—perfectly formed, with petals so dark they seemed to absorb light.

"Huh," I said. "At least the haunted house has good taste in flowers."

I went downstairs for breakfast.

The dining room was a cathedral of dark wood and candlelight. A long table set for twenty, with food laid out for one.

Damien was nowhere to be seen.

But Gerald was there, standing by the sideboard, looking like he'd seen a ghost.

"Miss Marsh," he said slowly. "You're… still here."

"Where else would I be?"

"The last three candidates didn't make it past 2 AM," he said. "One broke a window and jumped from the second floor to escape."

"That's dramatic," I said, sitting down. "Is there coffee?"

Gerald poured me a cup, his hands trembling slightly.

"Miss Marsh, I need to tell you something," he said quietly. "Mr. Blackwell's condition… it's not what the tabloids say."

"You mean the curse?"

He nodded. "It's real. He was born with it. A darkness that feeds on the fear and pain of those around him. The stronger the fear, the stronger it gets."

"So he's basically a human anxiety sponge."

"That's… one way to put it," Gerald said, clearly thrown off. "The point is, the darkness manifests physically. What you saw last night—the walls, the shadows—that was him. Or rather, the thing inside him."

"And it can't be removed?"

"Every specialist, priest, and occultist in the world has tried," Gerald said. "Nothing works. The curse is part of his soul."

I sipped my coffee.

"Has anyone ever tried just… not being afraid of it?"

Gerald stared at me.

"No," he said. "Because that's impossible."

"Well," I set down my cup. "Clearly not."

Just then, the dining room doors slammed open.

Damien stood in the doorway, dressed in all black, the dark veins on his skin more visible in the daylight.

He looked at me—still sitting there, calmly eating toast—and something flickered in those silver eyes.

"You stayed," he said. It wasn't a question. But his voice carried a note of disbelief.

"The bed's comfortable," I said. "And you left me a flower. That was sweet."

The black veins on his neck pulsed violently.

"That wasn't a gift," he said through gritted teeth. "That was a death warning. The black rose means—"

"It means you have excellent taste in gothic aesthetics," I interrupted. "Seriously, do you have a florist? I want to order a dozen for my room."

Damien's jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grind.

Behind him, Gerald made a small, strangled sound—something between a cough and a laugh.

"Forty-eight hours," Damien said, his voice dangerous. "You have forty-eight hours."

He turned and stalked out of the room, shadows trailing behind him like a cape.

I looked at Gerald. "Is he always this dramatic?"

"Always," Gerald sighed. Then, very quietly, he added: "But I've never seen him leave a flower for anyone before."