Beneath The surface
Chapter 5 – Beneath the Surface
Damon Sinclair POV
The morning light filtered through the tall drapes, but neither warmth nor comfort reached Damon’s study. The echo of Ava’s scream from the night before still lingered in his mind, mingling with something deeper—guilt, maybe even fear. He sat at his desk, fingers drumming a silent rhythm across the scarred leather surface. Outside, the estate was calm, too calm. Rumors of ghosts and hidden passages hardly fazed him—until last night.
He closed his eyes and replayed every moment: Ava’s pale face pressed to the window, the wild terror in her eyes, the fleeting glimpse of a woman in white. He should have been downstairs, sounded the alarm, brought her safety. But by the time he reached her door, she was huddled in a corner, white-knuckled, her eyes darting to every shadow as though expecting it to come alive.
His breath caught. He pushed himself up and crossed to the bay window overlooking the courtyard. Summer roses were already blooming, their fragrance drifting through the partially open sash. Beneath the beauty, though, something rotten festered in the heart of this place. He had thought the eastern wing’s secrets were safely entombed—locked behind a door that no one alive remembered how to open. Yet here she was: tearing that door open.
He ran a hand through his hair. I can’t let her dig deeper. His jaw tightened. For better or worse, everything he’d done—closing off that wing, burying its history—had been to protect her. And yet, in protecting her, he’d become the architect of her terror.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. He turned to see Margaret standing in the doorway, arms folded. Her expression was as unreadable as ever, though her eyes betrayed worry.
“She tried to find me in the hallway,” she said quietly, stepping into the room. “Says she’s seen things.” Her gaze flicked to the desk, then back to Damon. “Do you think…?”
He met her eyes. “I told her not to pry,” he said, keeping his voice controlled. “But she doesn’t listen.”
Margaret’s lips pressed together. “You know what she found?”
He glanced away. “Yes.”
“In the hidden room.”
Damon’s shoulders sagged, just a fraction. Margaret was the only one in the house who understood the stakes. “That’s why she’s scared,” he said. “She saw a photo of the girl.” He didn’t add that every time he looked at that photo, he felt his chest tighten—like breathing got harder, as though the image had hooked itself around his heart.
Margaret hesitated, then took a step closer. “She’s going to keep digging.”
He looked down at his hands. “I know.” He met Margaret’s gaze again. “I have to keep her away from it. No matter what.”
Margaret nodded slowly. “Yes, sir. But…be careful. Her fears are real.”
Damon tapped a finger against his temple. “I’ll find a way to protect her.” And himself, he thought.
---
Ava Carter POV
Ava’s head pounded, as if a drum had taken up residence behind her eyes. She forced herself out of bed, cursing the weak sunshine filtering in. Margaret’s “migraine” placation had allowed her a few precious minutes to explore last night’s discovery—but at a price. Now her heartbeat felt ragged and hollow, as though it had learned something dangerous and refused to keep pumping normally.
Down the hall, she heard the distant murmur of voices. Likely Damon in his study. Or maybe Margaret tending to the house as if nothing at all was wrong. The contrast felt so brutal: she was certain the walls themselves were alive, whispering her name, while they carried on normal routines, as though the estate was nothing but a tidy, comfortable home.
She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and made her way to the servants’ wing, hoping to find Emilia. The little girl had once again slipped into silence after revealing the “lady in white.” If anyone held clues, it was Emilia’s childlike imagination—if you could call it that. Ava had a feeling that whatever haunted the house fed off children’s fears, turning them into truths.
In the playroom, Emilia sat on a small stool, fingers trailing through a doll’s disheveled hair. Her head was tilted to one side, lips moving in a soft hum that sounded exactly like the one Ava heard in her room. Ava froze.
“Emilia?” she asked gently, kneeling beside the girl.
Emilia’s eyes lifted, hollow corners catching the dim light. “She hums,” the girl said, voice low and detached. “When people sleep.”
Ava swallowed. “Can you tell me more?”
Emilia only pointed at the door leading to the hallway. “She goes there.”
Ava stood and tested the hallway’s threshold. She had passed that spot dozens of times without incident—until now. The hush was suffocating, like walking into a vacuum. She tried to speak, but her voice felt stuck behind her teeth.
“Emilia,” Ava said, turning back. “Show me.”
The child nodded once, then rose and ambled ahead. Ava followed, each step bringing her closer to the east wing’s sealed door. When she reached it, she placed one hand on the dusty wood panel. The hum beneath the floor was faint here—an undercurrent to the silence. She felt a shiver run up her spine.
“Mama…” Emilia whispered, stepping back. Eyes wide. “Don’t go in. She doesn’t like it.”
Ava bristled at being called Mama. “This is just a door,” she said, trying to sound braver than she felt. “I need to know what’s behind it.”
Emilia shook her head, tears pooling at her lashes. But she did not move to stop Ava.
Ava pressed her palm flat against the wood. Cool to the touch, with splinters of age. Beneath her fingers, she thought she could feel faint vibrations—like a pulse. She exhaled, steeling herself, and said, “Help me open it, Emilia.”
Emilia stepped forward, small fingers working the corner of the panel. Bit by bit, the door shifted. Dust fell into a small cloud at Ava’s feet, and a gust of cold air rushed out like the exhale of a trapped creature. Ava inhaled sharply, sensing layers of secrets, regrets, and something… unresolved.
Inside, the passage extended downward—deeper than the hidden room she’d already found. A faint glow emanated from the stairs below, as if someone left a candle burning.
Ava’s stomach tightened. She turned to Emilia. “Wait here,” she said.
Emilia’s lip quivered. “She’ll see you.”
Ava knelt, cupping the girl’s face. “I promise I’ll be back. I have to do this.”
Emilia’s hands curled into Ava’s wrists. “Promise?”
Ava met the child’s gaze and whispered, “I promise.” Then she stood and moved into the darkness.
---
Damon Sinclair POV
He found Ava in the hallway, just past the study. The door to the east wing gaped open. His breath hitched. He sprinted forward, heart pounding like a hunted animal.
“Ava!” His voice echoed through the corridor. No response.
He reached the threshold and saw her descending the steep, narrow staircase. To his left, Margaret stood frozen, hand over her mouth. Damon’s blood went cold. He dropped to one knee, listening for any sound beyond Ava’s footfalls.
Nothing—at first.
Then, from below, a whisper. Soft, distant. “Ava…”
Damon shot a look at Margaret. She shook her head, tears gathering in her eyes.
He scrambled down two steps at a time, praying she hadn’t gone too far. The stairwell was claustrophobic, lined with rotted wood and thick cobwebs. Each footstep sent dust billowing around him. He could hear Ava’s steady breath until it…stopped.
He crouched where the stairs leveled out, squinting through the gloom. Candles flickered against walls lined with peeling wallpaper. At the far end of the room, Ava stood frozen, back to him, staring at something on the wall.
He crept forward, anxiety shredding his composure. The nearer he got, the more he felt the air thrum with energy—like the very earth beneath his feet was alive.
When he reached her side, he followed her gaze and saw it: a collection of journal pages pinned to the wall, ink faded to sepia. The script was ornate, almost calligraphic. He recognized the handwriting—his grandfather’s.
“Ava,” he said quietly, tugging her shoulder.
She turned, eyes wide, face drained of color. “Damon, look—”
But he had already seen the topmost page: a date from 1874, and the words ‘She never left. She waits.’
Damon’s heart stuttered. That journal was meant to be locked away in the private archives. Decades ago, his grandfather had hidden it, vowing never to speak of what it recorded. Now the past stared him in the face.
Ava’s voice tremored. “This woman… in the photo. She’s—”
He cut her off. “Stop.” His voice was low, edged with warning. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She stared at him, hurt and fear tangled in her eyes. “Why do you keep me from the truth?”
He exhaled sharply, frustration and regret warring within him. “Because some truths kill,” he said. “If you go deeper, you may never come back.”
Ava’s jaw clenched. “I’m not turning back.”
Damon’s gaze hardened. He reached out and tore the journal pages from the wall, crumpling them into his fist. “I won’t let you,” he hissed, ripping off a candle and swinging it until the pages caught flame.
Ava lunged forward, but he shoved her away as the fire sprang to life, consuming the brittle paper. Ink bubbled and smoke curled upward. She cried out, half in outrage, half in horror.
“Damon!” Her hand reached for his arm. “What are you doing?”
He turned, face etched with desperation. “Protecting you.”
Ava’s eyes filled with tears—more pained than scared. “By burning history?”
Damon dropped to one knee, unable to meet her gaze. “Because knowing the past won’t set you free—it will haunt you.”
Before Ava could reply, the candle’s flame grew higher. Shadows danced violently across her face, and as the heat intensified, the journal pages crumbled into ash. The scent of burning paper and old ink filled the cramped space.
Ava stood in stunned silence. Damon saw the flash of betrayal in her eyes, as though every promise he’d made unraveled in that moment.
And for a heartbeat, all the world between them seemed to catch fire.
---
Ava Carter POV
When the smoke cleared, Ava stood alone among the ashes. Damon’s silhouette lingered in the doorway, face hidden by flickering light. She could still feel the heat of the flames, smell the charred remains of secrets—secrets she would never uncover now.
She stepped back, heart pounding. “You… you burned it all.”
Damon’s voice was hollow. “It was never meant for you.”
Ava shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Don’t lie. You’re so scared—scared of what I might find. Scared of what it might do to you.”
He crossed his arms, looking away. “Some things are better left buried.”
She inhaled, trying to steady herself. “But you lied to me. You gaslighted me at every turn—”
He looked at her then, his expression pinning her like a hawk’s gaze. “I lied to protect you,” he said. “To protect us.”
Ava’s chest constricted. Every memory of his distant kindness now felt laced with something darker. She thought of Emilia’s hollow eyes, the woman in white, the humming within walls. “Protect me from what?”
Damon swallowed. “From the truth about… about her.”
Ava’s pulse skipped. “Her?”
He pulled a folded photograph from his coat pocket. Hands trembling, he unfolded it and slid it toward her. In the dim light, she saw a young woman in a white nightgown—pale skin, dark hair, eyes mournful and deep, like empty wells.
“She,” Damon whispered. “My aunt. Lillian Sinclair.”
Ava’s throat tightened. “But… I saw her last night.”
Damon nodded, voice taut. “She died… violently. In this house. No one buried her properly. She… never found peace.”
Ava stared at the photograph, then up at the wall of charred ashes. “That explains the whispers.”
He exhaled slowly, stepping closer. “She’s tied to this place. To us. And she’s angry.”
Ava’s lip trembled. “Then why bring me here? Why not tell me?”
Damon’s eyes glistened with pain. “Because I thought if she didn’t know you—if she didn’t see you—maybe she’d leave you alone.”
Ava’s mind reeled. “But she knows me. She called my name.”
He nodded, staring at the floor. “She does. And now… I don’t know how to stop her.”
Silence stretched between them, the unspoken truth solidifying like ice. Ava wiped her tears, trying to steady herself. “Then we have to figure it out—together.”
Damon’s gaze snapped up, uncertainty and relief warring in his eyes. “Together?”
She took a steadying breath. “I’m not leaving this house until I know who she was—and why she’s here. So help me.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then bowed his head. “You’re right. No more lies.”
---
Behind them, the hidden passage lay in darkness. Somewhere down below, the faint hum of Lillian’s lullaby began again—soft, haunting, and beckoning.
And together, they would have to face everything that had been buried in the Sinclair legacy.