The Portrait Room

The door creaked open slowly, revealing a room Lucien had never seen before. It was dimly lit, dust floating like ghosts in the air, and it smelled faintly of oil and iron.

And on every wall—portraits.

Men of all kinds. Some handsome, some plain. Some smiling, some with sorrow in their eyes. All of them wearing red.

Lucien stepped in cautiously, his fingers brushing over the frame of the nearest painting. The brushstrokes were wild and emotional. Some of the faces were scratched out, some eyes gouged with rough strokes. But each one wore red—red cloaks, red shirts, red scarves, even red painted across their bare chests.

"Why are they all wearing red?" Lucien asked quietly.

Seraphine walked to the center of the room, where a large, unfinished canvas sat on an easel.

She smiled, turning to him slowly.

"Because red remembers them best."

Her tone was light, but there was something dark under it.

Lucien's eyes fell on a row of large ceramic pots stacked neatly in a corner. Each one filled with a thick, red liquid. He picked up one, twisted open the lid, and leaned in to smell.

His stomach turned.

"This is blood," he whispered.

Seraphine didn't flinch. "Of course it is. Paint from the heart," she said. "It lasts longer."

Lucien froze.

She waved him toward the unfinished canvas. "Come. Sit. Let me paint you."

He sat in silence, numb, as she began to sketch the curve of his jaw, the sharpness of his cheekbones.

Then she started talking, her voice distant—like she was remembering someone else's life.

"Before the house, I was adored. I was the kind of girl who never had to lift a finger. Men fell in love with me just for blinking. I hated it. I wanted someone to stay... really stay. Not because I was beautiful. But because I was worth staying for."

She dabbed her brush into the red.

"Then he came... the first one. He promised forever."

A pause.

"He tried to leave."

Her brush moved more aggressively now.

"The house doesn't like liars. Neither do I."

Lucien watched her carefully. The madness was delicate in her—beautiful, graceful. But it was there. In every stroke. In every smile.

Lucien leaned back in the chair, eyes on the half-finished canvas, his voice soft.

"Why did you bring me in here, Seraph?"

She smiled without looking up, her brush dancing gently across the canvas.

"Because I wanted to paint you.""No," he said, watching her. "Why me? Why now?"

The brush paused mid-air.

She glanced at him slowly.

"Because… you looked like you could stay."

Lucien's brow furrowed.

"And the others? The ones in the portraits?"

Seraphine didn't answer right away. She walked over to the pot of blood, dipped her brush again, and returned.

"They all wanted something. One wanted my father's fortune. One wanted the house. Another one said he loved me, but he stared at the upstairs door every night when he thought I wasn't watching."

She tapped the brush to the canvas, then looked directly at Lucien.

"Do you want something too, Vale?"

His throat felt dry.

"Everyone wants something," he said slowly.

"That's true," she replied, almost cheerfully. "But some of you lie about it better than others."

He shifted in the chair.

"You killed them all, didn't you?"

"I didn't kill them," she said sweetly. "The house did. I just helped it… understand."

Lucien's heart thudded.

"What about the blood?" he asked. "Why keep it?"

"Because I don't forget," she whispered. "And neither does the house. It wants me to remember. It feeds off memories. Off truths."

She walked behind him, her fingers brushing lightly through his hair.

"What do you want me to remember about you, Lucien?"

He turned to look at her, their eyes locked.

"That I never lied to you."

She tilted her head.

"Are you sure about that?"

The question hung between them.

She smiled, lips curling slow and amused.

"That's alright. You'll tell me eventually. Everyone does."

Lucien looked back at the canvas. His face stared back at him in blood-red strokes.

He was already on the wall—half-finished.

Lucien's eyes flicked again to the thick red strokes on the canvas—his half-finished face staring back at him. Something in his stomach turned, but his expression didn't flinch.

Seraphine stood behind him now, silent.

Then, her voice—soft, almost playful.

"Will you give me your blood, Vale?"

He turned his head slightly, searching her face.

"Why?"

"So your portrait can belong to you," she said. "Every one of them did.""And what if I say no?""Then I'd have to wonder why you're here."

There was a beat of silence. A test. The house held its breath.

Lucien slowly rose from the chair, rolling up his sleeve without a word. He took the small silver blade she had used earlier, and pressed it gently to his wrist. His skin parted with a clean sting, and a line of red welled up.

He held it out to her.

"Take as much as you want."

Seraphine blinked. She hadn't expected it so easily. Something flickered in her eyes—was it surprise? Admiration? Something darker?

She stepped forward slowly. She didn't take the blood right away. Instead, she reached for his hand with both of hers, holding it as if it were something sacred.

Her fingers, cool and delicate, wrapped around his wrist. She brought it to her lips and kissed just beside the wound—softly, reverently.

Then, she looked up at him.

"You didn't even hesitate…"

He didn't answer. He just stared down at her, calm and unreadable.

Seraphine's eyes softened.

"Maybe you are the one," she whispered.

And then she leaned in—closer, slower, her breath warm against his skin—and kissed him. Not like before. This time, it was deliberate. Long. Slow. Tasting trust, madness, desire all in one.

Lucien kissed her back.

But in his mind, a storm raged louder than ever.

Seraphine rested her head on his chest, her fingers lazily tracing the edges of the wound he had given her. She was humming—something soft, something sweet—as if the world outside the walls had never existed.

Lucien didn't move. Didn't breathe too deeply.He had won her trust.A ghost was in love with him.And now, the house—the cursed, suffocating thing—was his next opponent.

He stayed in her arms until she fell asleep, then slowly, quietly, he slipped away.

The next day, Seraphine clung to him like a dream still lingering in daylight. She cooked. She danced around the hallway. She brought him books and whispered poems in his ear. Her madness was wrapped in affection, and he wore it like a second skin.

He smiled at her. Kissed her when she looked uncertain. Touched her hand when she doubted herself.

"I want to know everything," he said one morning, tracing the side of her face."You will," she whispered. "When the house knows you're ready."

But she was ready.And that was all he needed.

Over the next few days, Lucien began asking the right questions, the softer ones—the ones she thought were harmless.

"Where does this hallway lead?""Why is that mirror always covered?""Have you always lived here… alone?"

She giggled and answered, sometimes brushing it off, sometimes giving pieces. But she let him follow her more, showed him more of the house—the rooms lit by moonlight, the ones with locks, the ones with whispers.

And then, one night—when the storm outside was roaring and the house groaned like a beast in pain—he stood by her door, holding her hand.

"Can I see the rest of it?""Why?""Because I want to know everything about you."

Seraphine looked at him with stars in her eyes.A ghost in love. A madwoman with a beating heart.

"Alright," she whispered, brushing her lips against his. "But only with me."

And with that, she led him into one of the forbidden corridors—the ones no man had walked and returned.

Lucien's heart thundered.She trusted him completely.And now, the secrets of the house were within reach.