That night, the mansion felt even more suffocating than it had during the day. The air was thick with something unspoken, as though the walls themselves were holding secrets—secrets that I wasn't sure I wanted to know.
I tried to shake off the uneasy feeling, but no matter how many times I told myself I was overreacting, it wouldn't go away. As I lay in the cold, unfamiliar bed in the guest room, I could hear things in the silence. Whispers. Soft, distant murmurs that seemed to come from nowhere. I'd close my eyes, telling myself it was just the house settling. But every time I opened them, the shadows in the corners of the room seemed a little darker, a little deeper.
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, trying to block out the creeping sensation that something was watching me. A cold draft brushed against my skin, and I shivered. I pushed the blanket back and sat up, the chill in the room prickling against my skin. The window was shut tight, but the air felt like it had a life of its own, flowing through cracks I couldn't see. I glanced around, half-expecting to see a shadow moving at the edge of my vision.
Nothing.
I rubbed my eyes and got up, my feet barely making a sound against the cold floor. I walked to the window, checking once again that it was closed, but the draft still lingered. It was as if the house had a mind of its own, as if it wanted me to feel like I was losing control.
I took a few deep breaths, trying to steady myself, but then I heard it again. The whisper. This time, it was closer, right behind me. I spun around, heart pounding, but there was nothing there.
I wasn't imagining things. The house was... alive, in a way I couldn't explain. The unease in my stomach grew, but I refused to let fear dictate my next move. I wasn't going to let some old mansion get the better of me—not after everything I'd already fought through.
I forced myself to return to bed, but sleep didn't come easy. Every time I closed my eyes, the whispers seemed to grow louder, the shadows thicker. By the time morning came, I hadn't slept a wink.
But the morning light didn't offer the comfort I'd hoped for. I found myself wandering the halls, the mansion feeling even more oppressive in the daylight. The walls seemed to close in tighter with each step. I had to get out. I had to know what was going on here.
That's when I found it.
I was exploring one of the back corridors of the mansion when I stumbled upon a small, hidden door behind a dusty tapestry. It was almost too well-hidden, as if someone didn't want anyone to find it. Curiosity—dangerous, reckless curiosity—got the best of me, and I reached out to push the door open.
It creaked loudly, as if protesting the intrusion. Inside was a tiny, dimly lit room filled with nothing but old furniture and a single wooden chest tucked into the corner. My heart pounded in my chest, but something told me I needed to see what was inside.
I walked over to the chest, my breath caught in my throat. The old wood felt solid beneath my fingertips as I lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped in a faded cloth, was something that made my pulse spike—a leather-bound journal. The edges were frayed, the pages yellowed with age, but there was no mistaking it. It was Sage's handwriting on the cover.
Sage's diary.
I sat down on the dusty floor and opened it carefully. The first few pages were filled with mundane entries—short notes about his day, his frustrations with the Vancourts, his attempts to make our life together work. But then, the tone changed. The words grew darker, more desperate.
"Something's wrong. I feel it in my bones. The Vancourts are hiding something from me, and it's only a matter of time before it catches up to us."
My hands trembled as I read, but I couldn't stop. I had to know what he was trying to protect us from.
The entries became more erratic as time passed, as if Sage was fighting some invisible enemy—something powerful, something ancient. He wrote about the Vancourt family's curse, about how it had haunted them for generations. He mentioned the bloodline, the way it carried darkness within it, and how every generation was forced to make a sacrifice to keep the curse from destroying them all.
The last few pages were barely legible, smudged with what looked like ink—or was it blood?—and they were filled with frantic, fragmented sentences.
"Can't protect them forever. I have to break it. I have to stop it... before it's too late."
And then, a final line, hastily written, almost as if he were out of time:
"A sacrifice must be made..."
My stomach twisted as I read the last words. Sage had known something. He had discovered something about the curse, something that had terrified him to his core. And in the end, he had left us with nothing but this cryptic warning. A sacrifice. What had he done? What had he tried to stop?
I felt a chill crawl up my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I knew now. The Vancourts didn't just hold power—they held a curse. And whatever they had done to my husband, whatever price he had paid, it hadn't been enough. The curse was still alive, still waiting.
I slammed the diary shut, my breath shallow, my heart racing. The room seemed to close in around me again, the walls pressing in with their secrets, suffocating me.
I had to leave. But I couldn't. The inheritance, the Vancourts—they had already sucked me into their web, and now, I was caught. There was no way out.
But there was something I didn't understand. The diary had mentioned a sacrifice, but it didn't say who the sacrifice would be. Was it Sage? Or was it me? Or worse... was it Kaius or Amari?
I closed my eyes, trying to push back the wave of panic that threatened to drown me. I had to protect them. Whatever the cost. I couldn't let them become part of the Vancourt legacy.
But I was starting to realize that in this house, in this family, nothing came without a price.
And the cost? It might be more than I could ever pay.