Whispers behind Locked Doors

Into the Abyss

Clara's consciousness came back slowly, like rising to the surface of water after being held underwater for far too long. Her head throbbed, a dull ache that seemed to pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat. She gasped for air, but it was thick, heavy — unnaturally so — as if the very atmosphere was pushing back against her. She blinked rapidly, trying to adjust her eyes to the darkness around her.

It was cold — so cold that her breath came out in white puffs, visible even in the near pitch-black room. She could feel the pressure on her chest lifting, but only slightly, as if something invisible was still gripping her, pulling her deeper into the void.

A sound — soft at first, almost a whisper — slithered through the darkness. Clara froze. It was a voice, familiar and yet unrecognizable.

*"Clara..."*

Her name. It echoed through her mind like a distant memory, reverberating and curling in the corners of her thoughts. She jerked her head to the side, her eyes straining against the darkness, but there was nothing there. No figure. No ghostly apparition. Only the oppressive silence.

Then, just as she thought she might go mad from the uncertainty, the room seemed to pulse. The walls seemed to breathe with her, expanding and contracting, as though the very house itself was alive. The temperature dropped further, the cold cutting through her clothing, making her skin crawl.

"Clara..." The voice called again, louder this time, more distinct. It wasn't coming from just one place — it was all around her. It was as if the house itself was speaking to her.

But Clara knew better. This wasn't the house. This wasn't some ethereal entity. This was *Emily*. Or what was left of her.

*"Help me, Clara... Help me..."*

The words were no longer a faint whisper — they were a desperate cry, soaked in fear and pleading. Clara's blood ran cold. Her legs trembled as she pushed herself off the floor, her hands shaking violently as she reached out into the void. She was afraid to look, afraid to confirm that the voice was coming from the mirror again. She didn't want to go back to it. Not after what she had seen.

But she had no choice.

Slowly, with every ounce of willpower she could summon, Clara turned her head toward the darkened corner of the room where the mirror had been. As if answering her unspoken fear, the mirror gleamed in the blackness — a pale, ghostly reflection of the room.

But it was different now.

The once familiar frame of the mirror was warped, its edges twisted and jagged as though it had been clawed at. The glass itself wasn't reflecting the room she stood in, but something else. Something that wasn't real.

It was a corridor. A long, narrow hallway bathed in an unnatural, flickering light. The walls were covered in dark stains, some fresh, some older, as though something had been scraped off the surface over time. And at the end of the hallway — far in the distance — Clara could make out the faintest shape. A figure.

*Emily?*

Clara's heart stuttered in her chest. She took a tentative step toward the mirror, her fingers aching to reach out, but fear gripped her. What was she seeing? What was this place? Was this a glimpse of the world beyond the glass, or was it the house showing her another distorted memory? Was Emily there, waiting?

*"Clara..."*

The voice came again — louder, more urgent. This time, Clara didn't hesitate. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the cool glass of the mirror. Her breath caught in her throat as the mirror seemed to shift beneath her touch. The hallway deepened, the figure at the end more defined, its features sharper, clearer.

And then, just as Clara thought she could no longer stand it, the figure in the distance moved.

*"Clara... please..."* Emily's voice broke through, softer now, a faint whisper, but filled with an agony Clara couldn't ignore.

In an instant, Clara's mind snapped into focus. The house wasn't just showing her a vision — it was *trapping* her. She wasn't looking into another world; she was being pulled into one. She had to stop it. She had to stop the mirror from pulling her into that nightmare, or she would lose herself forever — just like Emily.

"*No!*" Clara screamed, her voice trembling with desperation. "I won't go with you!"

With everything she had, Clara yanked her hand away from the mirror, stumbling backward as the cold grew sharper. The light in the room flickered violently, casting eerie shadows on the walls as if the house itself was protesting. Clara's vision blurred for a moment, and when it cleared, the mirror was gone.

Not physically gone. But the reflection, the hallway, the figure — they were gone. The glass was now simply a sheet of silent, impenetrable darkness. Clara gasped for air, her mind spinning. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

She had almost lost herself.

*"Clara..."*

This time, the voice wasn't coming from the mirror — it was coming from behind her.

Clara spun around, her heart leaping in her chest, but there was nothing there. The room was empty, silent. Too silent. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and for a moment, she felt a sharp pang of loneliness, of isolation. The feeling of being *watched* pressed down on her.

The house — no, the force behind the house — was growing bolder. Clara could feel it.

And then, a sudden crash shattered the silence.

From the hallway outside the room, there was a deafening sound of something heavy falling, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of footsteps. Slow. Measured. But unmistakably human.

*It's him. Thomas.*

Clara's pulse quickened, but she didn't move. She couldn't. Her feet were glued to the floor, and the air seemed to grow denser, heavier, until she felt like she was suffocating in it. She couldn't run. Not anymore. The house had already claimed her.

The footsteps grew louder, closer.

*"You're not alone."* The voice again — closer now, so close that Clara could feel it in her bones.

Clara's thoughts were scrambled. Her mind raced with the pieces of the puzzle she had been putting together since Emily's disappearance. Thomas had known. Vivienne had known. And now Clara had to face it herself.

The house didn't just trap souls. It *fed* on them. And if it couldn't take them through the mirror, it would take them through *time* itself.

Suddenly, she understood. Thomas hadn't just been keeping the house's secret — he had been its *servant*, its unwilling puppet, keeping the dark forces of the house at bay for years. But something had gone terribly wrong. The house had grown stronger, its hunger more insatiable. And now, it had its sights set on Clara.

The footsteps were nearly at the door now. Clara's body froze. She could feel the cold seeping into her skin, her bones. But before the door opened, a different sound interrupted the silence. A distant, faint whisper that echoed through the house. One word. *Clara*.

Clara closed her eyes. She knew what she had to do. She knew how this ended.

And she had no choice but to face it.