The masked figure—Vivienne—had vanished into the crowd like smoke swept by wind, leaving Isabelle stunned and breathless in the center of the ballroom.
For a moment, time stood still. Then—click.
The sound of a latch turning behind her snapped Isabelle out of her daze. She whirled around. Nothing had visibly changed. The masked guests still floated like ghosts across the marble floor, swaying in rhythm with the mournful melody spilling from a string quartet in the corner.
But Isabelle no longer heard music—only the thud-thud-thud of her heart hammering against her ribcage. Her hands curled into fists as she shoved through the velvet and silk-draped dancers, ignoring their stiff, polite movements. Some turned their masked faces toward her, but said nothing. No one tried to stop her. Their silence felt rehearsed.
She reached the base of the grand staircase where Vivienne had stood only seconds before. At first glance, it appeared undisturbed, but Isabelle dropped to a crouch. There, glinting in the low candlelight, was a faint trail—disturbed dust on the edge of the wooden steps. Recent. Someone had climbed this way.
Isabelle rose and ascended, her boots creaking against the timeworn wood. The music below faded to a muffled hum. Her fingers grazed the smooth railing as she climbed, counting every step in rhythm with her breath.
At the top, the world changed.
A long corridor stretched before her, lined with crumbling wallpaper and flickering sconces, their flames guttering with each draft of cold air that whispered past. The opulence of the ballroom had dissolved into something older, colder—forgotten.
She moved slowly. The further she went, the stronger the sensation that she was descending into something ancient. Time didn't move here. It hovered, thick and silent, like the layers of dust that blanketed everything.
At the far end, she found it.
An ornate mirror stood against the wall—massive and gilt-framed, with elaborate carvings of ivy and roses curling up its sides. But the glass itself was wrong. It shimmered subtly, like heat haze on pavement. And her reflection—it didn't move exactly as she did. It lagged slightly, too slightly to notice at first.
Isabelle took a breath and stepped closer. The reflection shimmered, then dissolved, revealing a narrow passage beyond the glass—hidden behind the mirror, like a memory buried too deep.
Without hesitation, she stepped through.
The passage opened into a small chamber—no grandeur, no gold, no velvet. Only the smell of mildew, dust, and rusted metal. The air was heavy with forgotten things.
She swept her flashlight across the room. Broken glass crunched beneath her boots. The once-elegant furniture lay collapsed in corners, moth-eaten and mold-stained. The remains of a shattered vanity sprawled across the floor, its silver mirror cracked into a hundred fractured eyes.
And someone had been here.
Footprints—bare and recent—cut clean through the dust, leading deeper into the chamber. Her pulse quickened.
At the far end, something caught her eye.
A message—crudely scrawled across the cracked plaster in what looked like blood. It gleamed wetly in the light.
"One more and the witness speaks."
Her stomach turned. The blood was fresh.
The room was silent—too silent. No hum of electricity, no murmuring pipes. Just the faint echo of her breath, and the slow, relentless drip… drip… drip of water from a rusted pipe in the corner.
Then a whisper.
Barely audible. So soft she almost dismissed it.
"Isabelle…"
She spun. The whisper came from behind a splintered mirror leaning against the wall. She moved toward it, heart pounding, fingers grazing the jagged shards. Her reflection stared back—fractal and disjointed. Behind her, nothing. Yet—
"Isabelle…"
This time, unmistakable. A woman's voice, soft as dust falling.
Her breath hitched. "Vivienne?" she whispered into the glass.
The mirror answered only with her fractured reflection.
Until it moved.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward—silent, deliberate.
A woman. Dressed in faded black. Her mask was lace, delicate and identical to the ones worn by the ballroom dancers—but this one had a single red teardrop embroidered beneath the eye.
Isabelle stood frozen. The woman raised a single finger to her lips.
Shh.
"Vivienne?" Isabelle asked again, her voice barely audible.
The woman tilted her head but did not speak.
Isabelle took a step forward.
"Where have you—"
But before the question could finish, the masked woman turned and melted into the shadows beyond the chamber, vanishing through a crack in the wall as if she were never there.
Isabelle chased after her, shoving through the half-collapsed doorway—but the corridor beyond was empty. Only darkness, stale air, and silence.
She turned back to the chamber and froze.
Something was different.
The writing on the wall had changed.
It now read:
"You've seen enough, Witness."
The word Witness was underlined. Deeply. Carved.
From somewhere behind the walls, the music from the ballroom began again—but slower now. Distorted. Each note dragged through invisible teeth.
She backed away slowly, the flashlight flickering as it passed over an old vanity chest in the corner. Something glinted beneath it. She crouched and pulled out a dusty leather-bound notebook.
Inside, names.
Pages and pages of names.
She flipped through—most were crossed out. Then one page stopped her cold. It had only three names.
Vivienne Laurent
Luc Lefevre
Isabelle Laurent
Her own name was circled. Twice.
Her breath caught. She slammed the notebook shut and stood. The mirror behind her shimmered once again. Her escape.
She stepped through it—back into the grand corridor—but the music had stopped.
Not faded. Stopped.
The air was dead still. Not a whisper. Not a footstep.
She looked down the staircase. The ballroom was empty. Every dancer gone. Every light extinguished, save for one flickering chandelier.
Then, at the top of the staircase, something new. Another mirror. But this one was perfectly clean.
And in its reflection, the ballroom was still full.
Full of dancers.
Full of masked faces.
And in the center, standing completely still, was herself.
Watching. Silent. And behind her reflection—
Vivienne.
Smiling.
To be continued...