Rhea sat in her apartment, unmoving, staring at the blank television screen. Her hands trembled. Since the curse was lifted at DaMira Mansion, she expected peace—quiet nights, dreamless sleep, silence in her thoughts. But it hadn't come. Whispers still tugged at her ears. Her reflection sometimes moved just a second slower than she did. And sometimes... she saw it.
The house.
The DaMira Mansion. Standing again.
She had watched it burn. Flames devoured the cursed estate after Marissa's spirit had been released. She had stood there, coughing in the smoke, watching as the roof collapsed in a rain of fire and ash. The curse was supposed to be broken.
But three nights ago, while driving home from a grocery run, she had seen it again—whole, untouched—standing just beyond the woods, off the same broken path.
Her first instinct was denial. Trauma. Hallucination. But it wasn't once. She saw it again. And again. Always in the same place. Standing like it had never burned at all.
Tonight, it called to her. The air around her flickered as if reality itself bent toward that cursed ground. And deep inside, Rhea felt something unfinished. Something was wrong. A lie still lingered.
She left her apartment in silence. Camera in hand, flashlight in pocket. No goodbye note. No calls. Just one final visit.
---
The forest welcomed her like an old friend—silent, watching. The dirt road crunched beneath her boots as she made her way past the tree line. And there it was.
DaMira Mansion.
Pristine. Not a mark of fire or rot. Ivy still clung to the sides. The broken window on the third floor was now whole. The red door—chained shut once—was now ajar, creaking slightly with the breeze.
This was impossible.
She reached out and touched the doorframe.
Cold.
Real.
She stepped inside.
---
The air was thick. Not with dust or decay, but with presence. The walls whispered again, soft like breath. She looked up at the staircase, the chandelier swaying gently, though no wind moved it.
"You're not done," said a voice. Her voice. Whispered from behind her ear.
Rhea turned sharply—nothing.
She took out the camera. Pressed record. "DaMira Mansion. Entry time: 9:41 p.m. Visual confirmation: the house has returned. I am inside. It is real."
Her own voice sounded small in the stillness.
As she explored, the memories came back. The grave. The blood. The rocking chair. The portrait. All gone. The canvas that once held Marissa's image was blank no more. It now showed... Rhea.
Eyes wide. Mouth open. Screaming.
She stumbled backward, gasping.
"You carry it now," the house seemed to say.
And Rhea understood.
The curse didn't end.
It moved.
---
She ran to the secret room again, hidden behind the portrait wall. It was still there. But instead of a family photo album, she found something else—an old mirror, cracked in seven places, glowing faintly.
As she stared into it, images flickered.
Marissa. Trapped in the cellar. Screaming.
Nathaniel. Pleading. Bloodied. Crying out, "It wasn't me."
The other brother—Dominic—smiling coldly as he sealed the door.
And then Rhea.
Digging. Recording. Releasing Marissa.
The mirror whispered: "What if the lie wasn't what they told... but what she believed?"
Marissa.
Rhea froze. She had assumed Marissa was the victim. But what if...?
The diary. It was gone from her bag. But another one now rested in the drawer beside the mirror.
She opened it.
The handwriting was elegant. Controlled.
"He cried when he locked me in. Said he had to. Said she made him promise. I think she wants me to suffer. But I'm not afraid anymore. They all think I'm the victim. But they forget—I was the one who summoned the spirits first. I just wanted them to pay. They betrayed me... so I betrayed them back."
Rhea's heart thudded. A different truth. Marissa wasn't innocent. She was wronged, yes—but she had made her own deal. The curse... it wasn't just revenge. It was her choice.
"I freed a spirit that chose to curse," Rhea whispered.
The air around her pulsed. The walls groaned.
"You fed it," the voice replied. "You kept digging. And now you're its anchor."
---
Rhea stumbled out of the room, down the hallway. The house shook. Doors slammed. Pictures bled. Her flashlight flickered.
She found herself in the basement once more. The red door had returned, chained again. Behind it, something banged—louder than before. Furious.
The words appeared on the wall in dripping black:
"A curse awakened... is not easily put back to sleep."
Rhea stepped closer. The chain fell off with a clang. The door creaked open.
Inside was not the basement.
It was a long hallway lined with mirrors. Each one reflected a version of her—crying, bleeding, screaming, silent.
At the end stood Marissa. Not stitched. Not monstrous.
Beautiful. Smiling.
"You freed me. Now carry me."
Rhea shook her head. "You lied."
Marissa tilted her head. "So did you. You said you'd stop. You said you'd leave. But you kept coming back. You wanted this story. You wanted to dig. You wanted answers."
Rhea stepped forward. "I wanted to help."
"No," Marissa said, eyes glowing now. "You wanted truth. But truth doesn't come without weight. So now you carry mine. The mansion burned. But you remembered it. Believed in it. That belief gave it form. That belief kept me here."
The mirrors cracked.
"Let me go," Rhea said.
"Only if you forget. Only if you never return."
---
A wind rose from nowhere. The mirrors shattered. Marissa screamed—not in pain, but in rage—as her form was sucked into the shards.
Rhea grabbed a piece of the mirror and cut her palm. Blood dripped to the floor.
"I break the story," she whispered. "I end the memory."
The hallway cracked. The walls crumbled.
Rhea ran.
She burst out of the mansion's front doors as the building collapsed—not in flames this time, but into dust, as if it had never stood.
She turned back.
Nothing.
Just trees. Just dirt.
The house was gone.
For real.
To be continued....