Chapter 7
The world didn't feel real anymore. The sun rose, but it didn't shine. It just… hovered, pale and indifferent above the manor, casting long shadows that refused to move. The air felt stale, like it had been recycled through decades of rot, grief, and guilt. Olivia stood by the well where Marlene's body had been found, watching the water settle as though it were a mirror to another world—a darker one.
They had buried her in the family garden. Lila said it was the least they could do. Henry had refused to dig. James couldn't stop crying.
The roses bloomed red now.
Even the white ones.
No one slept that night—not properly. Henry paced. Lila stood by the windows, staring at something no one else could see. James sat in the corner of the hallway, murmuring something under his breath.
Olivia stayed in the library, her mother's journal clutched tight in her hands.
"She wants our children."
That line wouldn't leave her mind.
Her siblings weren't guilty of anything. Not of the old blood-debt. But they carried the name. They were descendants of the ones who had lied, who had buried Scarlett alive beneath a tangle of thorns and silence. It didn't matter that they hadn't known.
Scarlett remembered.
And she wasn't just hunting.
She was choosing.
⸻
Olivia found more entries.
June 2nd
We saw her again. By the orchard. She wore her burial dress—the one Mabel stitched before we knew the truth. She didn't speak. Just stared. The roses turned black that day. Lila cried for hours. Henry locked himself in the chapel. I told James it would pass. I lied again.
June 9th
She came into the house. She stood at the foot of Lila's bed and watched her sleep. She whispered her name over and over until Lila woke up screaming. We burned sage. We blessed the corners. None of it worked. Mabel said, "She's not angry. She's forgotten. That's worse."
June 10th
We should have given her a grave.
⸻
Olivia slammed the journal shut and wiped at her eyes. There was a sound behind her.
Breathing.
She turned sharply—but no one was there.
Just the sound.
Soft. Raspy.
Like something trying to remember how to be human.
She whispered, "Scarlett?"
The candles flickered violently. Then silence.
And then—
A knock.
At the door.
Three times.
Like before.
She didn't move. Not until Henry's voice shouted from downstairs. "Who the hell is knocking?!"
They all gathered in the foyer. The knock came again. Slower now. Like it was waiting for someone to answer.
Olivia opened the door.
Nothing.
Just mist.
Except—there was something at her feet.
Another rose.
This one had thorns.
And a lock of black hair wrapped around the stem.
Lila bent down and picked it up. "This one's for me."
⸻
That night, Lila didn't come to dinner.
James said he saw her standing in front of the mirror in the attic, unmoving. She was staring at herself, repeating her name like a chant.
"Lila. Lila. Lila."
When Olivia found her, Lila had carved that name into the mirror.
With her fingernails.
Blood dripped from her hand, but she didn't feel it. Her eyes were blank, mouth ajar, voice soft and strange. "She said we forgot her name. But she remembers ours."
⸻
They tried to leave the house that morning.
Packed a car. Opened the gate.
It didn't work.
The road twisted back onto itself like a snake eating its tail. No matter how far they drove, they ended up back at the front gates.
Henry threw the keys into the bushes and screamed. "We're not leaving. None of us. We're going to die here."
James collapsed on the gravel, sobbing.
Olivia helped him up and whispered, "Not if we remember her."
He looked at her, confused.
"If we give her a story," she continued. "A name. A history. She wants more than revenge. She wants to be known."
Lila spoke from the backseat. "She wants to be heard."
⸻
So that night, they did something that hadn't been done in decades.
They set a table.
Five chairs.
Four living.
One for the dead.
They placed a white rose at the fifth seat.
James, trembling, read the first journal entry aloud. The one that spoke of Scarlett's birth. Her laugh. The way she loved singing near the orchard.
Lila added her favorite color—pale blue.
Henry, reluctant, spoke of how he'd once seen a photo of her in the study. Smiling. Holding a locket.
And Olivia… Olivia lit a candle and said her name clearly, softly, reverently.
"Scarlett Devereux. We remember you."
⸻
The house moaned.
Literally.
A long, aching groan from the walls, the pipes, the floorboards.
Then a whisper:
"Too late."
⸻
They ran upstairs to find Lila.
Gone.
The attic window was open.
And on the mirror where her name had been carved, a new message appeared:
"One more for silence."
Olivia's scream shattered the night.
Henry punched the wall.
James collapsed into a heap.
But this time, something else happened.
The roses in the house began to bleed.
Every single one.
Dripping crimson down the walls, onto the floors, forming trails that led toward the library.
Where the old family portrait hung.
Only now—
Scarlett's face was in it.
Painted perfectly.
Right between Eleanor and Mabel.
Smiling.
⸻
"She's rewriting the past," Olivia whispered.
James looked up. "What?"
"She's not just haunting us. She's rewriting it. Making it so she was never forgotten."
Henry said bitterly, "Then what's the point of any of this? If she gets what she wants, we die anyway."
"Not if we give her an ending," Olivia whispered.
James nodded. "We bury her. For real this time."
They looked at each other.
Three siblings left.
One spirit rising.
The hollow didn't sleep.
And neither would they.