Rhea couldn't sleep that night.
Even in her apartment miles away from DaMira Mansion, the whispers echoed. Her video footage had glitches—her name repeated in static, the knocking replayed without cause. No one else believed her. They said it was just another abandoned house.
But she knew.
She returned the next day. Not for content, not for fame—but for answers.
The mansion stood like a carcass from another world, rotting and silent, yet breathing. Vines had twisted further across the door, as though trying to keep people out. As she stepped inside, the air grew colder, heavier.
She walked back to the diary room. The door was wide open now. The diary lay on the floor, open to a different page. The ink looked fresh.
"Blood was spilled not once, but twice. The elder brother struck first—jealous, greedy, violent. But the younger… oh, he was the clever one. He turned death into something darker. The house remembers. The walls still weep."
Rhea turned around quickly. For a moment, she thought she saw a tall shadow standing at the far end of the hallway. Its head tilted unnaturally, its body twitching like a broken puppet. She blinked.
Gone.
A sudden drop of something warm hit her hand. Blood. She looked up. The ceiling above her was cracked, and a dark red stain slowly seeped through.
She backed away in horror, but a loud bang froze her in place.
The red door.
It had opened slightly.
She shouldn't go.
She had to go.
Torch in hand, she crept to the door. The chains now lay scattered, rusted pieces on the floor. The smell of burnt wood and iron filled the air. Inside was a staircase descending into a pitch-black basement.
With each step, the walls narrowed, and the whispers began again.
"They lied."
"She died in the fire."
"He buried her alive."
The basement was a room of ruins—half-burned furniture, scorched walls, and a mirror blackened with soot. In the center lay a scorched old rocking chair… and something moved in it.
A figure—frail, hunched, with long, tangled black hair—rocked gently. The air turned ice-cold.
Rhea's flashlight flickered once.
Twice.
The figure stopped rocking.
It turned slowly, revealing hollow, weeping eyes and a mouth sewn shut with rusted wire. The stitched lips twitched… and ripped open with a scream that shattered every light in the basement.
Rhea turned and bolted, sprinting up the stairs, chased by the sound of footsteps too fast, too loud to be human. She didn't look back until she slammed the red door shut and threw the chains back on.
Behind the door, the screaming continued.
Then…
Silence.
But on the wall behind her, new letters had appeared—scratched in blood.
"One truth is buried. One lie is living."
---
To be continued…