The frantic, desperate knocking from within the bricked-up passage still echoed in Noah's ears, even after Helena had glided away, leaving him alone in the vast, silent cellar. He stood for a long moment, pressed against the cold stone wall, his body trembling, the scent of old blood and decay suffocating him. He was trapped. Helena was in control. And the house, a living, breathing entity, was watching. And it was hungry. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that his life, as he knew it, was over. His inheritance was not just a house. It was a destiny. And it was terrifying. He was the next offering. And the knocking, it seemed, was calling his name.
He stumbled away from the wall, his lamp flickering, casting dancing shadows that seemed to mock his fear. The air in the cellar felt thick, heavy, as if the very atmosphere resisted his every breath. He scrambled up the steps, his boots slipping on the damp stone, his heart pounding against his ribs like a drum. He burst into the grand hall, gasping for breath, the cold, stale air a welcome relief after the suffocating atmosphere of the cellar. He leaned against the closed cellar door, his body trembling, the memory of the frantic knocking still vibrating in his bones.
He looked around the grand hall, at the darkened portraits, the blackened mirrors, and felt a profound sense of isolation. There was no escape. He was utterly alone in this monstrous house, with only the echoes of the dead and the chilling presence of Helena for company. The coldness that had settled in his bones seemed to deepen, a pervasive chill that went beyond the dampness of the manor. He felt a strange ache in his limbs, a dull throb in his head, and a sudden, overwhelming wave of nausea.
He stumbled towards his study, his vision blurring at the edges. He entered, slamming the door shut behind him, plunging the room into darkness. He fumbled for the oil lamp on his desk, his hands trembling, but his fingers felt clumsy, unresponsive. He finally managed to light it, the flickering flame casting dancing shadows that seemed to writhe and stretch around him, making the familiar room feel alien and menacing.
He collapsed onto the narrow, uncomfortable bed, the mattress lumpy, the sheets smelling faintly of dust and disuse. His head throbbed, a dull, persistent ache that intensified with every beat of his heart. His skin felt clammy, yet he shivered uncontrollably, a deep, bone-rattling chill that no amount of blankets could alleviate. He pulled the thin blanket up to his chin, but the cold persisted, seeping into his very core.
He closed his eyes, and immediately, images swam before him: the frantic knocking from the cellar, the sad eyes of the woman in the locket, the scorched cradle in the ash closet. And then, Helena's face, her unreadable eyes, her faint, unsettling smile, her voice whispering, "They're louder in winter, Mr. Dorset." The words twisted in his mind, merging with the throbbing in his head, becoming a distorted, terrifying chorus.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, caught in a feverish haze. The room seemed to tilt and sway around him, the shadows on the walls dancing with a life of their own. He heard whispers, faint and indistinct, seeming to come from the very walls, from the air itself. The voices of the lost. The voices of the sacrificed. They called his name, a chorus of mournful laments, pulling him deeper into the house's dark embrace.
Hours passed, or perhaps only minutes. Time lost all meaning in the feverish delirium. He felt a presence in the room, a cool hand on his forehead. He opened his eyes, his vision blurred, and saw Helena. She stood over him, her black dress a stark silhouette against the dim light, her face a pale, ethereal mask. Her eyes, dark and fathomless, were fixed on him, a strange, unsettling intensity in their depths.
"You have a fever, Mr. Dorset," she murmured, her voice a low, melodic purr that seemed to caress the syllables. "The house, you see, does not take kindly to being disturbed. Especially its... inhabitants." Her hand, cool and slender, moved from his forehead to his cheek, her fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path. Her touch was cold, like marble, yet it sent a strange, electric current through him, a jolt that was both repulsive and strangely exhilarating.
He tried to speak, to ask her about the knocking, about the voices, about the fever that consumed him. But his throat felt dry, his tongue thick and unresponsive. He could only manage a hoarse groan.
"Rest, Mr. Dorset," she whispered, her voice soft, almost hypnotic. "You have agitated them. And they, in turn, have agitated you. The house, you see, has a way of asserting its will. Of making its presence known." Her hand moved to his neck, her fingers brushing against the pulse point, a delicate, almost intimate gesture. "You are sensitive, Mr. Dorset. Very sensitive. A rare gift. And a terrible burden."
He felt her hand move to the buttons of his shirt. He tried to resist, to push her away, but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive, weighed down by the fever. He could only watch, helpless, as she slowly, deliberately, undid each button, her movements precise, unhurried. The cool air touched his skin as his shirt parted, sending a shiver through him that had nothing to do with the fever.
"You are too warm, Mr. Dorset," she murmured, her voice a low, soothing lullaby. "The house, you see, is trying to claim you. To consume you. But I... I will not let it take you so easily. Not yet." Her eyes, dark and unreadable, held his, a silent challenge, a promise of things yet to come.
She slipped the shirt from his shoulders, her fingers brushing against his bare skin, sending a fresh wave of shivers through him. He felt exposed, vulnerable, utterly at her mercy. He tried to speak, to protest, but the words were lost in the feverish haze that consumed him.
She leaned closer, her breath warm on his face, mingling with the faint scent of lilies and ozone that clung to her. Her lips brushed against his ear, and she began to whisper, her voice a low, melodic murmur, in a language he didn't understand. It was ancient, guttural, yet strangely beautiful, a series of soft, sibilant sounds that seemed to resonate deep within his bones. He caught fragments of words, distorted and meaningless in his fevered state: ...blood... memory... desire... offering...
He felt her hand move to his chest, her fingers tracing a slow, deliberate path over his skin, sending shivers through him. Her touch was cold, almost icy, yet it ignited a strange, unsettling heat within him, a perverse combination of fear and a burgeoning, forbidden desire. He tried to pull away, to escape her touch, but his body refused to obey. He was a puppet, and she, the puppeteer, pulling his strings.
She continued to whisper, the ancient words washing over him, seeping into his mind, blurring the lines between reality and delirium. He saw images, fragmented and chaotic: flickering candlelight, dancing shadows, the sad eyes of the woman in the locket, the scorched cradle in the ash closet. He heard the mournful lullaby of the music box, mingling with Helena's whispered words, creating a terrifying symphony of sound.
He felt a strange sensation, as if something was being drawn from him, a warmth, an energy, flowing from his body into hers. He tried to resist, to cling to his own essence, but he was too weak, too consumed by the fever. He felt himself slipping away, dissolving into the darkness, becoming one with the house, with its ancient secrets, with its insatiable hunger.
He heard her voice again, closer now, almost a hum, as if she were singing to him. The words were still in that ancient, incomprehensible language, but the tone was different now, softer, almost tender. He felt her lips brush against his forehead, a fleeting, icy touch that sent a shiver through him.
And then, darkness. A profound, absolute darkness that swallowed him whole, pulling him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
He woke with a start, his body aching, his head still throbbing, but the fever had broken. The room was still steeped in gloom, but a faint, grey light filtered through the curtains, hinting at the approaching dawn. He lay still for a moment, trying to orient himself, to make sense of the fragmented memories that swirled in his mind. Helena. Her touch. Her whispers. The ancient language. The feeling of something being drawn from him.
He sat up, his body stiff, and looked around the room. The oil lamp had long since guttered, plunging the study into near-total darkness. He reached for his shirt, which he remembered Helena removing. His hand brushed against the empty space beside him.
His shirt was gone.
He searched the bed, then the floor around it, his hands fumbling in the dim light. But there was no sign of it. It was simply gone. He remembered her undressing him, her fingers brushing against his bare skin, her whispered words in that ancient, incomprehensible language. He remembered the feeling of something being drawn from him.
A cold dread washed over him, deeper than anything he had felt before. He wasn't just ill. He had been violated. And Helena was responsible. He looked at his bare chest, then at his hands, searching for any mark, any sign of what had transpired. But there was nothing. Just the lingering scent of violets, faint but undeniable, clinging to his skin.
He rose from the bed, his body stiff, his mind racing. He walked to the small, dusty bathroom attached to the study, and turned on the tap, letting the cold water run over his hands. He splashed it on his face, trying to wash away the lingering sense of violation, the chilling memory of Helena's touch. He looked at his reflection in the mottled mirror. His face was pale, his eyes wide and haunted. He barely recognized himself.
He dressed quickly, pulling on a clean, dry shirt from his duffel bag, the fabric feeling rough against his skin. He felt a profound sense of unease, a chilling certainty that something fundamental had shifted within him. He was no longer just a witness; he was a participant. And Helena, it seemed, had taken something from him. Something he might never get back. He looked at the empty space where his shirt should have been, and knew, with a chilling certainty, that his journey into the secrets of Dorsethall had only just begun. And he was now more deeply entangled than ever before.