Page 12 of The Last Morgan
Just her — and the ghosts.
She didn’t speak. She simply turned and followed Corey.
They descended the staircase, their footsteps echoing through the cavernous space.
The chandeliers above cast long, warped shadows across the marble floor.
The house felt so big.
Then they reached the hallway.
A narrow passage tucked just off the main room. The air here felt colder and heavier.
And there it was.
The cupboard.
The same one she’d been shoved into.
The same space where her childhood ended.
She stopped. Her fingers hovered near the handle. The wood felt rough beneath her fingertips.
Thirteen years of silence pressed against her chest like a weight.
“Go in,” Corey said.
She took a deep breath and obeyed.
Crawling inside felt strange now. She was too tall. Her knees bumped the walls. Her back curved against the low ceiling.
But the panic came just the same.
Then —click.
The door shut behind her.
Darkness closed in, thick and complete.
The scent inside was heavy with age — old wood, dust, and the faint, rotting edge of something never spoken.
She placed her palms against the walls. Her breath hitched.
And then the memories came.
Not like before — not in fragments.
They surged all at once, a flood of noise and color and feeling.
She turned the handle, instinct screaming to escape, but it wouldn’t budge.
Corey was holding it shut.
“Remember, Lucy,” he said through the wood. “You have to remember.”
She sank to her knees.
And it began.
