Christiana jumped, spinning around in alarm. Her breath hitched in her chest, her eyes darting to every shadowed corner of the corridor. But the hallway was empty. Silence pressed against her ears like a tangible weight. The chill in the air slithered down her spine, raising goosebumps along her arms. Had she really heard someone speak, or was it her imagination, frayed by exhaustion and the eerie quiet?
Her pulse quickened, and her hands trembled slightly as she scanned the corridor, searching for any sign of movement. The voice had been close—so close it had seemed to brush against her ear. Her instincts screamed caution, every fiber of her being alert to a danger she could not see.
"Don't always look behind you," the voice whispered again, this time so near it sent her stomach twisting with terror. Christiana's head whipped around, but no one was there. Her mind raced. Was she losing her grip on reality? Was the castle playing tricks on her senses, or was there something—someone—truly watching her?
"Hello! Anybody there? This isn't funny!" Her voice echoed unnaturally along the long corridor, bouncing off the walls, swallowed, then returned to her like a mocking whisper. No answer came. Only the oppressive silence, broken intermittently by the distant creak of an old floorboard.
Panic gripped her chest as she realized she had no memory of the path she had taken to reach this wing. Every shadow seemed to twist and writhe in the lantern light, turning familiar walls into menacing shapes. Her breath came fast and shallow. The corridor felt endless, a labyrinth with no exit, the painted faces of the Andersons seeming to watch her as she passed.
In a sudden movement, Christiana stumbled forward, her hands stretched out in a desperate attempt to steady herself. Her fingertips brushed against something solid and cold. She lost her footing, her legs slipping on the smooth stone floor. A strong grip closed around her waist, yanking her upright before she could fall.
Her heart lurched as she spun to face her rescuer—or her captor. A towering figure loomed before her, shrouded in darkness. Her eyes immediately locked onto the most terrifying feature: bright red orbs that glowed with an unearthly intensity. Her stomach dropped.
"Ah—ah!" she screamed, stumbling backward as fear drove her into a frantic run. She didn't know where she was heading—only that she had to escape. The corridor twisted and shifted in her vision, shadows stretching unnaturally across the walls. Each gasp of breath was ragged, and the heavy fabric of her gown weighed her down, tangling around her legs, slowing her flight.
Her legs finally faltered, and she pressed herself against the wall, trying to catch her breath. Her heart hammered wildly as she clutched the cold stone, her eyes wide, searching for the glowing orbs that haunted her vision. "It has to be a dream… it has to be," she whispered to herself, but the icy terror coursing through her veins refused to be soothed.
A soft whisper cut through the suffocating silence.
"Hi."
The sound made her blood run cold. It came from the shadows beside her, brushing against her like a ghostly caress, sending shivers down her spine. Her eyes darted frantically, wide with fear. The corridor remained empty—or at least, it seemed so. Yet she could feel a presence, a weight pressing closer to her, tangible despite the lack of form.
Adrenaline surged. Christiana spun to run again, but a strong hand clamped around her waist, yanking her back against a solid chest. Her body collided with the figure, and before she could scream, a finger pressed gently against her lips.
"Don't make a sound."
The command, low and commanding, sent a shock through her spine. She froze, trembling. Those red eyes bored into hers—penetrating, analyzing, almost alive. Christiana's fear deepened into something primal, gripping every part of her. Her fists balled, and in a surge of panic, she lashed out, punching the figure in the chest. The sound of impact reverberated through the corridor, mingling with her own ragged breaths.
The instant her fists connected, a wave of dread followed. She realized the danger she had just provoked—but there was no time to think. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to run, every thought consumed by the desperate need to survive.
Christiana did not hesitate. She turned sharply, her gown flaring with the sudden movement, and fled.
Her feet struck the polished stone in quick, uneven rhythms, each step echoing loudly through the corridor as though the castle itself marked her escape. She did not dare look back. The mere thought of those red eyes—glowing, watching—sent a fresh wave of terror crashing through her.
It felt as though the gaze still clung to her, trailing her like a shadow.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her chest tight, burning. The walls seemed to stretch endlessly, the corridor warping before her eyes as panic clouded her senses. Shadows twisted along the edges of her vision, bending into shapes that made her stomach churn. Every flicker of candlelight felt alive, as though something lurked just beyond it.
Run.
The word pounded in her head, louder than her footsteps, louder than her heartbeat.
Run.
Her slippers slipped slightly against the smooth floor, and she nearly fell, catching herself at the last moment with a trembling hand against the wall. She pushed forward again, forcing her legs to move, even as they screamed in protest beneath the weight of her gown.
The whispers… the voice… that thing—
A choked sound escaped her throat as she quickened her pace.
Then—light.
Warm, golden, familiar.
The music reached her first, faint at the edge of the corridor, then swelling as she stumbled forward. Laughter followed. Voices. Life.
Christiana burst into the ballroom.
The sudden shift nearly overwhelmed her.
Candlelight bathed the room in a soft glow, chandeliers glittering overhead, and the orchestra's melody wrapped around her like a fragile sense of safety. The air here was warm, alive—so starkly different from the suffocating cold of the West Wing.
She staggered to a halt near the wall, her hand pressing flat against it for support.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, each breath shallow, unsteady. The world tilted slightly as she fought to steady herself, her vision blurring at the edges.
No one noticed.
Or if they did, they paid her no mind.
The ball continued—unchanged, untouched—as though nothing had happened.
As though she had not just fled from something unseen.
Christiana lifted trembling hands to her face, pressing her palms against her cheeks as if to ground herself. Her skin was cold despite the warmth of the room.
It has to be a dream…
But the memory lingered too vividly.
The voice.
The whisper against her ear.
The hand around her waist.
And those eyes—
Her breath hitched.
Slowly, she lowered her hands, her gaze darting across the ballroom. Faces blurred together—laughing, dancing, speaking—yet none of them seemed real. None of them felt safe.
Because somewhere within these walls…
Something was watching her.