Chapter 3
1294words
Julian's presence grew stronger, even seeping into my dreams.
I found myself in a setting unlike any corner of Thornhill—a moonlit sea of white flowers, their sweet fragrance hanging in the air. A man stood nearby, his back to me, wearing an impeccably tailored vintage suit. His figure was tall and lean.
He sensed my gaze and turned slowly. His face matched what I'd imagined from the signature in the Chronicles, yet was somehow more vivid—refined features, melancholic gray eyes, a faint, bittersweet smile playing at his lips. He didn't speak, just watched me, his gaze filled with emotions too complex to decipher—sorrow, joy, and a profound longing that seemed to span centuries.
He extended his hand, palm up. It was beautiful—long, elegant fingers like those of a scholar who'd spent years with a pen, or a musician at a harpsichord.
My heart raced wildly as heat rushed to my cheeks. Dream-me was far bolder than waking-me. Without hesitation, I lifted my skirt (only then realizing I wore an antique lace gown) and walked toward him, placing my hand in his.
His skin felt cool like fine marble, yet not as hard—there was an ethereal softness to it. He held my hand with gentle pressure, as if afraid I might shatter like porcelain. He led me slowly through the endless field of flowers. We exchanged no words, yet that peaceful companionship, that unspoken understanding, intoxicated me more than any passionate declaration could have.
When I woke, morning light was already streaming through the curtains. I lay in bed, my palm still tingling with the memory of his cool, gentle touch. My cheeks burned with a ridiculous yet sweet embarrassment.
"Eleanor Vince, you're hopeless," I muttered to the ceiling. "You're developing a crush on a ghost who might not even have a physical form. Either this house is toxic, or I've been single way too long."
I wrote a new entry in my Field Notes:
**[Observation Record 008: Mental Interactive Influence]**
Phenomenon: Communication with Julian now affecting my subconscious, manifesting as vivid, interactive romantic dreams.
Analysis: Unclear if dreams are Julian's construction or projection of my subconscious. Potential long-term psychological effects unknown. Need to maintain vigilance, but... admittedly, the experience is not unpleasant.
Note: Should inspect mansion's ventilation for hallucinogenic mold. That's the "scientific" explanation, right?
To escape these confusing fantasies, I decided to tackle some physical labor. Though the mansion had plenty of rooms, my belongings and the growing collection of books shipped from the city had already filled several guest rooms. I needed more storage space—preferably somewhere dry.
On the estate floor plan my lawyer provided, I noticed a door leading to an underground wine cellar near the kitchen. It was blocked by a heavy cabinet, clearly unused for years. I struggled to push the cabinet aside, revealing a thick oak door with an antique bronze ring handle but no lock.
I pulled the door open. A cold gust of air rushed out, carrying scents of earth, fermented alcohol, and ancient dust, making me shiver involuntarily. I switched on my phone's flashlight and pointed it downward, revealing a set of damp stone steps descending into darkness.
"Well, Julian, if you don't like damp places, you'd better stay upstairs," I said to the empty air. Taking a deep breath, I started down.
The wine cellar was far larger than I'd expected—a miniature underground labyrinth. Wooden wine racks lined the stone walls, mostly empty except for a few shelves holding dust-covered bottles with faded labels. The air hung cold and still, with only my footsteps and occasional water droplets breaking the silence.
I swept my flashlight around, searching for a good storage spot. As I reached the deepest part of the cellar, an arched alcove, my beam caught something massive tucked away in the corner.
It was a stone coffin.
It rested there silently, as if it had been there since the beginning of time. The sarcophagus was crafted from black stone with a dull sheen, its style ancient and classical. Intricate carvings covered its surface—a design I'd never seen before, resembling intertwined bat wings and thorny vines. It differed markedly from the Vince family emblems elsewhere in the manor, emanating a darker, more primeval aura.
Most striking was that the sarcophagus wasn't merely placed there—it was secured. Several massive iron chains, thicker than my wrists, bound the lid tightly to the base. At their intersection sat an enormous, complex, rust-covered lock. In the center of the lock was embedded a strange seal made of dark red metal, shaped like a closed eye.
My writer's instinct ignited instantly. What was this? Julian's chronicles never mentioned it. Who was locked inside? Why with such elaborate precautions? What story lay hidden here?
I stepped forward and touched the cold iron chains. I needed to move them to clear space. I pushed, but the sarcophagus didn't budge an inch—it might as well have been part of the foundation. The only option seemed to be removing the chains themselves.
I went upstairs and grabbed a sturdy crowbar from my toolbox. Back in the cellar, I wedged one end into the gap between a chain and the sarcophagus lid, then leaned on it with all my weight.
"Come on... open!" I gritted my teeth, my face flushing with effort.
The chains let out a teeth-grinding screech, yielding just a tiny gap. They were far stronger than I'd anticipated. As I shifted my position to try again, disaster struck.
My hand slipped on the damp crowbar, its rusty edge slicing deep into my palm.
"Hiss—" Pain shot through me, forcing me to let go. Blood welled from the wound—one drop, two drops... A single perfect droplet slid down my fingertip and fell with a tiny splash, landing directly on the dark red metal seal.
Time seemed to freeze.
I watched helplessly as my blood was absorbed like water into a sponge, seeping instantly into the closed "eye" seal and vanishing without a trace.
After a second of dead silence...
A faint yet eerie red light suddenly illuminated within the seal. It pulsed like a heartbeat, flickering between bright and dim, filled with an indescribable longing. Then the entire coffin began to shake violently, emitting a humming that resonated through the cellar, making the remaining bottles rattle and clink on their shelves.
Shocked by the surreal scene, I stumbled backward until I hit the cold stone wall, the crowbar clattering to the floor. A primal fear—thousands of times more intense than anything I'd felt during Julian's mild pranks—seized my heart.
I'd done something terrible. I'd awakened something that should never have been disturbed.
Before my eyes, the iron chains groaned under impossible strain, snapping one after another. The broken links shot like bullets against the walls, sending sparks flying.
Finally, with a soft *click*, the massive lock sprang open.
The coffin lid, with an ear-splitting screech, began sliding sideways inch by inch. A breath colder and more ancient than the cellar itself rushed from the widening gap, carrying a rich, tangy-sweet smell like deep grave soil.
My flashlight beam trembled, fixed on the widening dark crevice.
Then, within that pure, bottomless darkness, something ignited.
A pair of eyes.
Deep red eyes, like pools of burning blood, suddenly opened in the darkness, locking directly onto me.
