Chapter one: The girl with no where to go

The storm had been raging for hours, but Arielle Vaughn sat silently by the attic window, watching the lightning split the sky into glassy veins of white. Her stepmother’s voice echoed faintly from downstairs, sharp and cold as ever — another argument with the maids, another broken dish she’d blame on Arielle later.

She didn’t care anymore.

The attic was the only place that still felt like hers. Dusty, cold, filled with boxes that smelled like the past. Her real mother’s past.

Arielle brushed her fingers over one of the old boxes labeled “Clara’s Things.” Her mother’s handwriting was faded but soft, curved like the lullabies she barely remembered. She lifted the lid. Inside were old photographs, a cracked mirror, and a tiny wooden door — no bigger than a notebook.

It was oddly beautiful. Painted dark red, with golden carvings along the edges. The brass knob gleamed faintly, untouched by dust. On the back, engraved in delicate script, were the words:

“Home is where your soul remembers.”

Arielle frowned. “What does that even mean?”

When she turned the door in her hands, the air shifted. A cold gust swept through the attic even though the windows were closed. For a moment, she thought she heard something — a whisper, soft and distant, like someone calling her name from far away.

“Arielle…”

She froze.

The door fell from her hands and landed with a soft thud. The whispers stopped.

Her heart pounded. It must be the wind, she told herself — or maybe she was just tired. Her stepmother had been making her clean the house since dawn, calling her lazy, ungrateful, useless.

By nightfall, she’d had enough. She tucked the tiny door into her bag before heading downstairs.

Mrs. Vaughn was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a smile too sweet to be real. “Going somewhere, dear?”

Arielle’s stomach twisted. “Just to my room.”

Her stepmother’s eyes flickered to the bag. “What’s in there?”

“Nothing important,” Arielle said quickly.

But her stepmother didn’t believe her. She snatched the bag, rummaged through it, and pulled out the little wooden door. “What is this creepy thing?!”

“It was my mom’s,” Arielle said, reaching out.

Her stepmother threw it against the wall. “Your mother filled this house with junk and bad luck! I should’ve burned everything years ago.”

Arielle’s voice cracked. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

“Watch your tone, girl.”

Lightning flashed through the windows, and for a split second, Arielle swore she saw something move in the reflection — a shadow, tall and crooked, standing behind her stepmother. When thunder rolled, the shadow was gone.

The next morning, her father called her into his office. “Your stepmother thinks a change of environment would be… healthy,” he said, not meeting her eyes. “You’ll be attending Westmoor Academy. It’s a very reputable boarding school.”

Arielle wanted to scream. But what was the point? He never listened. He hadn’t since her mother died.

⸻

Westmoor Academy wasn’t like any school she’d ever seen. The moment she arrived, she realized it was less of a school and more of a mansion lost in time. Gray stone walls climbed high into the fog, with gargoyles perched on every corner. The students whispered about ghost sightings, locked rooms, and a headmistress who never aged.

Arielle didn’t believe them — not yet.

Her dorm was in the oldest wing of the building. The walls were cracked, the floorboards creaked with every step. She unpacked in silence, placing the few things she’d brought on the small desk by her bed.

That’s when she saw it.

The tiny wooden door.

Her breath caught. She was sure she left it at home.

It sat neatly on her desk, its brass knob glinting in the dim light, as if it had been waiting for her.

She reached for it, her fingers trembling slightly. The air grew colder. Then—

Knock. Knock.

The sound didn’t come from the small door.

It came from the wall behind her bed.

Arielle froze.

She turned slowly, and her eyes widened. There — half-hidden by peeling wallpaper — was a door in the wall. A real one. The same shape, the same carvings.

Her heart thundered in her chest.

This couldn’t be real.

She stepped closer. The whisper came again — louder this time, almost playful.

“Arielle…”

Her hand hovered over the doorknob. The cold metal pulsed faintly beneath her fingertips, as though it was alive.

Thunder cracked outside, shaking the windows. The lights flickered and died.

In the darkness, the door began to glow — soft red light seeping through its edges like blood through a wound.

Arielle’s lips parted. “What are you?” she whispered.

And then, just before she could pull away, a voice spoke from the other side. A low, velvety whisper that sounded like a smile:

“Welcome home, Arielle.”

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