The manor finally fell silent.
No more screeching walls or ink-slick screams. No more flickering ghosts, bleeding ceilings, or voices twisting their memories into barbed wire. Just stillness. Like the breath between acts. Like the hush before the curtain rises—or falls for good.
It was the first quiet they'd known since the house had closed around them.
They didn't remember walking into the room. It was just… there. A pocket of stillness carved into the chaos. A forgotten dressing room tucked behind some impossible wall. Dust coated
every surface like snowfall. A cracked vanity mirror stretched across one side, shattered into spiderweb fractures. Threadbare costumes hung limp on a rusted rack, swaying gently though no breeze stirred the air. And from the ceiling, a single bulb dangled by a frayed cord, casting a cold, yellow light that seemed too pale to belong to this world.
Marc found the book first.
It was waiting for them on the vanity—small, spiral-bound, with a faded clown sticker peeling off the cover. Something about the sticker made his stomach twist. It wasn't funny. It wasn't supposed to be.
He reached for it slowly, half-expecting it to burst into flames or cry out when touched. But it didn't. It was solid. Real. The most real thing they'd encountered since arriving.
He opened it.
"Guys," he said, his voice unsteady, barely above a whisper. "It's Eden's diary."
The others gathered around him in silence. They didn't speak. Didn't breathe too loud. The pages were old and brittle. Some torn, some smudged, others completely erased. But what remained was enough. More than enough.
Lena sat down on the corner of a cracked chair, carefully cradling the book. Her voice was barely audible as she began to read:
October 13 – The club bathroom smelled like old gin and bleach. I stared in the mirror for twenty minutes. Smiled at myself. Practiced dying on stage with grace. Not dying-dying. Just… dying. They laughed when I slipped on the mic cord. But not at the joke.
The words settled around them like dust, soft and choking.
She turned the page.
November 2 – I told a joke I stole from myself last year. They laughed harder then. Maybe I'm funnier when I'm not trying. Maybe I'm just better when I'm not here at all.
Theo exhaled slowly. "These aren't jokes. They're confessions."
Vivian turned away, her jaw clenched.
Another page, another wound.
December 15 – Marc landed a special. I told him congrats. He said nothing. I guess silence is the sound of moving up. I wonder if silence gets louder the more successful you are.
Marc stiffened. He stepped back like the page had struck him. "I... I don't remember saying nothing," he murmured.
"No," Theo said, his voice sharp. "But you didn't say anything either."
The next entry cut deeper.
January 8 – I left a voicemail for Darren. I don't think he listens to those anymore. I tried to sound casual. I said, 'Call me back if you want.' But I didn't mean that. I meant, 'Please. Say anything. Say something.'
Darren's face turned pale. He closed his eyes. "I never got it. Or maybe… maybe I did. And just didn't press play."
Lena gently flipped to the final intact page.
February 19 – I once said, 'Even God would heckle me.' It got a laugh. But that night, I dreamt of a crowd of faceless gods, throwing popcorn, booing. I asked them what the punchline was. One said, 'You.'
No one spoke.
The silence wasn't peaceful. It pressed on their chests like a weight. Like a judgment. Like the truth.
Vivian broke it. Her voice was tight but steady. "She didn't die all at once."
"No," Lena said. "She was erased. One silence at a time."
"Death by a thousand silences," Theo whispered.
They stayed in that room for a long time, seated like mourners at a wake. But Eden's wake wasn't a ceremony. It was a reckoning. Every page a mirror they couldn't look away from.
"She tried to tell us," Lena said quietly. "In every joke, every look, every silence."
"She didn't want to be funny," Marc murmured. "She just wanted to be heard."
"I mocked her on that roast," Vivian said. "I went in hard. Said things I thought were edgy, funny. Everyone laughed. The cameras cut. She didn't. She looked at me and said, 'That was good TV.' Not 'That was funny.' Just… TV."
"I wrote about her like a concept," Theo added. "Like she was a symbol, not a person. I thought if I framed it right, the article would earn me credibility. But when it came out, all I heard was... nothing."
"I saw her crying in her car once," Marc said. "After an open mic. I told myself it wasn't my place."
"I heard the voicemail," Darren said. "I did. But I told myself I'd call when I had the energy. When I had something to say."
"I lied to her," Lena said. "Told her she'd kill at the showcase. I knew she wasn't ready. I let her bomb."
No one corrected her. No one offered comfort. They all carried the same wound now.
The diary lay open between them, pages still fluttering slightly, as if the air itself wanted to keep reading. Wanted to finish the story.
Then they heard it.
Not with their ears—but within themselves.
I didn't want to be funny. I just wanted to be heard.
The voice wasn't in the book, but it was hers. Eden. Clearer than ever. Like her final truth had been waiting in the cracks between every missed call and forced laugh.
The bulb above them flickered.
Marc looked up slowly. "The manor's listening."
"It always was," Lena said.
"And now what?" Darren asked. "What do we do with all this?"
Vivian brushed her fingers against the diary's edge. "We carry it. The truth. We say it out loud."
Theo nodded. "We stop pretending we were just watching it happen. We were in it. We helped write this."
The moment held.
And then something changed.
Outside the room, a new hallway had appeared—one that hadn't been there a second before. Narrow and long, lit by dim sconces that cast a warm but uncertain glow. On the walls, framed photos hung crookedly. Empty stages. Abandoned microphones. Faded spotlights.
"She's leading us somewhere," Lena said, clutching the diary to her chest.
Marc rubbed his face. "To what? Forgiveness?"
Vivian stood first. "Not forgiveness. Responsibility."
They followed her, stepping out of the dressing room with something like purpose for the first time. The air felt lighter—not safe, but less suffocating. As they walked, no one looked back.
They didn't need to.
Behind them, the dressing room began to shift. The mirrors mended, the glass clearing. The bulb above warmed, no longer flickering but glowing with quiet strength.
And somewhere behind them, a single voice—Eden's—began to hum.
A soft note. A lullaby. A final bow.
And for the first time, no one flinched at the sound.
They listened.
And the manor—at last—listened back.