Fading Faces

Ezra hadn't been able to shake the cold unease since his last encounter with Grimwald. The weight of the whispers, the cryptic warnings, and the chilling air in the west wing had left him on edge. But today, something felt different. The inn was quieter—eerily so. Even Barnaby's usual mutterings about chess strategies seemed subdued.

"Alright, Ezra," he muttered to himself, dragging his mop bucket down the main hall. "Just a normal day at the haunted inn. No glowing keys, no creepy rituals, and definitely no angry shadow men. Easy."

The bucket sloshed against the floor, the sound echoing far louder than it should have. Ezra frowned, glancing over his shoulder. The hallway behind him stretched long and empty, but the shadows seemed deeper than usual. They clung to the corners of the room, shifting slightly in his peripheral vision.

"Fantastic," he muttered, gripping the mop handle tighter. "Because creepy shadows were just what I needed today."

As he turned a corner toward the dining hall, he nearly collided with Lady Marrow. Her usual calm, elegant demeanor was still intact, but there was a tightness around her eyes that hadn't been there before.

"Ezra," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Come with me."

He blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, sure? Let me guess—something weird is happening?"

Lady Marrow's lips pressed into a thin line. "Follow me."

---

Ezra followed her to the east wing, a part of the inn he rarely visited. The halls here were quieter than the rest of the building, the air heavier, almost suffocating. Lady Marrow stopped in front of a painting—a large, ornate piece that depicted a tranquil forest scene. Or, at least, it used to.

Ezra frowned, stepping closer. The colors were faded, the details blurred as if the painting itself was dissolving. He could barely make out the outline of trees where there had once been vibrant greens and browns.

"What happened to it?" he asked, glancing at Lady Marrow.

She didn't answer immediately, her gaze fixed on the painting. "This was one of the first," she said finally. "It began fading weeks ago."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Fading? What does that mean? Paintings don't just... fade like that."

Lady Marrow's expression didn't waver. "Not unless the soul tied to it is slipping away."

Ezra froze, his grip tightening on the mop handle. "Wait—soul? You're saying someone's... in there?"

"Not anymore," she said quietly. "When a painting fades, it means the soul it represents has been disturbed. Taken, or worse."

"Taken?" Ezra repeated, his voice rising slightly. "Taken by what?"

Lady Marrow turned to him, her green eyes gleaming in the dim light. "That is what you must find out."

Ezra threw up his hands. "Of course it is. Because why would anything in this place be straightforward?"

---

The dining hall was empty when Ezra returned, his thoughts still racing. He glanced at the walls, his eyes scanning the other paintings. Most looked normal—bright, vivid, and intact. But one near the far corner caught his attention.

It was a portrait of a woman in a flowing blue gown, her face serene as she gazed out over a balcony. Or at least, that's what it should have been. Now, the edges of the painting were blurred, the colors muted. The woman's face was barely visible, her features smeared like someone had wiped them away.

Ezra shivered, the air around him growing colder. He stepped closer, his lantern casting flickering light over the canvas.

"This can't be normal," he muttered. "Even for this place."

The whispers started again, faint and insistent, brushing against his ears like a cold breeze. Ezra froze, his heart pounding. The whispers weren't coming from the painting—they were coming from the shadows behind it.

He turned slowly, his lantern shaking in his hand. The shadows seemed to ripple and shift, growing darker as they coiled along the walls.

"Alright," Ezra said, his voice trembling. "If this is another warning, could you maybe just send a memo next time?"

The shadows didn't respond, but the whispers grew louder, more urgent. Ezra stepped back, his lantern swinging wildly as the light flickered and dimmed.

"Great," he muttered, backing toward the door. "Because that's not terrifying at all."

---

Grimwald was waiting for him in the hallway, his expression as stoic as ever. Ezra nearly collided with him, stumbling back with a startled yelp.

"Do you ever not appear out of nowhere?" he snapped, clutching his chest.

Grimwald ignored the question, his gaze fixed on the dining hall behind Ezra. "The paintings are fading."

"Yeah, I noticed," Ezra said, gesturing wildly toward the hall. "Lady Marrow just told me they're tied to souls. So what's going on? Why are they disappearing?"

Grimwald's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "It is not the paintings that are disappearing. It is the souls."

Ezra stared at him, his stomach twisting. "And by 'disappearing,' you mean...?"

"They are being taken," Grimwald said, his voice low. "Drawn out of the inn and into the hands of something far worse."

"Worse than this place?" Ezra said, laughing nervously. "That's a high bar."

Grimwald didn't respond. He stepped past Ezra, his movements deliberate as he entered the dining hall. Ezra followed reluctantly, his lantern casting jittery light over the fading painting.

"What do we do?" Ezra asked, his voice quieter now.

Grimwald's gaze lingered on the portrait, his expression unreadable. "The paintings are more than mere decorations. They are protections, bindings for the souls that seek refuge here. When they fade, it means the protection has been broken."

"Okay," Ezra said slowly. "So how do we stop it?"

Grimwald turned to him, his eyes dark and piercing. "You do not stop it. You find the source."

---

Ezra's grip on his lantern tightened as he made his way back to his room later that night. The whispers had quieted for now, but the chill in the air remained, seeping into his bones. He glanced over his shoulder every few steps, half-expecting the shadows to leap out at him.

"Find the source," he muttered. "Sure. Because that's totally something I can handle."

The key on his nightstand pulsed faintly as he entered his room, its glow casting eerie patterns on the walls. Ezra stared at it for a long moment, his chest tightening.

"This place is going to kill me," he said quietly. "And I'm starting to think it's not even going to be an accident."

He sank onto the edge of his bed, gripping the lantern tightly. The room felt too quiet, too still, as if the inn itself was holding its breath.

Then the whispers returned—louder this time, sharper, wrapping around him like a cold embrace. Ezra's pulse quickened as the lantern flickered violently, plunging the room into darkness.

"Okay, that's new," he muttered, fumbling for the lantern's switch. But before he could relight it, a faint glow illuminated the far corner of the room.

Ezra froze, his breath catching in his throat. A figure stood there, barely visible in the dim glow of the key. Its outline was jagged, unnatural, as if it didn't quite belong to this world.

The whispers twisted, their frantic murmurs merging into a single, chilling word:

"Run."