Page 54 of Bound By Crimson

Chapter Fifty-Five

What Are You Hiding, Editha?

She took a few steps back from the door, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat. Her heart pounded so violently she could hear it in her ears—feel it in her skull. A high-pitched ringing buzzed through her head, her vision pulsing slightly at the edges.

Something deep in her gut screamed: Don’t.

It felt ancient. Primal.

But she had come this far. There was no going back. Even if she wanted to glue the wallpaper back on—what would that fix? Mrs. Thornwick would know. She’d find some new way to twist it, punish her, anyway.

Her hand hovered near the edge of the doorframe. She hesitated.

What are you hiding, Editha?

A long, shallow breath left her. Her hand trembled.

Then she pressed her fingers into the thin crack between the door and the frame, gripping the rough wood. She pulled.

It didn’t move at first.

She pulled harder, teeth clenched, knuckles white. The door groaned—then gave way.

The scent that spilled out was old and dry—still air, untouched by time .

It wasn’t a room at all—just a narrow wooden staircase leading up.

There was a single bulb above the stairs with a pull string dangling in front of her face. She hesitated, then tugged it.

It flickered once.

Then buzzed to life.

A dim amber light spilled down the steps, casting soft shadows and revealing particles hanging in the air like a held breath. The staircase was steep and narrow, closed in by faded floral wallpaper curling at the corners.

She hesitated at the threshold.

This wasn’t curiosity anymore. It was defiance. And she was done playing small.

But she stepped forward. One foot. Then the next.

The door remained open behind her—quiet, but somehow breathing.

She ascended.

The bulb swayed behind her slightly—no wind. Just the stir of something that had long been still.

Lyric gripped the railing. It was colder than the rest of the house. Her fingers stuck slightly to the dust. Her legs trembled with each step, not from fatigue—but anticipation.

Halfway up, she paused and placed her hand gently over her stomach.

“Are you ready?” she whispered. “Let’s see what’s up here.”

At the top of the stairs, there was another door.

This one had a handle.

Brass.

It was strangely clean. Not polished, but untouched—like dust refused to settle there.

She reached for it—hesitated.

Then—footsteps.

Outside her bedroom.

A gentle jiggle at the knob.

She froze.

A voice. One of the maids.

“Miss Lyric? Are you alright? ”

Panic surged through her. She turned and crept down the attic stairs, barely breathing. Each step groaned faintly beneath her feet, her pulse thudding in her ears.

At the bottom, she stepped into the bedroom and pushed the attic door shut behind her—quietly, but fast. Not all the way. Just enough.

She tiptoed across the room, legs shaking, and unlocked the bedroom door. Her fingers fumbled at the latch. Then—just a crack—she eased it open.

“I’m okay,” she said quickly, trying to keep her voice steady. “Just really tired. I think I’m going to sleep early.”

Tessa, the maid, smiled softly. “Of course, rest well.”

She waited.

Waited until the footsteps disappeared completely.

Then, heart still pounding, she turned and crept back toward the hidden stairway once agian.

She climbed again, each step heavier with dread. At the top,

her hand wrapped around the cold brass handle. It stuck for a moment—then turned. The door creaked open.

And there it was.

The attic. Still. Silent.

She stepped inside. The door creaked shut behind her with a soft, final click.

She glanced back at the door. Every sense sharpened.

All around her: dust, forgotten furniture, old trunks, and shadows that moved when she did.

It smelled like cedar and something else.

Something older.

Something waiting.

She didn’t know what she was going to find.

Only that whatever it was…

It had been waiting for a very long time.