Chapter Twenty-Nine: The House of Ghosts

The door slammed shut, sealing them inside.

Tara whirled around, her breath sharp.

The house had been silent a moment ago—too silent—but now, something shifted in the air.

It felt warmer than it should have. More alive.

She felt it under her skin, thrumming against her bones—the undeniable wrongness of the house.

Behind her, Skye was motionless, his black-glimmering eyes unreadable.

She exhaled, slow, steady, forcing herself to move.

Everything about the house was too perfect.

The gleaming marble beneath her boots. The dustless furniture. The humming glow of unbroken light fixtures above.

It was a lie.

A meticulously crafted illusion.

But she didn't know how deep the lie went.

Then—

From somewhere in the darkness, the voice again.

Soft as smoke.

"Little crow... you have come home."

Tara's blood ran cold.

Her fingers curled into fists.

No.

She wasn't home.

Not really.

⸻

The First Memory

The house breathed.

Not literally—but it felt like it.

Tara stepped forward—and the world around her twisted.

The pristine walls wavered, the air thickening with the scent of storm-soaked earth.

Then—

A crash of lightning.

A rumble of thunder.

And suddenly, Tara wasn't in the ruins of her childhood home.

She was watching a memory unfold.

A young man—Dominic Stele—moved through the grand hallway, his suit jacket thrown over one shoulder, his expression lined with exhaustion.

It was raining.

Not just raining—pouring.

Water lashed against the windows, turning the outside world into nothing but streaks of silver and shadow.

Thunder rattled the glass.

Dominic muttered something about the fuse box, rubbing a hand down his face before heading toward the front door.

And then—

A wail.

Not from inside.

From outside.

Dominic's head snapped up.

Tara shivered as she watched him move, his steps quickening.

The grand doors groaned as he pulled them open—

And then—

There she was.

A baby.

Small. Now silent.

Drenched in rain, mud smeared across her cheeks, streaked with something darker.

Blood.

The storm screamed around them.

But the baby didn't.

She simply—watched.

Wide, dark eyes flickering with something too knowing.

Dominic knelt down close to the baby and then froze.

Tara could see the thoughts racing through his mind.

Who had left her here? Why?

But the moment stretched too long.

And then, slowly—

The baby lifted her small, dirt-caked hand—

And placed it, flat, against his chest.

Dominic stilled.

His breath shuddered.

Tara—the older Tara, watching the memory unfold—felt something twist violently in her chest.

Because she recognized that look in his eyes.

It wasn't fear.

It wasn't hesitation.

It was recognition.

Like he already knew.

Like he had been waiting.

A sharp intake of breath behind him.

Soft footsteps.

Marabella.

Tara's mother.

She stood at the top of the grand staircase, watching.

Her robe flowed like silk, her dark eyes locked on the child.

And Tara saw it—

Saw the grief that lined her mother's face.

Marabella's hand drifted to her stomach.

Flat. Empty.

Tara's breath caught.

She had lost a child.

And yet—here was another.

A child of unknown origin.

A child wrapped in blood and death.

A child that should have never existed.

Marabella's expression cracked.

Not with fear.

But with something softer.

Something warmer.

She descended the stairs swiftly, her bare feet silent against the polished wood.

And without a word, she knelt beside Dominic.

The wind moaned through the open door.

Dominic exhaled sharply.

"It isn't safe to keep her."

Marabella's dark eyes lifted to meet his.

There was pain there.

And something deeper.

Something like acceptance.

Tara saw the moment her mother made her choice.

Her arms lifted.

And she took the child.

Cradled her as if she had been born from her own body.

And when she spoke, her voice was steady.

"She is ours now."

———

The Second Memory

Tara staggered, gasping as the world lurched back into place.

Her hands shook.

She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to ground herself—

But the house wasn't finished.

Not yet.

A new image rippled into focus.

This time, it was her parents arguing.

Dominic's voice was low, sharp. "You know what she is, Marabella. You knew the moment you touched her."

Marabella's shoulders stiffened.

Her voice was softer. "She is my daughter, Dominic. That is all I need to know."

Dominic let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. "And when she starts to change? When she shows what's inside her?"

Marabella's lips parted—but she didn't answer.

Because she already knew.

———

The Third Memory

Before Tara could steady herself, the house moved again.

A new memory unfolded—this one warmer, lighter.

And the house was alive with laughter.

Tara watched as her younger self darted through the halls, her wild curls bouncing, a wild grin on her face.

"Wait!" Young Tara shrieked, her voice full of joy. "I was just joking!"

Then—black wings.

Crows flooded the room, bursting from nothing, their cries filling the house.

Tara's stomach dropped.

This was the first time her powers had manifested.

Dominic and Marabella were standing in the foyer, watching her with expressions she couldn't quite place.

Fear?

Awe?

Both?

Her father's voice was low. "Marabella."

Her mother only nodded.

Then—everything went dark.

⸻

The Fourth Memory

The scene shifted.

Tara was thirteen.

She could hear crows cawing in the distance, the sound strangely muted by the walls of the house.

Her father's voice was sharp. Tense.

"We need to teach her control, Marabella."

Her mother's response was quieter. Measured.

"She's still a child, Dominic."

Dominic exhaled sharply.

"She called them, Mari. She didn't even realize it, but they came. They answered her."

Marabella was silent for a long moment.

Then, softly—

"That's what frightens you, isn't it? That she doesn't have to try."

Dominic's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yes."

———

The Fifth Memory

The vision shifted again.

Tara watched as her younger self—fourteen years old—stood in front of the dining room mirror.

Her breath was unsteady, her fingers trembling.

Because her reflection wasn't staying still.

It was shifting.

Flickering.

Her own face bled into someone else's.

A girl with pale skin, deep brown eyes.

Then—a boy.

Then—a creature, black-feathered, eyes gleaming with something inhuman.

Tara gasped as she staggered back, knocking over a candle on her dresser.

The flame snuffed out instantly—as if the shadows had swallowed it whole.

And then—her mother was there.

Soft hands gripping her shoulders, steadying her.

"You must not let them see."

Tara stiffened.

"You must never let them see."

———

The Sixth Memory

The flickers came faster now.

Shifting faces. Shifting voices.

The house itself trembled.

Tara's breath caught as she saw herself at sixteen—staring into her reflection on her mother's vase, watching her face flicker between forms again.

Her powers were growing.

She wasn't just a child anymore.

She was becoming something else.

And they had always known.

Dominic's voice whispered from another memory.

"They can't know, Mari."

And then—

"We will protect her. Keep her unremarkable, unnoticeable."

"She is not unremarkable," Marabella said tiredly. "And she never will be. She's beyond that."

⸻

The Seventh Memory

The world lurched again.

Tara's stomach twisted.

This time, they were standing in Dominic's home-office.

The heavy oak desk. The grand window. The scent of parchment and ink.

And standing across from her father—

President Bailon.

Tara's breath caught.

This was him. The real him.

She watched as he leaned forward, his voice smooth, calculated.

"You cannot keep her hidden forever, Dominic."

Her father's jaw tightened.

"I will do what is necessary to protect my daughter."

Bailon's lips curved slightly.

"She is not even your daughter."

Tara felt the air constrict.

Her father's fingers twitched at his side.

"I know what you are, Bailon."

A beat of silence.

Then, softly—

"And I know what she is."

Tara felt her blood chill.

Bailon smiled.

And the memory shattered.

———

The Final Memory

The house shuddered violently.

The last memory was coming.

Tara could feel it, pulling her under.

And then—she was there.

Her nineteenth birthday.

The night everything ended.

Screams ripped through the air.

Blood spattered the walls.

And through the chaos—a lullaby.

Her mother's voice, broken, shaking—

"Éiníní, éiníní, codladh sámh..."

The walls shimmered.

The house flickered.

And then—it all shattered.

The illusion collapsed.

Tara was no longer standing in a pristine home.

She was standing in the ruins of it.

The rotted floors. The burned-out walls. The bodies that had never been moved.

She understood.

Bailon had done this.

It had been a glamour all along.

And the moment the lullaby ended—

So did the lie.

The house was nothing but a grave.