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There’s nothing there.

Noone…

“Hello?” I call softly.

Right, like ghosts are going to respond.

Not that you believe in them…

The hair on my arms lifts in the ensuing silence. My heart slams against my chest as I sweep the flashlight toward the doorway.

Still nothing.

I swallow, tucking the book more tightly under my arm. Time to finish this dumb dare and go home.

It was just the house settling, or the wind, I tell myself as my footsteps echo through the empty house.

Empty.

I say it twice more in my head in an attempt to ground myself and shake off the cold sensation finger-walking up my spine.

I grip the book tighter, fingers pressing into the leather spine as I step carefully out of the library. I don’t run up the stairs to take the video. I'm damned if I'll give Alicia the satisfaction of hearing that I'm out of breath when I record it.

The grand staircase curves upward in a soft spiral, each step creaking faintly under my weight as I climb. Every sound feels amplified in here: my own breathing, the quiet scrape of my heels on the stairs. I feel like I’m walking through someone else’s memory.

Halfway up, I pause and glance behind me into the darkness below.

Yeah, 'cause that’s always a good idea, idiot.

Of course, there’s still nothing there. Just the library door, hanging open like a dark, waiting maw.

I turn and keep going.

I skip the second floor and go straight to the third. At the top, the wide hallway is lined with cracked sconces and faded portraits. The paint has peeled from the ceiling in delicate curls, same as the wallpaper on the first floor.

Then I see what must be the double doors to Lady Greymoor’s bedchamber.

The wood is darker than in the rest of the house—heavy mahogany, with a carved crest I don’t recognize. A woman’s face is etched in profile, wreathed in thorns.

As much as I hate to admit it, Iama little freaked out right now. But somehow, seeing herwreathed facecarved into her bedroom door in the giant-ass mansion she bought with her prick of an ex-husband’s money brings a smile to my face.

I think Lady Greymoor and I would have gotten along swimmingly.

I hesitate at the double doors, hand hovering near the knob.

Take something, leave something, say the words.

As in, let’s get this over with.

My heart’s pounding as I open the door.

Inside, the air is cooler and a bit more stagnant. The room is enormous, the ceiling arching high above, the windows hidden behind thick velvet curtains.

A mirror, warped with age, hangs across from the bed. I catch my reflection in it when I turn to face it: my face is paler, my eyes a little wider than I thought they would be.

I feel like I’m intruding.

Weirdly, the bed is actuallymade—the sheets, quilt, blankets and pillowcases are still there from whenever the house finally shut its front door. And like the bookshelves downstairs, they aren't covered in dust, or faded with age.