Fate of deception

Chapter 41 - Umaizah's POV

The whispers wrapped around us, faint yet unrelenting, like a cold breath across the back of my neck. They sounded almost human, but not quite—like someone who had long forgotten how words were supposed to sound. Each syllable scraped across the air, rough and raw, catching on edges we couldn't see but could feel pressing down on us. They were calling, pulling us forward, urging us deeper into this labyrinth of decay and shadow.

I took a shaky breath, feeling it snag in my throat. The air tasted stale, like old paper and something darker—something that clung to the inside of my mouth, lingering like a half-formed thought. I glanced sideways at Amir, hoping he'd look back at me, hoping he'd give me something to anchor myself to. But his eyes were fixed straight ahead, as if he could outrun whatever hunted us if he just didn't acknowledge it. And maybe he could. Or maybe that was another trap.

There was something unnervingly familiar about this place, as though it had carved itself from fragments of my memories, picking out only the darkest, most forgotten corners and knitting them together into walls and ceilings that seemed to breathe. I knew it was impossible, irrational, but with every step, I felt as if I were returning to something I had long ago abandoned. And the further we went, the more it felt like the mansion knew me, that it could peel back my skin, layer by layer, until it found whatever it was really searching for.

The whispers grew louder, but their words stayed slippery, just beyond comprehension. They tangled with my heartbeat, making it hard to tell where the sound of my own pulse ended and the voice began. The hallway curved suddenly, twisting like the spine of some great, ancient creature, and I had to press my hand to the wall to steady myself. The wallpaper felt damp, soft in a way that made my stomach churn. I pulled my hand back quickly, wiping it on my jeans, the sensation lingering like a phantom stain on my skin.

"We shouldn't have come," Amir said softly, almost to himself, his words mingling with the whispers. For a moment, I wasn't sure if he'd spoken at all or if it was the mansion using his voice. I felt a chill run through me, and I swallowed hard, ignoring the way it felt like a rock lodged in my throat.

"We didn't have a choice," I replied, and even to my own ears, my voice sounded hollow, brittle. It was a lie, and we both knew it. We'd had a choice. We could have stayed behind, hidden in that dark room with the others, letting our fear keep us pinned in place. But something deeper, something more desperate, had driven us forward. A need to escape, to claw our way out of this nightmare even if it meant tearing ourselves apart in the process.

Amir didn't answer, but I could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitched as if longing to reach for me, to grab hold and keep me close. But he didn't. Just like I wouldn't reach for him. We both knew that in a place like this, attachments were as dangerous as the darkness itself. They made you vulnerable, made you soft. And soft things didn't survive here.

The hallway opened up ahead, spilling us into a room that felt like a cavity, dark and hollow, the air thick with the scent of mold and something sickly sweet, like rotting fruit. Shadows clung to the walls, thick and pulsing, as if they were waiting, watching, deciding whether we were worth devouring. I felt Amir shift beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, and for a moment, I let myself believe it was intentional, that he was reaching for comfort just as much as I was.

The room was vast, larger than any of the others we'd been through, stretching up into a ceiling lost to darkness. The walls were lined with portraits, faces frozen in frames that looked older than time itself. Their eyes followed us as we moved, hollow and accusing, each expression etched with a torment that felt too real to be just paint. I shivered, feeling the weight of their gaze pressing down on me, stripping me bare. I wanted to look away, but something about their eyes held me captive, like they were trying to tell me something, a silent warning from whatever purgatory had trapped them here.

"Do you recognize them?" Amir asked, his voice barely a whisper.

I hesitated, squinting at the nearest portrait, a woman with hollow cheeks and eyes that looked far too alive for something so long dead. A strange feeling settled in my chest, as if I did know her—or perhaps she knew me. I opened my mouth to answer, but the words stuck, tangled in my throat, as if some part of me didn't want to remember, didn't want to see whatever truth lay buried here.

And then I noticed it: a glint of silver at her throat, a small pendant shaped like an eye, carved in intricate detail. A memory stirred, faint and fractured, something from years ago—a story my grandmother used to tell me about a cursed eye, one that could see both life and death, binding the soul of whoever wore it.

"It's watching us," I whispered, my own words catching like burrs in my mouth. "They're all... watching us."

As soon as I said it, I felt the weight of a dozen more gazes settle on me, sharper, more insistent, as if the portraits were waiting for me to unravel, to let the fear consume me completely. The air grew colder, thickening around us like smoke. Amir's hand found mine again, this time his grip less of an anchor and more of a warning, a reminder of the only thing keeping us from sinking.

"We need to keep moving," he murmured, his voice barely holding back the tremor. "Before they decide we belong here, too."

I nodded, forcing my feet to move, each step feeling heavier, as if the floor were clinging to me, trying to root me in place. The whispers had faded, replaced now by a low hum that seemed to vibrate through the walls, a sound that thrummed through my bones, resonating with something buried deep within me.

As we reached the other side of the room, I felt a presence behind me—a pressure, cold and insistent, like an icy hand pressed against the back of my neck. I didn't dare turn around. The weight of it grew, pressing harder, almost painful, and for a wild, desperate moment, I wanted to scream, to break the silence and shatter whatever spell held us here.

But I didn't. Instead, I tightened my grip on Amir's hand, my knuckles white with the effort. And together, we stepped forward, leaving behind the gaze of the portraits, the weight of their unspoken warnings.

As we crossed the threshold into the next hallway, I felt the presence fade, the room's hold loosening like a breath released. But the fear lingered, clinging to my skin like the scent of smoke after a fire, a reminder that we were intruders here, trespassers in a place that remembered us all too well.

And as we moved further into the darkness, I couldn't shake the feeling that each step was leading us closer to something that had been waiting, patient and silent, biding its time in the shadows.