Page 26 of Darkest Oblivion
Carefully, I tried the handle again—my palms slick with sweat, my breath catching. This time, impossibly, it gave way beneath my trembling hands.
The door swung open to reveal a corridor that seemed endless, marble floors gleaming under recessed lights.
The walls were lined with gold-framed portraits of grim men in black suits, their eyes following me like watchful sentinels, daring me to run.
I bolted. My bare feet slapped against the cold stone, every step echoing like a warning bell.
The corridor twisted into shadows, then opened to a grand staircase that spiraled downward, its carved banister alive with snarling wolves. Their wooden fangs bared as I passed.
I stumbled down, breath ragged, lungs aching from the remnants of the asthma attack.
At the bottom stretched a cavernous living room, dripping with decadence—a ceiling soaring toward heaven, chandeliers raining prisms across velvet furniture, a massive fireplace roaring like the gates of hell.
The exit.
My gaze locked on the towering double doors across the room, dark wood gleaming, brass handles polished like a promise of freedom. Adrenaline surged—I sprinted. My palms smacked the handles, yanking with all my strength.
Nothing.
The doors were locked tight, unmoving, as though mocking me. Panic clawed up my throat. I shoved harder, pulling until my arms shook, until my nails scraped the wood.
“Someone tell me this is a dream!” I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat, ricocheting off marble and glass until it returned to me, hollow and mocking. “Is anyone there?”
Silence. Only the echo of my own desperation, the vast house swallowing my voice like it fed on fear.
My chest seized, the familiar warning of another attack clawing up my lungs, but this time my hand flew to my pocket and wrapped around the inhaler.
Relief. A weapon as small as hope. I didn’t use it yet—just the feel of it grounded me enough to keep moving.
I spun, my pulse hammering in my ears, and darted toward the next set of doors.
A dining hall yawned before me, absurd in its grandeur—an endless table draped in white linen, silver goblets winking like eyes in the dim light. The kind of table meant to seat kings, or demons.
“Hello?” My voice cracked as I shouted into the cavernous room. No answer, only my words dissolving into shadows.
I pushed on, through archways and hidden doors, stumbling into a library where shelves loomed like watchtowers, leather spines stacked with forgotten secrets.
Dust clung to the air, catching in my throat as I whispered, “Please...” Still nothing. Every knob I twisted was locked. Every door I shoved refused me, its metal cold and cruel against my palms.
I ran harder.
A servants’ corridor—locked.
A wine cellar—locked.
Even a side pantry, its hinges ancient and rusting—locked.
The house was alive, every exit mocking me, each denial feeding my panic.
Minutes stretched, warped, until I no longer knew how long I’d been running. My legs trembled, raw fire shooting through my calves.
Sweat slicked the silk of my wrap dress to my skin, my breath coming in ragged bursts. Finally, I collapsed into a smaller parlor, the velvet wallpaper pressing against my back as I slid down to the marble floor.
The cold bit through denim, grounding me, reminding me I wasn’t waking from some twisted nightmare. This was real.
My chest heaved.
I buried my face in my hands, rocking slightly as tears scorched my cheeks. “It’s my birthday,” I whispered to no one. “Nonna should be telling her stories... Mama should be cutting the cake. They’re waiting for me, and I’m not there.”
