The Shadowkeeper glided forward. It did not walk; instead, the very space between the entity and its prey seemed to contract and shorten. The chittering whisper intensified, drilling into their minds like a static of pure, unfiltered malice.
"What is that?!" Elara cried out.
"No time! The study! Now!" Jonah shouted. He didn't wait for her to agree. He shoved a heavy, sheet-draped armchair toward her, its legs screeching a jagged protest against the marble floor. "Barricade the door!"
The command sliced through Elara's shock, and her survival instinct took over. She grabbed one end of the chair, her muscles straining as they hauled the heavy furniture toward a large, dark-oak door across the hall. Behind them, the Shadowkeeper's form rippled. A porcelain vase lifted from a nearby pedestal, hurtling through the air and exploding against the wall inches from their heads.
They reached the study and slammed the door shut. Jonah threw his entire weight against the wood, fumbling frantically with an old iron key he pulled from his pocket.
"The bolt! Slide the bolt!"
Elara's hands scrambled in the near-darkness until they found the heavy, rusted iron. She slammed it home just as something immensely heavy thundered against the other side. The solid wood groaned, splintering around the lock, but it held. For now.
The study was a tomb of knowledge. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves bowed under the weight of rotting volumes. A massive desk sat in the center, littered with faded maps and chemical apparatus, all covered in a fine, black dust. Jonah stumbled away from the door, his breathing ragged. He clutched his bandaged hand, where a fresh, dark stain was beginning to seep through the cloth.
Elara leaned against the desk, her heart trying to beat its way out of her chest. The flashlight beam danced wildly across the room as her hands shook.
"Talk," she demanded. "What was that?"
Jonah let out a short, bitter laugh—a hollow, broken sound. "That was a welcome. A gentle one, by that thing's standards." He gestured vaguely at the walls, at the oppressive manor surrounding them. "You think this is a building? Stone and mortar? You're wrong. It's a carcass. A shell for something else. Something that grew in the dark."
He looked at her, his haunted eyes catching the reflection of her light. "The house… is alive. And it's hungry. It feeds on fear. On regret. Your brother… his curiosity was a feast."
The words hung in the cold air, more terrifying than any physical monster. Elara wanted to refute him, to call him a madman, but she had seen the dust move. She had felt the air warp and heard the whispers in her own skull.
"My brother isn't food," she said, her voice hard.
Jonah shook his head with infinite weariness. "It doesn't care. It has his scent now. And yours."
He pushed off from the bookshelf, his gaze sharpening as he looked back at the door. The pounding had stopped, but a new sound had replaced it: a soft, persistent scratching. It sounded like countless insect legs scurrying back and forth in the hall just outside.
"It's learning the lock," Jonah whispered. "We can't stay here."
"Where do we go?"
Jonah's eyes scanned the study, landing on a large, framed map of the manor grounds hanging on the wall. One section, representing the east wing, was marked with a small, faded symbol: a crow in flight.
"Somewhere it doesn't want us to go," Jonah said. "My mother's private observatory. If your brother found anything of value… it would be there."
He looked back at Elara. The standoff was over, replaced by a grim, temporary truce forged in shared terror.
"Can you fight?"
Elara met his gaze, the initial shock hardening into a cold, sharp resolve. She reached onto the desk and picked up a heavy, cast-iron letter opener. The handle was slick with black dust, but she gripped it tight.
"I can now," she said.