Part 8: The Cellar Rite

The Mirror beareth no false witness; it repeateth. What is seen was ever known; what is heard was ever hidden.

— Testament of Elias Harrow, 1764

The stair ended without ceremony, just a final slick stone step that dropped them onto flagstones cold enough to numb through shoes.

They stood bunched together, shoulders brushing, because no one wanted to take the first step into the space yawning before them. And space it was—too wide, too high, too lavish for any cellar beneath an abandoned house. It felt like stepping not below ground but sideways, into some other architecture altogether.

The air was warm, heavy with a perfume that had no business lingering after decades: sweet and resinous, like incense smoldered down to its ghost. It clung to the back of the throat, making words come slow.

Velvet couches lounged against the walls, dark as old wine yet intact. Between them stood mirrors taller than doors, their frames carved with vines and mouths, their glass quivering faintly as if stirred by breath. Braziers burned in the corners with low, steady flames that gave off no smoke, no ash.

And the murals.

Here, frescos covered the walls and ceiling in detail too sharp to mistake. No vague smears of limbs—these were bodies, masked and unmasked, entwined in couplings that bordered on impossible. Hands gripped, thighs spread, mouths open not only in cries but in words. Clara saw that at once. These were not only figures of lust, but of speech—caught mid-confession, lips parted as if whispering into ears, or crying truths into the air while hips pressed deeper.

Clara’s stomach knotted. It was waiting.

Marcus broke the silence first. “Well. Guess we found the wine cellar. Very, uh, cozy.” His voice wavered, as if trying not to shake.

Nobody laughed. He swallowed, shifting his weight, trying again. “Hell of a place for a Halloween party. All we’re missing is a punch bowl.” But even he couldn’t keep looking too long at the fresco where a man was bent back over a velvet chair, two figures kneeling between his thighs, mouths poised in mirrored devotion.

Jade snorted, though she wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “Rich man’s wet dream. Or a cult. Probably both.” She said it sharp, a blade to cut her nerves into manageable pieces. But her gaze darted, restless, never settling more than a heartbeat on couch, mirror, or mural before skittering away.

Naomi hugged herself. She wanted to roll her eyes, she really did, but her throat had dried up. One mural in particular had caught her: three bodies tangled together in symmetry, one woman held between two men. Their painted eyes seemed to angle outward, fixed on her alone. She blinked and looked away, but the weight of that gaze followed.

Dylan inhaled slowly, as if scenting something half-familiar. “This wasn’t storage,” he murmured. His cultured voice had lost its casual edge. “This was ceremony.”

Clara walked a step forward without meaning to, her eyes snagged by a mural showing a woman with her head thrown back, lips parted, a man’s hand pressed to her chest as though forcing truth from her ribcage. Heat prickled across her own skin in sympathy. She pulled Dylan’s scarf tighter, but it didn’t help.

Behind them, the stair groaned and sealed with a crack of stone. The sound made them all jump. Marcus cursed under his breath; Jade spun back, only to see smooth wall where the passage had been.

The braziers flared.

The heartbeat they’d been feeling faintly in the walls swelled, filling the chamber with its rhythm. Steady, inescapable, too large to belong to any one body.

Then the mirrors began to whisper.

Faint at first, a tickle in the ear, then overlapping, insistent.

“Say it.”

“Tell it.”

“Name it.”

Naomi jerked her head, searching for who had spoken, but the words were only in the glass, lips flickering across reflections. Jade clenched her fists. Marcus tried to laugh, but the sound came out wrong. Clara’s chest tightened. Dylan, for once, had no clever remark.

The whispers grew louder, overlapping into a susurrus that crawled under their skin.

Marcus backed toward the sealed stair, running his hands over the wall. “There’s got to be a latch. Or ... something.” He pushed at the stones until his palms smeared gray. Nothing shifted.

Jade grabbed one of the braziers, trying to tilt it for a weapon, but it wouldn’t budge, the flames licking stubbornly in place. “Shit.” She kicked the base hard enough to bruise her foot through her boot, but the metal rang hollow, mocking.

Naomi stalked to one of the couches, yanking at the velvet to see if there was a trapdoor beneath. The fabric didn’t tear—it didn’t even wrinkle. She stepped back, shaking out her hands as though she’d touched hot glass.

Clara pressed against a mirror, hoping it might be a doorway. Instead, the surface gave a little, rippling like water, then snapped back with a jolt that made her teeth ache. In the reflection, her own mouth whispered a word she hadn’t said: “Afraid.”