Evelyn didn't sleep that night.
She lay in bed with her back to Elias, feeling the heat of his body but not its comfort.
She wasn't sure if it was really him anymore.
Not completely.
She pressed her hand to her lower stomach, where the warmth pulsed like a second heartbeat.
It wasn't pain.
It was a claim.
Lenore was trying to be born again. Through her. Inside her.
But Evelyn wasn't going to be a vessel.
She was going to be a fire.
The next morning, the house was silent in a new way.
The kind of silence that follows a storm. Not peace—aftermath.
Every painting in the hallway now stared directly at Evelyn. Eyes that hadn't been painted that way before.
She ripped one off the wall.
Behind it: words carved into the wood.
"YOU ARE NOT HER."
Another painting. Another carving:
"BUT YOU COULD BE."
She ran.
To the greenhouse.
To the chapel.
To the grave beneath the roses.
Anywhere but the bedroom.
Anywhere but the mirrors.
Elias found her in the chapel.
She was on the floor, surrounded by old wax and fallen petals from a bouquet that had long since turned black.
She looked up as he entered. Her voice was cold and direct.
"You said you wanted to save me."
"I do."
"Then help me get this thing out of me."
He froze. "What?"
"Lenore. The house. Whatever it is—it's inside me now. And I didn't say yes."
He knelt beside her, reached for her hand. "We'll fix it. Together."
But she pulled away.
"No. You don't get to say we. Not until you tell me what you really are."
Elias's eyes darkened. "I'm still myself."
"Are you?"
He didn't answer.
She stood.
"You said you loved her. That you tried to stop the house from taking her. But I think you liked it. I think you still do."
"That's not fair."
"No," she snapped. "It's not. None of this is fair. But I'm not going to be your second ghost bride. I won't be a shadow in someone else's love story."
She stormed past him.
That night, Evelyn returned to her room and smashed every mirror.
She burned the lace from the cradle. Tossed every journal into the fireplace.
The house screamed.
Literally.
The walls groaned and shook. Portraits wept. Doors slammed without wind.
She screamed back.
"I'M NOT YOUR BRIDE!"
Thunder split the sky open. Rain pelted the windows.
She could feel Lenore now, pressing against her skin like a second body—jealous, suffocating.
Let me in, the voice whispered.
He still loves me. He'll never be yours.
"I don't want him," Evelyn spat into the storm. "I want to be free."
The wind outside stopped.
Just like that.
And then—
The piano began playing itself downstairs.
A wedding waltz.
Evelyn's blood ran cold.
She moved slowly through the halls, each step echoing as if the house were watching.
Down the grand staircase.
Through the empty ballroom.
To the piano.
No one was there.
Just the keys, moving on their own. And a single red rose resting on the seat.
She picked it up.
It bit her.
Thorns piercing her palm.
Blood smeared the keys.
The music stopped.
And from the silence, a single voice echoed across the ballroom:
"Then you can die as yourself."
Evelyn turned.
Lenore stood at the far end of the room.
Pale. Eyes like ink. Dress of torn silk and ash.
No longer a ghost.
Not a memory.
Real.
Elias appeared beside her.
His face was blank.
"Evelyn," he said softly. "Don't run."
She stepped back.
"You said you'd protect me."
"I am."
Lenore smiled. "He's giving you a gift."
"Don't," Evelyn whispered.
But Elias stepped toward her.
He raised his hand.
And the walls moved.
They closed in.
The house was collapsing.
Around her. Inside her.
The ballroom folded into shadow, and the windows shattered.
Evelyn screamed—
And then the floor fell away.
She woke in her bed.
Alone.
Untouched.
The room was whole again.
No blood. No music. No rose.
As if nothing had happened.
But her palm still bore the mark of a thorn.
And in the mirror—one she hadn't broken—
Lenore smiled.
From inside Evelyn's body.
[End of Chapter 11]