In Part 2 of The Harrow Testament, the house begins to show its teeth—though not with screams or blood. This is the kind of haunting that slides beneath your skin: a glance that lingers too long, a mural that pulses when no one’s watching, the sudden thud of your own heart when nothing should feel erotic at all.
We stay with Clara in this chapter. Quiet, observant Clara—forever taking notes while others speak more loudly. But the house doesn’t care how softly you move. The house sees what’s beneath.
Fear becomes desire in a place like this. Not because the fear is pleasant, but because it strips away everything that keeps us safe: pretense, politeness, restraint. Clara doesn’t want to want Dylan. But once the frescoes begin to shift—bodies tangled, painted lips parted in impossible pleasure—she can’t pretend she doesn’t feel it. The house knows. It remembers everything.
And the frescoes? They’re more than decoration. They are mirrors of the soul, of longing, of shame turned inside out. They change depending on who’s looking. They tempt. They accuse. They invite.
This chapter is quiet, intimate, charged with tension. Nothing explodes. But something unlocks. A door opens. A body leans too close. A hand lingers.
The haunting has begun.
If you’re just joining, start at the Prologue and Part 1.
If you’ve made it this far, you already know:
It’s not just a haunted house story.
It’s a confession.
And the house remembers everything.
—Eric