Chapter 7: Shadows That Linger

Ezra didn't sleep that night. He sat cross-legged on the edge of his cot, staring at the music box key glinting on the nightstand beside him. The lantern flickered weakly, casting jittery shadows on the walls that seemed just a little too lively.

"This is fine," he muttered to himself, his voice tinged with exhaustion. "I'm just being haunted by a piece of metal. Happens to everyone, right?"

The key didn't answer, of course, but Ezra swore it somehow felt smug. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "You think you're clever, huh? You're just a stupid—"

A sharp knock on the door made him yelp, nearly toppling off the cot. He grabbed the lantern, heart pounding. "If that's Grimwald, I am filing a formal complaint," he muttered, creeping toward the door.

He cracked it open, peering into the dim hallway. As expected: nothing.

"Of course," Ezra said, letting the door swing shut. "Because why would it be anything normal like a neighbor borrowing sugar?"

The key gleamed on the nightstand as if mocking him again. He pointed a finger at it. "Don't think I don't know this is your fault."

---

The dining hall was quiet the next morning, though "quiet" was just a polite way of saying "depressingly lifeless." Mr. Pibb clattered around in the kitchen, slamming pots and muttering under his breath, while Barnaby was once again hunched over the chessboard, talking to his imaginary opponent.

Ezra plopped into a chair at the long table, cradling a cup of lukewarm coffee. Lady Marrow entered moments later, her emerald gown practically glowing in the weak sunlight. She fixed him with a sharp look.

"You look worse than usual," she said, sitting gracefully at the head of the table.

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Thanks, I feel so seen."

She poured herself tea, her movements elegant and deliberate. "Rough night?"

"Oh, you know," Ezra replied, waving a hand. "The usual—ghostly knocks, cursed keys, existential dread. How about you?"

Her lips curled into a faint smile. "The inn is not kind to the curious."

"Yeah, well, the feeling's mutual," Ezra muttered, taking a sip of his coffee. "Your inn is kind of a jerk."

Lady Marrow's smile didn't waver, but her eyes sharpened. "Be careful with your words, Ezra. The inn hears more than you think."

Ezra choked slightly on his coffee. "Cool. So now I have to worry about eavesdropping furniture? Awesome. Just when I thought this place couldn't get any better."

Lady Marrow tilted her head. "What is it that troubles you? The whispers? The shadows?"

"Actually, it's the cursed key that showed up in my room," Ezra said, pulling it out of his pocket and setting it on the table. "Any idea what this thing unlocks? Besides my eventual nervous breakdown?"

The faint amusement drained from her face, replaced by something colder. "Where did you find that?"

"It found me," Ezra replied, leaning back in his chair. "Just showed up like an unwelcome party guest."

Lady Marrow's fingers tightened around her teacup. "Do not use it."

"Trust me, I wasn't planning on it," Ezra said quickly. "But maybe you could tell me why it keeps glowing like it's got a PhD in malevolence?"

She didn't answer, rising from her chair instead. "Some doors are best left unopened."

Ezra threw up his hands. "Why does everyone here speak in riddles? Just once, I'd like a straight answer. 'Don't touch the key'—fine. But why?"

She paused, her gaze cutting through him like a blade. "Because curiosity killed the cat."

"Yeah? Well, satisfaction brought it back," Ezra shot back, unable to help himself.

Her smile returned, faint but distinctly unsettling. "Not in this inn."

---

Determined to distract himself, Ezra spent the afternoon cleaning the main hall. He scrubbed the fireplace mantle with more enthusiasm than necessary, if only to avoid thinking about the key burning a hole in his pocket.

The portraits above the fireplace seemed to watch him as he worked, their eyes tracking his every movement. He glared up at them.

"Listen," he said, pointing the duster at a particularly stern-looking gentleman. "You don't pay rent, so maybe stop judging me."

As he moved to the next portrait, his gaze lingered on the empty frame where Eliza Crane's portrait had disappeared. The carved plaque beneath it still bore her name, but the canvas was eerily blank.

"Alright, Eliza," Ezra muttered, tapping the frame. "What's your deal? Did you get bored of haunting me or—"

A sudden chill swept through the room, making him shiver. He spun around, expecting to see someone—or something—standing behind him. But the room was empty.

"Cool. Totally normal," he said, backing away from the mantle. "Not creepy at all."

---

Later, in the library, Ezra tried to shake off the lingering unease by burying himself in books. He avoided the black leather journal entirely, sticking instead to titles that looked boring and harmless.

"This one looks safe," he said, pulling a thick volume from the shelf. "'A History of Non-Haunted Architecture.' Sounds riveting."

As he flipped through the pages, the faint sound of footsteps echoed behind him. He froze, the book slipping from his hands and thudding onto the carpet.

"Grimwald?" he called, though his voice was barely a whisper. "If this is about the west wing, I swear I didn't—"

The footsteps stopped. Ezra turned slowly, gripping the lantern like a weapon.

In the corner of the library, just beyond the reach of the firelight, a faint figure stood motionless. It was barely visible, like a shadow given form, but its hollow eyes burned into him.

Ezra swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears. "Listen, if this is about the key, I haven't used it, okay? I don't even know what it opens! We're cool, right?"

The figure tilted its head, as though considering his words. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it dissolved into the darkness.

Ezra didn't wait for a second encounter. He bolted from the library, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the empty halls.

---

Back in his room, Ezra locked the door and slumped against it, his chest heaving. He pulled the key from his pocket, holding it up to the lantern's light.

"Alright, Key of Doom," he said. "What's your deal? Do you want me to use you? Or do you just enjoy ruining my life?"

The key, of course, didn't respond. But the faint hum that filled the room felt like an answer.

---

That night, Ezra lay awake in bed, clutching the lantern like a lifeline. The whispers hadn't returned, but the silence was worse. It pressed against him, heavy and suffocating. The key sat on the nightstand, gleaming faintly in the dim light, almost as if it were waiting for him to make a decision.

As his eyes began to droop, the faint sound of music reached his ears. It was soft at first, almost soothing, but it grew louder, more insistent, pulling him toward sleep.

Ezra fought to stay awake, but the melody wrapped around him like a lullaby, dragging him into darkness.

And in the darkness, the shadows moved.