Rhea stood frozen in front of the bleeding portrait. Her breath caught in her chest, and a sharp pain bloomed in her temples. The woman in the painting looked down at her—not just in art, but as if truly alive. The painted eyes, once lifeless, now seemed deep and haunted, like they held memories too painful to forget.
A droplet of blood fell from the bottom of the frame and landed on Rhea's shoe. The color was too vivid. Too real. The thick metallic smell invaded her nose.
She stepped back, heart pounding, when a soft creaking sound came from behind the wall.
Like… breathing?
Rhea leaned closer to the wall, just below the portrait. There was a strange gap between the wooden panels. The house was old, sure, but this gap looked deliberate, like something was hidden. She pressed her fingers along the edges, and a section of the wall clicked.
A secret door.
With one deep breath, she pushed it open.
Behind the panel was a narrow crawl space—just tall enough for her to duck into. Dust filled her mouth as she crawled forward, her flashlight flickering with every movement. The air was heavy. It smelled like rot and forgotten time.
At the end of the crawl space was a small room. Not like the others. It wasn't broken or crumbling.
This room was… preserved.
Everything inside was covered in white cloths—furniture, bookshelves, even a cracked mirror that leaned against the far wall. In the center stood a rocking chair, still swaying slightly.
Someone had been here.
Or still was.
Rhea stepped closer. The cloth on the chair slipped off on its own, as if invisible fingers had pulled it away.
The rocking chair stopped.
On the seat was an old book. A family photo album, the leather cover dry and crumbling at the corners. She opened it carefully. The pages inside were yellow with age, but the photographs were clear.
There was the mansion—years ago, before it fell into ruin. A smiling family stood in front of it. The same woman from the portrait stood beside a man—probably her husband—and two younger men in suits.
The twin brothers.
Her heart jumped.
Below the photo was a handwritten note: "Family means forever. Even beyond death."
The next page showed another photo—this time, a funeral. The woman's face was circled in red ink, and under it, someone had written:
"Buried alive. Screamed for hours. They laughed."
Rhea's hand shook.
A heavy thud behind her made her spin around. The secret door had slammed shut.
She was trapped.
She ran to it, banging with her fists, shouting—but no sound echoed. The room had become sealed. Silent. The only sound was the slow creaking of the rocking chair behind her.
It was moving again.
But no one was sitting in it.
Rhea backed away. Her flashlight dimmed, flickered, and died. Total darkness.
That's when she heard the whisper again. The same voice. Close, trembling, broken.
"She watched them die… but it wasn't enough."
"Who are you?" Rhea cried into the dark. "What do you want from me?!"
A faint light blinked from the mirror.
And in it, Rhea saw herself—but not alone.
Standing behind her was the woman with sewn lips, her eyes bleeding, her hands reaching out. But in the mirror, her mouth began to open… the threads tearing slowly, painfully.
"You... can set me free," the voice said, though the lips barely moved. "You saw the grave. Dig deeper."
Suddenly, the door behind Rhea creaked open again.
The darkness lifted.
She was free to go.
But nothing felt the same anymore.
Rhea left the hidden room, the photo album clutched in her hands. Her mind raced with questions. The woman had been murdered by her own family—her brothers. The house had buried their secret for decades. But now it wanted revenge.
Or justice.
Or maybe… something else.
As she returned to the hallway, the portrait on the wall was gone.
Only a blank, bloody canvas remained.
To be continued....