The door wasn't supposed to be there.
It had appeared between the second-floor gallery and the west corridor—an intrusion into the manor's already impossible architecture. A square outline etched into the wood-paneled wall like a bruise that had never healed. No hinges. No knob. Just a faint pulse of violet light, soft and sickly.
"Was that here earlier?" Malik asked, his voice thin beneath the weight of the silence that followed.
No one answered. Their silence was the answer.
Anna reached out. Her fingertips brushed the surface—and the door breathed. The wood rippled, shivered, then split open with a low exhale.
A staircase spiraled downward into the dark. It wasn't the same darkness they'd grown used to in this place. It was heavier. Denser. As if it had been waiting.
They descended without speaking.
Malik, Anna, Riley, Siobhan, and Jonah—five more ghosts walking deeper into the house's memory.
At the bottom: a circular room, windowless and dustless. No mold. No rot. Just a stillness that felt preserved, like a museum exhibit sealed off from time. The air tasted like old cigarettes and static. A single television—boxy and ancient—sat atop a rusted school AV cart. VHS tapes were coiled around its legs like offerings, labeled in shaky Sharpie. A lone mic stand stood in the center of the room, untouched by dust, spotlighted by a bulb that had no source.
They stopped just inside the threshold.
The TV screen flickered on.
And there she was.
Eden Gray.
Not a photo. Not a news clip. Not the girl they remembered—but the girl they forgot. Alive on stage, under jaundiced lighting, her leather jacket clinging to her shoulders like armor. Her mouth was half-open, trembling, like the words on her tongue were blades. Her eyes scanned the crowd—not with confidence, but desperation. Like someone trying to escape mid-sentence.
The laughter that followed was all wrong.
Too loud. Too bright. Canned. Artificial. A sitcom track played on loop, forcing cheer into moments that had none.
The microphone squealed—high and wet. Like something screaming through water.
Anna flinched. "That sound… it's not right."
The tape glitched. The image stuttered.
Then everything changed.
The laugh track cut off mid-cackle.
Eden's eyes jerked to stage left. Her face twisted—not in anger, but pain.
A voice echoed across the room, loud and unmistakable: "Get off the stage, you trainwreck!"
Riley's voice.
He froze. "I never said that."
But there he was.
In the footage, at the back of the club. A beer in hand. A smirk on his face.
Eden flinched again. Her shoulders curled in on themselves. The mic shrieked—and bled. A thick, red line of fluid slid down the stand. Viscous. Real.
A wound opening.
The image skipped again.
Another version.
Now Eden was mid-set, her makeup smeared and streaking, mascara running like warpaint. Her voice cracked around every word. The camera panned backstage—slowly, deliberately—where Malik stood, whispering on the phone.
"She's not ready. She's going to implode. Let it happen."
Malik's face went pale. "No. No, I was trying to warn someone—I was trying to help."
But the tape didn't care.
The room believed the version it played.
The static surged, crawling up the walls like mold. A retching sound pushed through the speakers—wet and animal.
On screen, Eden gagged and covered her mouth.
In the front row, someone vomited. Loud, explosive. And somehow, the stench crept through the screen, curling through the room like smoke.
Siobhan stumbled back, gagging. "Turn it off. Please—just turn it off."
But no one moved.
No one could.
The screen rippled again.
Another glitch.
Another version.
Now Eden was laughing—manically, frantically—her eyes wide, hair soaked, collar damp with sweat. The club was half-empty. Boos echoed like gunshots.
Anna appeared in the front row, phone raised, eyes glistening with tears. Her voice came through the speakers, syrupy with concern—but loud enough to record.
"She's not okay. This is gonna go viral."
Anna dropped to her knees. "No—no, she knew I loved her. I didn't mean to—I didn't want—"
The screen didn't care.
It fed on them.
Jonah now, on screen. Polished. Detached. Standing in the back office with a club manager. Cash exchanged hands.
"She's not insured, right?" Jonah asked. "No liability?"
The manager shrugged. "Just don't let her OD here."
The footage stuttered violently.
The sound distorted.
Eden looked directly into the camera. Her makeup had run, her lips chapped and bleeding, but her eyes—her eyes were clear.
Not angry.
Just tired.
"I died on that stage," she whispered.
The mic burst like a blister.
Blood spattered across the inside of the screen.
The floor shook beneath their feet. The TV sparked. The tapes writhed like snakes. The speaker blared all versions at once:
Eden screaming.
Eden crying.
Eden gagging.
Eden laughing.
The static grew louder. Became a chant, pulsing in time with the shaking floor.
You helped. You watched. You filmed. You left.
Malik lunged for the plug—but there was no cord. No outlet. The TV fed on them now. It was the room. It was the reckoning.
Siobhan collapsed against the wall, eyes squeezed shut. "It's not real. It's her ghost—just a ghost trying to mess with us."
"Does that make it better?" Riley shouted, trembling. "Does it matter if it's real or not when this—" he pointed at the screen, "—feels like the truth?"
The image shifted once more.
Eden stood alone.
No crowd.
No laughter.
Just her and the mic. The stage around her swallowed by darkness. The spotlight narrowed, circling her chest like a target.
She didn't speak.
She mouthed the words:
Why didn't you stop me?
Then silence.
The screen fizzled out.
The mic stand in the center of the room toppled to the floor with a hollow clang.
No one moved.
Anna finally rose, her hands curled into fists. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and black makeup. "She died on that stage before she ever took those pills. She was already gone."
"She didn't have to be," Jonah said quietly. No excuses left.
"She begged us to see her," Siobhan murmured. "She wrapped her pain in punchlines. Turned herself into a joke just so we'd listen."
But none of them had.
Not really.
Malik walked forward, kneeling beside the mic stand as if approaching a grave. He picked it up. It was warm.
And wet.
He held it upright again. "We let her die laughing."
Riley shook his head. "No. We let her die alone."
The TV sparked once more.
One final flicker.
One final version.
Eden on stage.
Whole.
Smiling.
Radiant.
And no one was there.
The spotlight dimmed. Her smile faded. And then the screen went black—for good.
The silence that followed was complete.
Not empty.
Not forgiving.
Just final.
They stood together in that stillness. Not absolved. Not healed.
Just aware.
Witnesses, now, to the truth they had refused to see.
Eden hadn't died of an overdose.
She had died in pieces.
On a hundred nights.
On a hundred stages.
And they had watched every one.