Posted by Lord Alaric Thorne
“The house no longer waits for me to listen. It has begun to speak.”
It began with a name. Not spoken aloud, but whispered through the plaster. I heard it while lighting the hallway candelabra. My hand stilled. The flame shivered. The wall said: “Alaric.”
I searched the passage, half-hoping it was memory. But then I found the sigil.
Behind a dislodged brick—a burned-out ward etched in Moira’s hand. Its lines were blackened, the chalk smudged like someone had passed through it, not around it.
Later, I found my desk drawer open. My journal splayed. A page filled with writing I don’t remember composing—
She is beneath. She remembers. She waits for the door.
There is more.
Tonight, I passed the mirror in the north stairwell. It was fogged, though there was no breath, no storm, no warmth. And in the mist, scrawled with some unseen hand, were the letters:
“You are not alone.”
I wiped the glass. My reflection did not return.
I no longer wonder if she is trying to speak to me.
She is.
~ Lord Alaric Thorne
Haunted. Hollow. Heard.
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