Chapitre 3: Whispers in the Dark
The third night at Deadly Delights Inn was colder than Ezra thought possible. Even under a blanket he'd wrapped around himself twice, the chill seeped into his bones, and the creaks of the building seemed to synchronize with his every breath.
"This is fine," he muttered, staring at the water-stained ceiling. "Totally fine. Just a haunted inn with the heating bill of a glacier."
He rolled onto his side, trying to escape the lump in his mattress, only to slide off the cot and onto the cold, unforgiving floor with a loud thud. "Great," he groaned. "At least the ghosts didn't push me."
Just as he struggled back onto the cot, a sharp thump echoed from above. Ezra froze, his heart skipping a beat. Another thump followed, louder this time, like something heavy being dragged across the attic floor.
"Of course," he muttered. "Because it's always the attic."
Grabbing the lantern from his bedside table, he lit it with shaking hands. "Alright, Ezra," he told himself. "You're just going to check it out. Not because you're brave—because you're too curious to stay in bed."
The lantern's flame flickered as he opened the door to the hallway. The cold hit him immediately, sharp and biting, and the long shadows cast by the lantern made the warped walls look like they were breathing. He hesitated at the base of the stairs leading to the attic, staring up into the darkness.
"This feels like a terrible idea," he said aloud, gripping the lantern tighter. "But rent doesn't pay itself."
---
The attic door was slightly ajar, creaking ominously as he pushed it open with the mop he'd brought as a "weapon." The air inside was heavy, carrying the faint scent of mildew and old wood. Dust motes swirled in the weak moonlight streaming through a small circular window, illuminating the chaos within: boxes stacked haphazardly, old furniture shrouded in cobwebs, and an armoire in the corner that looked suspiciously like it could eat someone.
"Hello?" he called out, his voice cracking slightly. "Uh... if anyone's up here, just know I'm armed and—"
His foot caught on a loose floorboard, sending him crashing face-first into a dusty chaise lounge. The lantern rolled across the floor, its light casting wild shadows as it spun.
Ezra groaned, coughing as he pushed himself up. "That's fine. Just embarrassing myself in front of the ghosts now."
As he retrieved the lantern, a faint rustling came from the far corner of the room. His grip on the handle tightened as he swung the light toward the sound. A small, furry creature scurried out from behind a stack of boxes.
"Oh, thank God," Ezra breathed, his shoulders sagging in relief. "Just a rat."
The rat paused mid-scamper, its beady eyes meeting his, and he could have sworn it looked annoyed. Then it scurried off into a crack in the wall, leaving him alone once again.
Ezra laughed nervously, the tension easing. "See? Nothing to be scared of. Just a—"
A loud crash erupted behind him, cutting him off. He whipped around, only to find a stack of boxes had toppled over near the doorway. His heart hammered in his chest as he scanned the room, the shadows now feeling heavier, more oppressive.
"Nope. Nope. Nope," he muttered, backing toward the door. "This is above my pay grade."
As he turned, his foot caught on the mop he'd dropped earlier, sending him sprawling backward into a stack of chairs. They toppled like dominos, one catching him squarely in the shin.
"OW!" he yelped, clutching his leg. The lantern wobbled in his other hand, threatening to extinguish. "Okay, ghosts! You win! I'll leave!"
Hobbling toward the exit, he grabbed the doorframe for support. The lantern flickered violently as he glanced over his shoulder one last time. In the dim light, he thought he saw a faint outline of a figure near the window. But before he could process it, the lantern's flame went out.
Ezra screamed—a sound he'd later claim was a "heroic battle cry"—and bolted down the stairs, nearly tripping over his own feet. He didn't stop until he was back in his room, slamming the door shut and locking it.
Sliding down against the door, he clutched the lantern to his chest, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. "This place is a death trap," he muttered. "And not just because of the ghosts. The furniture's out to get me too."
---
The next morning, Ezra stumbled into the kitchen, looking like he'd lost a fight with a bookshelf—and judging by the bruises on his shins, he nearly had. Mr. Pibb, as stoic as ever, was stirring something in a pot that smelled faintly of regret.
"You look like death warmed over," the chef grunted, not bothering to glance up.
"Thanks," Ezra muttered, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Rough night. You ever hear, uh, noises in the attic?"
"Attic's always noisy," Pibb replied flatly. "Best to ignore it."
"Right," Ezra said, sipping his coffee. "Great advice. Ignoring problems always works."
Pibb snorted, ladling a thick green soup into a bowl and setting it down on the counter. "Breakfast."
Ezra stared at the bowl, watching as something unidentifiable floated to the surface before sinking back into the depths. "What... exactly is that?"
"Food," Pibb said gruffly.
Ezra poked at it with a spoon. The substance wobbled in a way that food definitely shouldn't. "You sure? Because it looks like it might start talking."
Pibb glared at him, and Ezra quickly abandoned the spoon. "Never mind. Smells great."
---
Later that day, Ezra found himself in the library, dusting shelves while trying to shake off the events of the night. The room's warmth and the soft crackle of the fire were comforting, even if the rows of ancient, unreadable tomes weren't.
As he worked, the faint sound of whispers reached his ears. He froze, the feather duster slipping from his hand. The murmurs were soft, unintelligible, but their tone felt urgent, almost pleading.
"Not again," he muttered, glancing around the room. "If this is a prank, I swear..."
The whispers grew louder, drawing him toward the far end of the library. Lantern in hand, he moved cautiously, stopping in front of a section where the books seemed older, darker. His gaze fell on a familiar black leather journal, its untitled cover gleaming faintly.
"Nope," he said, backing away. "Not today, spooky book."
The whispers stopped abruptly, leaving the library eerily silent. Ezra let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and picked up the feather duster. "This place is going to drive me nuts."
---
That night, the whispers returned in full force.
Ezra lay in bed, blanket pulled up to his chin as the voices seemed to swirl around him. They were louder this time, their tone more insistent, like they were trying to tell him something he couldn't understand.
"Could you not?" he muttered, pulling the blanket over his head. "Some of us are trying to sleep."
The whispers stopped, and for a moment, the silence was worse. Then, a soft knock echoed from the hallway.
Ezra froze. The knock came again, louder this time.
Sliding out of bed, he grabbed the mop leaning against the wall. "Whoever's out there, I'm armed," he called, though his voice wavered.
The hallway was empty when he cracked the door open. Lantern light flickered faintly, casting long, swaying shadows. Ezra shut the door quickly, locking it with trembling hands.
"That's it," he muttered, climbing back into bed. "I'm sleeping with the mop from now on."
The whispers didn't stop.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone