They say the house doesn't exist.
That it is a myth—a legend told by thieves and treasure hunters who whisper of riches hidden beneath an invisible pyramid. A story passed down through the years, but one that no one truly believes.
But it is real.
And within it, she waits.
Her name was once Seraphine—a name that used to sing with warmth, but now it is a memory wrapped in shadows. Once, she was human. Once, she had a life—dreams, desires, love. But that was before the curse, before the house swallowed her whole. Now, she is but a ghost, tethered to a tomb of gold and forgotten secrets.
The pyramid stands—sharp and cold, rising like a wound out of the earth—but no one can see it. Not unless she allows them to.
And even then, they only come for one thing.
Gold.
They come in search of the treasure, driven by desperation, greed, and hunger for power. But none of them come for her. None of them see what lies beneath the gold, the endless corridors, the chambers full of history and death.
They never stay.
Because once they set their eyes on the house, once they enter, it becomes impossible to leave.
Seraphine is the keeper. The protector. She guards the secrets buried deep within the walls, the treasure that could change everything. She watches, silent and unseen, as they search, desperate to find their way inside. She could let them find it. She could open the door. But only if they are worthy.
Only if they are the one.
But in her centuries of waiting, no one has been.
They come, they take what they want, and when they try to escape, she kills them.
Each one.
She buries them in the graveyard behind the house, their bodies a testament to the men who dared to dream of freedom but only found death.
And yet, Seraphine still watches.
She still waits.
Because even after all this time, she cannot let go of the hope that one of them will stay.
One man who will see her, not the gold. One man who will love her, not the treasure she guards. One man who will never leave.
Until then, the house waits. The tomb remains hidden.
And Seraphine... she is trapped, endlessly, in the glass tomb.
Chapter One: The Man Who Waited
He came at dusk.
Like they all did.
Seraphine watched him from the highest window of The Glass Tomb, her fingers ghosting across the invisible barrier. The sky outside was ash and blood, a smear of color too loud for the quiet she lived in.
The man was tall, soaked in rain and shadows. His dark hair clung to his skin, jaw clenched against the cold. He lit a cigarette with shaking hands, the flicker of the flame catching the sharp cut of his cheekbones.
She pressed her forehead to the glass.
"You'll leave too," she whispered to herself. "They always do."
But her voice trembled.
She didn't know his name—not yet—but she had watched him for six nights in a row. Lucien Vale. That was what the others called him, muttering stories in alleyways, trading myths like currency.
A man with nothing left.A man who wanted gold.A man who wanted out.
"You're just like them," she said again, almost pleading. "Aren't you?"
He stood in the clearing, eyes sweeping the empty field. He couldn't see the house. No one could unless she let them.
Yet every night he came back. Every night, he stared at the same patch of dirt.
"Why?" she whispered. "What are you looking for?"
He crouched then, slow and tired, and from his coat pocket, pulled out a paper bag. He unwrapped it carefully, revealing a piece of stale bread. He broke it in half and whistled low.
A tiny, limping dog emerged from the woods. Bones and fur. Lucien smiled—just barely—and set the bread down gently before the creature.
He didn't touch it. Didn't speak. Just waited.
The dog inched forward and began to eat.
Seraphine pressed her hand flat to the glass.
"Oh."
A moment passed. The wind rustled the weeds. Lucien didn't move. He just watched the dog like it was the only thing in the world worth watching.
Something ached inside her. Sharp. Old.
She stepped back from the window, breath catching in her throat.
"He's still greedy," she murmured. "He's just kind to broken things."
But she turned to face the door. For the first time in years, her fingers curled around the edge of the lock.
Not to open it.Not yet.
Just to remember how it felt.