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Chapter 16: The Passage
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2025-02-26 23:34:34The narrow passage beneath the fireplace loomed before them, dark and uninviting. The air wafting from within was cold and stale, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and decay. Elliot crouched down, his flashlight cutting through the shadows, revealing a set of steep, uneven steps descending into the depths of Wintercroft Hall.
Emma hesitated, standing a few feet back. “You really think we have to go down there?”
Elliot nodded, though the weight of the decision pressed heavy on his chest. “We don’t have a choice. This house—whoever’s behind this—is leading us somewhere.”
Emma wrapped her arms around herself, her voice trembling. “And what if it’s leading us to our deaths?”
Elliot turned to her, his jaw set. “Then at least we’ll know the truth before it happens.”
The descent was slow and suffocating. The steps were narrow, forcing them to move single file, their breaths loud in the confined space. The flashlight beam flickered as they went, casting fleeting glimpses of the stone walls, slick with moisture.
“Do you think this is part of the crypt?” Emma asked, her voice bouncing off the walls.
“No,” Elliot said. “This feels older. Like it’s been here longer than the house itself.”
Emma’s silence told him she didn’t find that comforting.
At the bottom of the stairs, they stepped into a large, circular chamber. The walls were lined with carvings—strange, intricate patterns that spiraled and twisted in ways that hurt to look at for too long. The room was empty, save for a pedestal at its center, upon which rested a small, leather-bound book.
Elliot approached cautiously, his flashlight fixed on the pedestal. The book was worn, its cover cracked and stained, but the Ashworth crest was unmistakable on its surface.
“This must be it,” he said, reaching for the book.
Emma grabbed his arm. “Wait. What if it’s another trap?”
Elliot hesitated, the air in the chamber pressing down on him like a warning. But something about the book pulled at him, a deep, unshakable instinct that told him he needed to see what was inside.
“I have to,” he said quietly.
The moment he touched the book, the room shifted.
The carvings on the walls seemed to writhe, the spirals twisting and unfurling as though they were alive. The air grew colder, the faint sound of whispers rising from the shadows.
“Elliot…” Emma’s voice trembled. “What’s happening?”
He didn’t answer. His focus was locked on the book as he opened it, his hands shaking.
The pages were filled with writing—names, dates, locations—all meticulously recorded in the same precise handwriting that had haunted him throughout the mansion.
One name stood out immediately.
Dorne, Elliot.
His breath caught in his throat as he scanned the entry.
“Subject brought to Wintercroft Hall as a child. Connection to Ashworth family confirmed. Father’s involvement in Experiment 12 critical to future developments. Subject unaware of full history—repression successful.”
“Reactivation required for progress. Subject must confront repressed memory to unlock access.”
“What does it say?” Emma asked, stepping closer.
Elliot couldn’t find the words. His eyes were fixed on the phrase: repression successful.
“I’ve been here before,” he said finally, his voice hollow. “As a kid. They brought me here. My father… he was part of something. Some kind of experiment.”
Emma frowned. “Experiment? What kind of experiment?”
Elliot shook his head, flipping through the pages frantically. “I don’t know. But this whole thing—this house, these deaths—it’s all tied to it.”
As he turned another page, a symbol caught his eye: a spiral, identical to the carvings on the walls. Beneath it were two words, written in bold, jagged letters:
“The Offering.”
Emma stepped beside him, her eyes scanning the page. “What does that mean? The offering for what?”
Elliot’s stomach twisted. “I don’t know, but I think it’s why we’re here.”
The whispers in the room grew louder, swelling into a cacophony of voices. The walls seemed to pulse, the carvings shifting and twisting as though trying to break free.
“Elliot, we need to get out of here,” Emma said, her voice rising in panic.
But Elliot didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the final line of the page, a line that felt like a knife to the chest.
“The subject must choose. Only one may leave.”
The chamber seemed to grow darker, the air thick with the weight of the words. Emma stared at him, her face pale. “What does it mean, ‘only one may leave’?”
Elliot closed the book slowly, his mind spinning. “I think…” He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “I think this place wants a sacrifice.”
Emma’s breath hitched. “No. No, there has to be another way.”
The walls groaned, the sound low and menacing. The whispers grew louder, more urgent, as though the house itself was responding to their fear.
Elliot turned to Emma, his chest tight. “We need to get back upstairs. Now.”
Alele TombraDear Readers, Thank you for stepping into the world of The Echoes We Bury. This story was never just about a haunted house it was about guilt, redemption, and the truths we try to bury. Elliot’s journey forced him to confront the past he had spent his life running from, just as Wintercroft Hall demands of everyone it claims. Some houses hold more than memories. Some choices leave scars that never fade. But in the end, the truth always finds a way to surface. I hope this story made you question what we hide from ourselves and what happens when we can no longer run. Wintercroft Hall has taken its price, but its doors never stay closed for long. Who knows who it will call next? Until then, stay curious. Stay brave. And remember… some echoes never truly fade. – Tombra
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