Chương 12: The Weight of Whispers

Ezra was starting to think the inn had a personal vendetta against him. Between the cryptic warnings, the whispers that followed him like a shadow, and a to-do list that never ended, he felt like he was one glowing key away from losing his mind.

The day began as usual: mop in hand, bucket sloshing with soapy water, and a mounting sense of dread that clung to him like a second skin.

"Alright, Ezra," he muttered as he pushed the mop across the dining hall floor. "Today's goals: don't die, don't get sucked into another ghost mystery, and maybe—just maybe—finish this floor before something creepy happens."

The dining hall felt colder than usual, the air heavy with a faint metallic tang that made Ezra's skin crawl. He glanced toward the far end of the room, where Lady Marrow sat in her usual spot, sipping tea as if nothing was out of the ordinary. Barnaby was in his corner, muttering to himself as he adjusted the pieces on his ever-present chessboard.

Ezra dipped the mop into the bucket, the sound of water splashing louder than it should have been. The silence in the room was oppressive, pressing down on him like a weight.

"Tell me something, Lady Marrow," he said, glancing at her as he wrung out the mop. "Does this inn ever feel... off to you?"

Lady Marrow tilted her head, her green eyes gleaming faintly in the dim light. "Off?"

"Yeah, you know," Ezra said, gesturing vaguely. "Like the air's too heavy, the shadows are too dark, and the walls are... watching you."

Lady Marrow's lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn't reach her eyes. "The inn reflects its residents, Ezra. Perhaps it is you who feels off."

Ezra blinked, caught off guard by the cryptic response. "Wow. Thanks for the vote of confidence."

Lady Marrow's gaze shifted toward the hallway. "The inn is restless today."

Ezra frowned. "Restless? How does a building get restless?"

Lady Marrow didn't answer. Instead, she sipped her tea, her movements slow and deliberate. Ezra shook his head, returning to his mopping with a muttered, "Great. Love a good non-answer."

---

By mid-afternoon, Ezra had finished the dining hall and moved on to the foyer. The whispers started as he was wringing out the mop, soft and insidious, brushing against his ears like the faintest of breezes. He froze, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.

"Not now," he muttered, his grip tightening on the mop handle. "I'm working."

The whispers didn't care. They grew louder, more insistent, wrapping around him like invisible tendrils. Ezra clenched his jaw, glancing over his shoulder at the empty hallway.

"Seriously?" he said, his voice low. "You can't wait until I'm done?"

The whispers swirled around him, tugging at his thoughts. The air grew colder, the shadows along the walls darkening unnaturally. Ezra's breath fogged in front of him, and he shivered, setting the mop against the wall.

"Fine," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "But if this is another dead-end, I'm done listening to you."

He followed the whispers, each step taking him deeper into the west wing. The air felt thicker here, as if it were alive and pressing against him with every breath. The faint metallic tang he'd noticed earlier was stronger now, mingling with the acrid scent of something burnt.

---

The west wing's shadows seemed to move on their own, curling and shifting as Ezra passed. He clutched his lantern tightly, its flickering light casting jittery patterns on the walls. The whispers guided him to a door he hadn't seen before, its surface rough and unmarked.

Ezra hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob. The key in his pocket pulsed faintly, its warmth seeping through the fabric.

"This feels like a terrible idea," he muttered, glancing back down the hallway. "But here we go."

The door creaked open, revealing a small, dimly lit room. The walls were lined with shelves crammed full of jars and books, their contents obscured by a thick layer of dust. A single lantern hung from the ceiling, its flickering light casting long, twisting shadows.

At the center of the room was a wooden desk covered in papers and strange trinkets. The air was colder here, biting against Ezra's skin like icy needles. He stepped inside cautiously, the floorboards groaning beneath his weight.

"'Transference Ritual,'" he read aloud, picking up one of the papers. "'To sever the bond between soul and object...'" He frowned, his stomach twisting. "Why does this place always feel like a horror movie waiting to happen?"

The diagrams on the page were no better—circles and symbols that seemed to writhe and shift under the lantern light, surrounding a crude sketch of a human figure. Ezra's pulse quickened as he set the paper back down.

The sound of footsteps behind him made him whirl around, his lantern swinging wildly. The shadows on the walls danced, twisting into grotesque shapes before settling.

Grimwald stood in the doorway, his face half-obscured by the dim light. "There are places in this inn that should remain forgotten."

Ezra let out a shaky breath, clutching the edge of the desk. "Yeah, well, the whispers didn't get that memo."

Grimwald stepped into the room, his presence filling the small space with a sense of weight and unease. "This room holds echoes of what once was. You should not linger here."

Ezra crossed his arms, his frustration bubbling over. "And yet here I am. Care to explain why this inn keeps dragging me to these places?"

Grimwald's gaze swept over the desk, lingering on the scattered papers. "These rituals are remnants of a time when the inn served a darker purpose. They no longer hold meaning."

"Really?" Ezra said, raising an eyebrow. "Because it looks like this one's about severing bonds. You know, like the one I have with this stupid key."

Grimwald's expression darkened. "The bond cannot be severed without consequence."

"Of course not," Ezra said, throwing up his hands. "Nothing in this place can ever be simple, can it?"

Grimwald didn't respond immediately. Instead, he turned to the shelves, his fingers brushing over the dusty jars. "The inn's whispers are not always to be trusted. They guide, but not without reason. Perhaps you should consider why they led you here."

Ezra frowned, the chill in the room sinking deeper into his skin. "What are you saying? That the whispers want me to... what? Learn these rituals?"

Grimwald's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not all knowledge is meant to be yours."

Before Ezra could press further, Grimwald turned and left, his footsteps echoing faintly down the hallway. Ezra stared after him, his chest tightening as the shadows in the room seemed to press closer.

"Great," Ezra muttered, shoving the papers aside. "Another dead-end. Love that for me."