Chapter Seven: The Name in the Walls

The knock beneath the floorboards did not come again.

But the silence that followed was heavier. Thicker.

Elena's fingers curled into fists at her sides. The farmhouse had always been old, its bones settling in the night, but this—this was different. It was not the sound of wood shifting or wind sneaking through cracks.

This was something else.

Leon tilted his head, listening, and in that moment, Elena saw something shift in his expression. A flicker of recognition, buried deep.

"You've heard it before," she said. It wasn't a question.

Leon's gaze moved to her, unreadable.

"I have."

The admission sent a cold shiver down her spine.

She turned sharply toward the hallway, toward the narrow door at the end—the one no one ever opened.

Leon watched her. "Where does it lead?"

Elena didn't answer. Not right away. Instead, she reached for the oil lantern hanging by the kitchen doorway, lit the wick, and exhaled slowly.

Then, without a word, she walked toward the door.

Leon followed.

The hallway stretched longer than it should have. The moment they stepped into the shadows, the air changed. Denser. Older. The light of the lantern barely pushed against the dark.

When they reached the door, Elena hesitated. Her hand hovered over the iron handle, the cool metal biting against her palm.

"We shouldn't go down there."

Leon's voice was quiet. Steady. "Then why did you bring me here?"

Elena exhaled.

Because the house had never reacted to anyone before.

Because the knock had come after he stepped inside.

Because she needed to know.

She turned the handle.

The door groaned as it opened, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling down into darkness. The air was damp, thick with the scent of earth and something faintly metallic.

Elena lifted the lantern.

The basement was lined with old stone, the walls uneven, the ceiling low. Wooden beams ran along the length of it, their surfaces scarred with something that didn't quite look like time.

At the far end of the room, beneath the crumbling foundation, a single wooden plank had come loose.

And something was behind it.

Leon stepped forward before she could stop him. His fingers brushed the jagged wood, pulling it back—

A gust of cold air rushed past them, snuffing the lantern light to embers.

And then—

The whisper came again.

But this time, it spoke a name.

"Blackwell."

Elena froze.

She had not spoken it.

Neither had Leon.

Slowly, she turned toward him. His face remained unreadable, but something in his posture had changed. His hand, still resting on the wooden plank, had tightened slightly, the muscles flexing just enough to suggest restraint.

She swallowed hard. "What is down here?"

Leon didn't answer right away.

Instead, he stepped fully into the darkness.

And murmured, just loud enough for her to hear—

"A grave that should not exist."