Page 78 of Wolfsbane Hall
“Which has been quite horrific,” Irene called at the ceiling. “We would all appreciate it if you would stop it.”
A rotten laugh coated the room. “You all wanted to come here and play a game.” Lightning struck, followed by thunder that shook the ground. The candlewax sconces all swayed at once and then burned brighter. “This is the one we all deserve.”
Celestine’s skin prickled. A cascade of things hit her atonce, but the strongest thought—the one that raged inside her like a tidal wave ripping apart everything it touched—was that she’d truly had enough. It was all too much, and there was only so far a person could be pushed until they pushed back. Celestine had spent her whole life being the good girl, being kind, fitting in, not rocking the boat, and caring for the needs of others.
Her whole life, obeying others,
But what about her needs? What about her life?
“I think…” Her chin quivered, but she rolled her shoulders back. “I’m done.”
Celestine didn’t want to hear their response. She didn’t care anymore. So she turned on her now sparkling heels and walked out of the room with purpose. Clicks measured her footfalls as she left.Click, clack, click, clack, just like her heart.
Celestine was done being the Specter’s little pet. She was over being his marionette doll. Celestine never did anything for herself in her life, and if she was dying, now might be the best time to start living only for herself. Unfortunately, she didn’t have much time to live, a reminder that became abundantly clear when crimson began to streak down her face.
Not again.
She grasped the closest material to her to stop her nosebleed. It happened to be a rich, velvet curtain that was used more for decoration than for its practical utility. Celestine cursed.
Fuck. My body is fucking falling apart.
Babette and Frances were not suffering nosebleeds. She’d asked earlier, and they had looked at her with wide, confused eyes. So it was only her. Figures.
Everything affected her far deeper than others. It was her curse.
When her nose stopped bleeding, she tried to move againbut was hit with a strong wave of lightheadedness. Blood loss, weak limbs, and poison eating away at her were not a great combination for her dizzy spells, which started occurring at a concerning frequency three weeks ago.
Celestine pulled on the now blood-soaked curtain for support and leaned her head against the wall, begging for support from God or angels or whatever being was up there watching. If devils existed—and were sitting in the other room—then angels could exist, too. Celestine wasn’t particularly religious, but the closer she got to her inevitable demise, the more she wondered what would be next.
Heat grew beneath her fingertips, the curtains growing hot but not uncomfortable. It was more like a warm hug. She narrowed her eyes and stared at them. The house was morphing again, but Celestine didn’t know why. The walls turned her favorite color—dark red, closer to maroon than orange.
Wolfsbane was apologizing—or something like it.
Or maybe it was the Phantom, because moments later, he spoke, a booming voice that could be heard all over the mansion. “Alright, my lovelies, it’s time for a game. Everyone has gotten far too comfortable, and we cannot have that.” His voice shifted like a snake coiling. “Tonight is about secrets and lies and guttural betrayals, and what kind of host would I be if I didn’t follow through on that promise? So welcome to my House of Horrors.”
Everything froze for a moment, a picture in time—the time before horrors—because as soon as time slipped back, everything shifted. The house started to decay and seethe like an evil creature. The walls dripped black tar, the floor churned, and moss grew over it, but it was dry and empty of life, so much so that if she moved her feet, all she heard was a crunch.
“The house will stop its torture when someonefinds the missing murder weapon—the knife,” the Phantom continued. “Here is your only clue: It lies beneath the silvered tree.”
If it were possible, the house would have descended further into chaos. Blood dripped from the ceiling, a drop landing on Celestine’s palm. At first, she thought it was her nose bleeding again, but when the rain began to fall, covering every inch of her body and dress, she understood.
Blood dripped down her eyelashes and covered her nostrils, and she felt as if she were drowning. But the worst part of it was the metallic scent, which was so strong it gave her a headache.
But the chaos didn’t stop there.
Window shutters smacked against the outside structure as if a tornado were pulling them out. The sound was an eerie pounding, and to that melody came screaming. Monsters popped out of paintings and chased down the ghosts, filling the air with tormented screams. Off-key violin strings underscored the broken song.
The Phantom was even torturing the ghosts.
The walls creaked and buckled, glass spewing onto the surface. But it wasn’t just any glass; it was enchanted silver shards—torture mirrors. From time to time, the house would bring them out and torment anyone who walked by them, playing either their worst fears or the memories someone tried to forget.
The secrets people needed to hide.
Things like hit and runs, affairs, real-life murders, or dark family secrets that needed to stay in the dark. The house pulled everything from someone like taffy, and like taffy, it was sticky and hard to remove once it was fashioned onto it.
Celestine hated every single time the mirrors awoke.
Because they sank deep into her, playing with the confines ofher reality.
