The Devil's Mistress

Chapter 19: The Shifting Truths

Lilith’s hands trembled as she leaned against the cold stone wall, her pulse pounding in her ears. The oppressive silence in the hallway was nearly as unbearable as the screams she had left behind in the cursed room. She wiped her tear-streaked face with the back of her hand, struggling to steady her breath. The house had twisted Melody’s voice, her image, into a weapon, a dagger aimed at the deepest recesses of Lilith’s heart.

She couldn’t trust anything she saw here—not the rooms, not the voices, not even herself.

The hallway before her stretched endlessly, twisting into the shadows like a snake coiling back into its lair. Every step she took felt wrong, as though the floor beneath her was no longer solid but something much more fluid, shifting under her weight. And yet, she had to keep going. The Mistress’s words still lingered in her mind, poisonous and invasive:

“You were never supposed to return.”

Why? What was it that the house was hiding? Why did it need her here, toying with her mind, bending reality to fit its twisted narrative? The deeper Lilith ventured into the house, the more her memories seemed to bleed together, distorting into something incomprehensible. But there was a part of her that knew the answers were close—just beyond her reach.

She stopped in front of an ornate door, its surface covered in intricate carvings that seemed to shift as she looked at them. Faces twisted in agony, eyes hollow and mouths open in silent screams. Her fingers grazed the door’s handle, cold and slick under her touch.

There was no other way forward.

With a slow, deliberate movement, she opened the door.

Inside was a grand, opulent room—a stark contrast to the decaying corridors she had been walking through. Chandeliers of crystal hung from the ceiling, casting soft light on the polished marble floors. Velvet drapes framed the tall windows, though the view outside was nothing but swirling shadows. The room was eerily pristine, untouched by time or the rot that plagued the rest of the house.

And in the center of the room, sitting at an antique vanity, was a woman.

Lilith’s breath caught in her throat. The woman’s back was to her, but there was something familiar about her, something that sent a jolt of recognition through her veins. Her dark hair was pinned up, and she wore a deep crimson gown, the fabric shimmering in the dim light.

“Hello?” Lilith’s voice was barely a whisper, her nerves on edge.

The woman didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her at all.

Lilith took a tentative step closer, her eyes scanning the room for any sign of danger. The chandeliers swayed slightly, though there was no breeze. Her heart hammered in her chest as she approached the woman, her footsteps echoing unnervingly in the silence.

“Who are you?” Lilith asked, her voice stronger this time.

Still, the woman remained motionless.

Lilith swallowed hard, her skin prickling with unease. Slowly, she moved to the side of the vanity, her breath catching in her throat as the woman’s reflection came into view.

Her face was beautiful but cold, like a porcelain doll—flawless, yet utterly devoid of life. Her eyes, though wide open, were vacant, as if they stared into a void only she could see. But it wasn’t the woman’s appearance that shook Lilith to her core.

It was the realization that the woman’s face was her own.

Lilith stumbled backward, her mind reeling as she looked between the woman and her reflection in the mirror. They were identical—down to the smallest detail. But where Lilith’s reflection should have mirrored her shock, this woman remained detached, her expression unnervingly serene.