Chapter 4 - The Voice in the Dark
Clara pressed her back harder against the wall, her hands flailing in the dark until they brushed against Julian’s chest. He felt like stone—cold, unyielding, and utterly still.
"Open the door, Julian," she demanded, trying to keep her voice from cracking. "This isn't funny. Turn on the light."
"I didn't close it," Julian whispered right next to her ear, his breath brushing the sensitive skin of her neck. "And I don't have my phone."
A sudden, sharp scratching sound echoed from the far end of the long hallway—a rhythmic, dragging noise, like fingernails scraping against old wallpaper. Clara froze, every muscle in her body locking up. Something was moving out there in the dark, breathing in heavy, rattling gasps that didn't sound like Julian, and definitely didn't sound human.
"Julian," she whimpered, her fingers gripping the lapels of his suit jacket. "What is that?"
"Be quiet," he growled, his hand clamping roughly over her mouth to silence her.
The scratching grew louder, moving with agonizing slowness toward where they stood pressed against the wall. Clara’s heart hammered so hard she was certain Julian could feel it through his ribs. Then, a low, raspy whisper cut through the gloom, speaking words that made her freeze in absolute terror.
"He gave you the tissue, Clara... but did he tell you whose blood is on it?"
May you like
Julian’s hand instantly flew away from her mouth as he cursed violently, striking a heavy brass lighter. The tiny flame flickered to life, casting dancing, distorted shadows across the hallway. To Clara’s absolute horror, the space was completely empty. There was no one standing at the end of the hall, no doors open except the one they had just entered through. But right on the floor, sitting directly on top of the cream-colored invitation, was the crumpled white tissue little Leo had handed her in the ballroom—now soaked through with a dark, wet stain that smelled unmistakably of iron.
---
