Chapter 3
The name on the envelope clung to the air like smoke—Scarlett Devereux.
No one moved. No one spoke. The silence in the study thickened, pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath the floorboards.
Henry's hands trembled as he held the envelope. It was sealed with a strange black wax, unlike the rest of the old documents on the desk. It hadn't yellowed with age like the others. It was recent—fresh, even. Olivia's eyes locked on the delicate cursive, unmistakably their mother's hand.
"I thought her name was just folklore," Marlene finally said, voice a fragile whisper. "Scarlett was… a myth. A bedtime story meant to scare us."
"No," Olivia said quietly, staring at the name. "It was more than that. Don't you remember? Mom used to whisper it in her sleep. She'd scream it sometimes. Like it haunted her."
Lila's lips trembled. "She wasn't screaming at Scarlett, Liv. She was apologizing to her."
That detail hadn't surfaced in years. Olivia suddenly remembered the way their mother would wake drenched in sweat, clawing at the sheets, whispering broken fragments into the night: I didn't mean to… I tried to save you… Scarlett, forgive me…
She'd always dismissed them as night terrors, maybe echoes of some trauma their mother never explained. But now, standing in the decaying study of a house that still wore their parents' ghosts like perfume, Olivia felt those fragmented memories shift into place like puzzle pieces.
"Let's open it," Henry said, but his voice lacked resolve. His fingers twitched as he tried to peel the wax seal.
"No," Olivia stepped forward instinctively. "Not yet."
Everyone turned to her, surprised by her sudden assertiveness.
"What if it's not for us?" she continued, her voice lower now. "What if opening it is like… waking something that's better left alone?"
Marlene exhaled sharply. "Come on, Olivia. Don't start talking like that."
But Olivia wasn't listening to her. Her eyes were still locked on the envelope. She felt a pull toward it—not of curiosity, but something deeper. Something ancestral. The kind of calling that felt embedded in her blood.
"We don't even know who Scarlett was," Lila said, wringing her hands. "What if she was part of our family? Or someone they… hurt?"
"She's not family," Henry replied too quickly, too sharply. "I would've known if she was."
But Olivia saw the slight twitch in his jaw. He wasn't so sure.
They decided to leave the envelope unopened, for now. Henry placed it inside a drawer and locked it, slipping the key into his pocket. Olivia didn't argue. Some truths needed time.
They left the study in silence, each of them wrapped in their thoughts. But Olivia noticed how Lila walked closer to her now, as though afraid to drift too far. Her baby sister had always been sensitive, always able to pick up on what others couldn't see or feel. And tonight, Olivia could feel her clinging to that sixth sense like a shield.
By the time they reached the corridor again, the house had shifted. The shadows felt longer, the air colder. It wasn't just the night descending. It was something else.
"Let's choose rooms and settle in," Henry suggested, but the weight in his voice betrayed him. He didn't want to sleep. None of them did.
⸻
Later that night…
Olivia's room was at the far end of the corridor. It was larger than she remembered, with faded wallpaper curling at the corners and a broken chandelier hanging like a skeletal hand above her. The bed creaked under her weight, the springs groaning like something alive.
She lay staring at the ceiling, heart racing too fast for rest. Her thoughts churned around the envelope. Scarlett Devereux. Who was she? And why had their mother—so guarded and cold in life—written her name with such care and secrecy?
At some point, exhaustion took her, and Olivia slipped into a dreamless sleep.
Until the scratching started.
She woke with a jolt. The room was freezing, her breath visible. Somewhere beyond the door, a faint sound repeated itself: scritch… scritch… scritch.
She sat up, pulse roaring in her ears.
"Hello?" she called, her voice hoarse from sleep.
The scratching stopped.
Olivia swung her legs out of bed and padded toward the door, every instinct screaming at her not to. She opened it slowly, peering into the hallway.
Empty.
Her breath caught when she noticed the long drag marks on the floorboards—like something heavy had been pulled across it.
They led toward Lila's room.
She ran, heart thundering, her bare feet slapping against the cold wood. The door to Lila's room was slightly ajar. Olivia pushed it open, expecting the worst.
But Lila was there—sitting upright in bed, eyes wide and unblinking.
"Lila?" Olivia whispered, stepping closer.
Lila's gaze didn't move.
"I saw her," she said, her voice a broken whisper.
"Saw who?"
"She was at the foot of my bed. Dressed in white. She was crying, Olivia. But when I moved, she stopped. And then she stared at me like I'd done something horrible."
"Was it a dream?"
"No," Lila said, her voice certain. "It wasn't. She was real."
Olivia wrapped her arms around her sister, feeling her trembling.
"She said my name," Lila murmured. "She knew my name."
Olivia didn't sleep after that. She sat by Lila's bed, holding her hand. Listening. Waiting.
But the house had gone silent again, the way it always did after taking something it wanted.
⸻
The next morning
Breakfast was a silent affair. Henry had made coffee, though no one really drank it. Marlene sat at the end of the long dining table, arms crossed tightly, eyes bloodshot. Lila hadn't spoken a word since waking. Henry paced the length of the room.
"I think we need to open the envelope," he said finally. "If Scarlett was real—if she was part of this house—we need to understand why."
Olivia didn't argue this time. She nodded, and together they returned to the study.
Henry retrieved the key and opened the drawer. The envelope was exactly where he'd left it. He handed it to Olivia.
Her hands shook as she peeled back the black wax. The paper inside was thick, aged, but not brittle. She unfolded it and began to read aloud.
"To whoever finds this,
You are not strangers to her pain.
You are born of it.
Scarlett Devereux was the girl we wronged.
We buried the truth with her body, but her soul never left.
The house remembers. She remembers.
We thought we could silence her.
But she lives in the hollow now.
And she's been waiting.
Forgive us.
Forgive yourselves.
– E. Hawthorne"
Olivia's voice cracked. The silence that followed was suffocating.
Marlene spoke first. "What does that mean? 'Born of it'? Was she… our sister?"
"No," Olivia said, voice hollow. "She wasn't our sister. She was our mother's guilt."
Henry's face was pale. "They buried her here."
Lila looked up suddenly. "She's under the floor."
They all turned to her.
"She showed me last night. She pointed. I didn't understand what she meant, but now I do. She's beneath us."
The house groaned, as if to confirm it.