Part 3: The Murmur in the Walls

Mockery is the Soldier’s Shield, Laughter the Drunkard’s Helm. When these be fallen away, only the naked Mouth remaineth, aching to speak though it feign to bite.

— Testament of Elias Harrow, 1764

The library spat them back into the hall as though it had grown bored. The air outside felt colder, thinner, as if the mural had exhaled something from their lungs they could never reclaim.

Clara’s boots sank into the runner, its colors long vanished, the ghost of roses left behind. Wallpaper slouched down the walls in peeling strips, like skin sloughing off after a burn. The floorboards creaked under every step, a long groan that seemed less mechanical and more—complaint.

“Christ,” Marcus muttered. “This house sounds like my knees.”

Jade shot him a look, flashlight beam cutting ahead. “Your knees don’t whisper.”

“Yet,” Marcus said, trying to grin.

They moved single file, light cones jittering against the walls. Portraits stared down—dour faces from a century ago, cracked varnish making their eyes shine wet. Each figure seemed caught mid-sentence, as though conversation had been interrupted a moment too late.

Naomi tightened her scarf higher around her nose. “There’s probably asbestos hanging in the air. Or lead dust.”

“Sexy,” Jade muttered, but there wasn’t much bite in it.

It was Dylan who slowed first. His beam swept across the hallway like a metronome, steady, deliberate. He tilted his head slightly, listening. “Did anyone—”

He stopped.

Clara had heard it too. Not words exactly. A hush, feather-light, brushing her ear as if someone had leaned close. She turned fast—only Marcus, grinning behind her, too far away to have breathed so near.

“What?” Marcus asked, a little too quickly.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Thought I heard...” She trailed off.

Jade cocked a brow. “Heard what?”

Clara clamped her mouth shut. Saying it out loud would make it real.

It was her name. Just her name. Whispered so close it had stirred the little hairs at her neck.

Naomi stiffened suddenly, flashlight jerking in her grip. “Okay. That wasn’t funny.”

“No one said anything,” Dylan replied evenly.

“I heard it,” Naomi snapped, voice too sharp. “Someone said ‘leave.’”

Marcus’s grin slipped. He rubbed the back of his neck, fingers cold. Because he had heard it too—not his name, not “leave,” but laughter, the brittle kind that used to snap at him in locker rooms when the lights went out. He swallowed, hard, and pretended it was nothing.

That’s the trick of whispers. They always know which word to choose. It doesn’t take much—a syllable, a sigh—and suddenly the bravest heart is a child again, standing alone in the dark.

Clara shifted closer to Dylan without meaning to. Her arm brushed his sleeve. The contact zinged through her skin, startling and warm, a live wire under her coat. Her body betrayed her again — heat low and sudden, sharp as a spark. She sucked in a breath and prayed no one heard.

Dylan did. He glanced down, caught the tension in her jaw, the flush high on her cheek. Dylan shifted his weight, breath catching. Desire pressed low and unwanted. Or not unwanted. Just mistimed. He exhaled through his nose, steadying himself. Not now. Not here. She deserves more than a hallway and a whisper.

Jade blew smoke from her lips—when had she lit the cigarette?—and laughed too loudly. “This is perfect. Haunted hallway, creepy portraits, and the lot of you acting like we’re in a goddamn seance already.”

Her laugh bounced off the walls, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

They moved on, the carpet muffling their footsteps until even those felt borrowed. Behind them, the portraits seemed to lean forward, listening.

The hallway spilled them into a broader landing where a cracked mirror hung crooked, its gilt frame eaten with green. Their lights struck the glass and split, five beams bent into ghosts of themselves. Clara hated the way her own face looked there: pale, uncertain, split by cracks.

Jade clapped her hands once, sharp. “Alright. We’re wasting time creeping like Scooby-Doo extras. Let’s cover more ground. We’ll split, sweep a few rooms, meet back in the main hall in twenty.”

Naomi wheeled on her, eyes flashing. “You can’t be serious. Have you learned nothing from a single horror movie ever made?”

“Those are movies,” Jade shot back. “This is real life.” She lit another cigarette, the flame briefly painting her grin. “And in real life, splitting up makes sense. We’ll find more cool shit that way.”

“Cool shit,” Naomi repeated flatly. “Or rats. Or black mold. Or a staircase that caves in. God, Jade—”

Marcus, leaning against the banister, raised the flask like a toast. “I vote teams. Jade and me on one side, Clara and Sir Accent on the other. Naomi ... you can hold the flashlight batteries.”

“Very funny,” Naomi snapped. Her knuckles whitened on her beam.

Dylan inclined his head, polite as ever. “I don’t mind accompanying Clara. If she’d like that.” His gaze slid to her, not long enough to pin her, but long enough to warm her throat.

Clara’s stomach flipped. She wanted to say no, wanted to stay with the group. But the words caught, tangled in the image of his hand brushing hers again. “Sure,” she heard herself say. Her voice came out small, but steady enough.

Naomi groaned. “You’re all insane.”

Every group has its pivot. The reckless one calls for adventure, the cautious one resists, and the rest tilt whichever way desire leans. No one ever admits that’s what it is—desire—but you can hear it if you listen beneath the words.

Jade exhaled smoke and blew it toward Naomi’s scowl. “Vote’s settled. See you back in twenty.”

Marcus gave a theatrical bow. “Try not to get eaten, Careful Clara.”

Clara glared at him, though it lacked heat. Dylan’s hand hovered at her elbow again, subtle, courtly, enough to make her chest ache.

Clara and Dylan turned down one corridor. Jade tugged Marcus toward another. Naomi lingered, muttering a curse under her breath before trailing after the pair.

The house shifted its weight around them, as though pleased.

The corridor Dylan and Clara took was narrower than the last, paneled in dark wood gone soft with damp. Their footsteps echoed strangely—not quite in sync, as if someone else walked just behind.

Clara lifted her light high. Wallpaper curled down in ribbons, sagging from the plaster. Beneath, faint streaks of color bled through. Not the dull rose or beige she expected, but warmer hues: umber, ochre, the browned remains of once-bright flesh tones.

She swallowed. “There’s more under here.”

Dylan stepped closer, angling his beam. His shoulder brushed hers—brief, incidental—but it sent a jolt straight through her chest. “You’re right. Looks like the murals go beyond the library.”

She nodded, throat tight. Her nipples were already peaking against her bra again, sharp reminders she couldn’t will away. She shifted, trying to disguise it as nerves.

Dylan, watching the wall, tried not to notice the hitch in her breath. Tried, and failed. She feels it too. His own body stirred in answer—heat low, insistent, enough to make him adjust his stance. He hoped the darkness concealed it.

They peeled at a strip together, plaster dust sprinkling their coats. More of the fresco appeared: a hand gripping another’s wrist, painted fingers tensed in pleasure or restraint. The artistry was startlingly precise, alive even beneath years of grime.

Clara’s mouth went dry. She shouldn’t look, shouldn’t imagine those fingers were hers, gripping Dylan’s. Yet her pulse skittered at the thought. Stop. You’re projecting. It’s just old paint.

Dylan let out a low breath, almost a laugh. “Whoever lived here ... they weren’t shy.”

“That’s one way to put it,” she murmured. She meant it as banter, but her voice came out husky.

The silence after hung thick.

Fear and desire are neighbors. In the dark, they swap coats until even the wearer forgets which they are. That’s the danger of corridors like this one—every step forward presses them closer together, whether they admit it or not.

A draft slid along Clara’s legs, icy against her thighs. She shivered. Dylan’s hand hovered instinctively at her back, not quite touching. The almost-contact prickled her skin hotter than any touch might have.

She wanted him to close the space. She wanted to lean back into his palm. She wanted—

She cut the thought sharp, flashlight beam darting ahead. “We should ... see what’s at the end.”

“Of course.” His voice was steady, but his pulse wasn’t.

They walked on. Behind them, the mural figures twisted in the flickering light, painted mouths parting wider, as if sighing them forward.

Clara’s beam slid along the wall, catching another slip of plaster where damp had loosened the edge. She reached out, peeled it back. More color bled through: the arch of a painted neck, the swell of breasts pressed against a partner’s chest.

Her breath snagged. Her thighs pressed together without thought, a pulse of warmth spreading between them. She shifted, hoping the coat would hide it, hoping Dylan wouldn’t notice. God, what’s wrong with me? It’s just paint. Just dust and age.

But Dylan had noticed, though not the way she feared. He was too caught by the mural itself, by the way the candlelight shimmered on faded flesh. His cock stirred against the seam of his jeans, insistent despite every effort at restraint. He shifted his weight, angling slightly, praying she wouldn’t see. Art, he told himself. That’s all it is. Just art.

Except it wasn’t. Not when she stood close enough that her scent—faint shampoo, a ghost of skin—mingled with the dust. Not when every flick of her flashlight trembled just enough to betray her shaking hand.

Clara forced her gaze ahead. Another figure emerged in the mural, a man’s painted tongue caught between parted lips. Her body clenched at the image, slickness gathering, undeniable. You can’t be this turned on in a hallway. You can’t.

Dylan’s throat worked as he swallowed. He could feel his pulse there, hammering. His cock pressed harder, a throb he tried to will away. He nearly laughed at himself. Brilliant. You’re half hard in a ruin while pretending to study plaster.

He risked a glance at her. She was biting her lip, cheeks flushed, chest rising too fast beneath her coat. His gut tightened further, a wave of raw wanting that nearly made him reach for her. He stopped himself, hand flexing uselessly at his side.

Desire has patience. It waits, builds, settles in the marrow. And the cruel trick is that fear feels much the same—a racing pulse, a catch of breath, a body not entirely your own. No wonder they’re so easily mistaken. Sometimes, they’re the same thing.