Chapter 13 - The Echoes of the Past
The sensation of falling lasted for only a fraction of a second before Mark landed hard on a smooth, polished wooden floor, the freezing cold of the cellar instantly replaced by the stifling, dry heat of an old-fashioned coal-fired furnace room.
He coughed, rolling over and pulling Lily into his arms to check her for injuries. She blinked, her blue eyes clear and bright, the milky film completely gone. She clutched her stuffed bunny tightly, looking around the unfamiliar room with wide-eyed curiosity.
"Daddy? Where are we?" Lily asked, her voice sounding entirely like her normal self for the first time since the night began.
"I don't know, sweetie. Stay close to me," Mark murmured, pushing himself up to his feet.
They were standing in a fully intact basement from the 1970s. Wood-paneled walls lined the perimeter, decorated with vintage framed portraits of a happy family—a mother, a father, and two young daughters wearing identical vintage white dresses. Standing at the center of the room, illuminated by the warm glow of an old incandescent bulb hanging from a cord in the ceiling, were Sarah and Abigail.
Sarah’s eyes were back to their normal warm brown, and the strange, multi-toned echo had vanished from her posture. She looked around in absolute bewilderment, her hands trembling as she touched the wooden paneling.
"Mark? Where... where did the cellar go? How did we get down here?" Sarah asked, rushing over to them and pulling both Mark and Lily into a desperate, tearful embrace. "I thought... I thought I lost you both. I couldn't control my own body."
"It's okay, Sarah. We're together now," Mark reassured her, holding his family tightly as he looked across the room at Abigail, who stood quietly beside the vintage coal furnace, watching them with a peaceful, sorrowful expression.
"You found the way through," Abigail spoke, her voice clear and ordinary, lacking the haunting resonance from before. "You didn't run away. Most people run away when they see us."
"Why won't you let us go?" Mark asked, stepping forward to shield Sarah and Lily slightly, his voice firm but compassionate. "What do you want from us?"
May you like
Abigail pointed toward a heavy wooden door at the far end of the vintage room—a door that bore a brass plaque engraved with the numbers of the current year. "We don't want to hurt you, mister. We just wanted someone to remember our names before the house forgets us entirely."
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