The silence draped over the manor, far heavier than any of Léonie’s previous pleas, settling into the plaster like damp salt.
Then the air warped. A ripple of distilled memory, sharp as fractured glass, peeled away from the damp wallpaper and enveloped him entirely.
***
The scent of lily-of-the-valley, light and sweet, drifted from the porcelain vase on the mantelpiece. Héloïse traced a finger along the spines of her leather-bound books, arranging them by the subtle variations in their gilded lettering. Sunlight, a rare visitor in Brumeport, slanted through the mullioned panes, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. This room, once hers, now felt borrowed. Every painting on the walls, every delicate porcelain figurine, had been selected by Léonie.
“Oh, darling Héloïse, you’re still cooped up in here?” Léonie’s voice, a bell-like chime, drifted in from the hallway. Her presence always heralded a shift, a subtle darkening of the air around Héloïse. “Come, the town square is bustling. Monsieur Dubois has a new shipment of ribbons for your projects, hasn’t he?”
Héloïse turned, a small smile playing on her lips. “Perhaps later. I was just—”
“Nonsense!” Léonie swept into the room, a vibrant streak of color in her cerulean gown, her dark curls framing a face of captivating beauty. She moved with an effortless grace that drew every eye, even Héloïse’s. “You spend far too much time with your little sketches and your quiet thoughts. A girl needs company, stimulation! You know how I adore seeing you… blossom.” The word ‘blossom’ was uttered with a peculiar emphasis, almost a possessive caress.
Léonie linked her arm through Héloïse’s, pulling her gently but firmly towards the door. “Besides, I told the girls we’d meet them by the fountain. They’re simply dying to hear about my latest idea for the summer festival. And your input is always so… unique.” Héloïse felt a familiar pull, a draining sensation that always accompanied Léonie’s enthusiasm. It was like a delicate thread, spun from her own quiet energy, being tugged and stretched, slowly unraveling.
At the fountain, the group of girls clustered around Léonie like moths to a flame. Héloïse stood a little apart, her suggestions for the festival, offered softly, consistently drowned out by Léonie’s booming laughter or a quick, dismissive wave of the hand. “Oh, Héloïse, darling, you’re always so practical! We need a touch of whimsy, don’t you think?”
Later, as the sun dipped towards the churning grey of the Étoile Sea, Léonie led Héloïse back towards the manor. The fog began to roll in, thick tendrils creeping from the coast. “They adore you, Léonie,” Héloïse murmured, a genuine warmth in her voice despite the day’s slow bleed of her spirit. “You make everything so lively.”
Léonie’s smile was wide, but her eyes held a glint Héloïse didn’t understand. “Of course, they do, sweetling. We’re an inseparable pair, aren’t we? Two sides of the same coin.” She squeezed Héloïse’s hand, a possessive grip. “Without me, you’d be utterly lost in your own little world, wouldn’t you? And without you… well, I wouldn’t shine quite so brightly.” The words were a soft confession, a cruel truth delivered with honeyed sweetness.
The isolation grew. Léonie’s social circle became Héloïse’s entire world, yet Héloïse was always on the periphery, a silent observer. Her thoughts, her dreams, her very identity, felt increasingly permeable, seeping into Léonie’s vibrant, demanding existence. When Héloïse started a painting, Léonie would “help” by adding bold, clashing strokes, effectively ruining it. When Héloïse wrote poetry, Léonie would read it aloud, claiming the words as her own, twisting their melancholic beauty into something shallow and theatrical.
One evening, months later, the manor felt different. A new chill had settled in its bones, a creeping cold that spoke not of damp sea air, but of something ancient and hungry. Léonie had been speaking in hushed, excited tones for days, talking to herself in corners, her eyes alight with a dangerous glee. Héloïse felt a profound dread, a growing emptiness within her, as if a part of her soul was being meticulously scooped out. Her memories felt thin, her past a blurred landscape. Her very sense of self was fading.
She found Léonie by the grand staircase, her back to Héloïse, silhouetted against the dim light from the foyer. Léonie was murmuring, a low, guttural sound, not words, but an invitation. The air thickened, pressing down, and the shadows around Léonie seemed to deepen, to coil and writhe with unseen hunger. Héloïse felt a primal scream welling up inside her, a desperate urge to flee, but her limbs were heavy, as if weighted with lead.
“It’s time, Héloïse,” Léonie’s voice was clear, triumphant. She turned, and her face was illuminated by an unholy glow, her features twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated malice. There was no trace of the charming friend, only a predatory glee. “Time for you to truly become part of this house. Part of *me*.”
Léonie took a step forward, and Héloïse recoiled, heel catching on the carpet. The staircase dropped away behind her. The cold stare of the thing Léonie had summoned bore into her skull, hungry to hollow out whatever remained of her thoughts.
Léonie’s hand shot out, not in friendship, but with a brutal, calculating force. She grabbed Héloïse’s shoulder, her fingers digging in like talons, and shoved. A single, desperate cry tore from Héloïse’s lips as she lost her footing. The world tilted, a sickening lurch, and then the sickening crack of bone against aged oak. Darkness.
***
The vision snapped, leaving Bastien gasping against a dusty armoire, his shoulders aching as if he had taken the fall himself. The truth settled bile-sharp in his throat: Léonie had shoved her. It was murder, cold and deliberate.
He heard a faint cry from the hallway. Céline. Dread, cold and swift, seized him. The memory bleed, the raw emotion of it, had been a beacon. Bastien bolted from the room, boots skidding across the warped parquet floor. He burst into the main corridor, his gaze snapping to the far end, towards the grand staircase.
There it was. Not a shadow, not a mere chill, but a tangible manifestation. A swirling vortex of deepening gloom, like storm clouds condensed into solid form, consumed the air around the staircase. Within its churning depths, fragments of light pulsed, like shattered memories, shimmering and dying. And at its heart, unmistakably, glowed a face. Léonie’s face. Exultant, triumphant, her eyes burning with an ancient, hungry light. Her lips were drawn back in a silent, chilling snarl.
And it was moving. Advancing down the hallway, slowly, deliberately, towards the library door. Towards *Céline*.