Lighthouse Horror Podcast - I work at a HAUNTED Mansion. We have ONE RULE you must follow | Scary Stories

Episode Date: March 11, 2025

Story written by Stephen & Rachel of Lighthouse Horror. For usage rights or more information, please contact us at [e-mail] Art from NinerioMore of the artist’s works at ninerioarts    Original YouTube link: I work at a HAUNTED Mansion. We have ONE RULE you must follow.       Merch: lighthousehorror.shopFor more stories like this one, check out my YouTube channel: Lighthouse Horror | YouTube Patreon: Lighthouse Horror | PatreonMusic:Lucas King - YouTubeMyuu - YouTube IncompetechDarren Curtis Music - YouTube Thank you for listening to this scary story! If you enjoyed this new creepypasta story, please check out some of my other horror stories. We'll be uploading new episodes every week, featuring ghost stories, haunted encounters, mysteries, true stories, creepypasta, and anything supernatural and paranormal. Don't miss out on the thrill and suspense that await you in each episode!

I've been a gardener for the Hartwell Mansion for five years now. Wasn't the kind of job I ever thought I'd have. But life has a way of steering you into places you never expected. I grew up in a small town, the kind of place where everyone knows each other's business and nothing much ever changes. My mom raised me on her own, working long hours as a seamstress

to make sure we had what we needed. She was tough but kind, the kind of person who'd give you her last dollar if it meant you'd be okay. Hard work isn't something I shy away from. I've always liked having something to do with my hands, whether it's fixing an old fence or planting a row of vegetables. There's something honest about it, something that clears your mind. I never needed much else. I'm 35 now, but I moved to this area when I was 30. Mom got sick, cancer, and I came here to take care of her. We didn't have anyone else. So? There was a just the two of us, like it always been. I ran at a small place nearby and spent my days driving

her to appointments, cooking her meals, and sitting by her side when the treatments left her too weak to get up. She passed away six months later. It hit me hard, but I stayed, maybe because I didn't have anywhere else to go, or maybe because I didn't know what else to do. I like the quiet here, the way the field stretched out for miles, and the hills rolled up against the sky. I took odd jobs at first, painting fences, fixing roofs, anything to pay the bills. And then I heard about the Hartwell Mansion. They were looking for a gardener, someone who could handle the grounds, and wasn't afraid of a little isolation.

Sounded perfect to me. People warned me about the place before I even started. That's the haunted man. They said, shaking their heads. You don't want to mess with that. I didn't think much of it at the time. Ghost stories don't pay the bills, and I'd never been one to scare easy. The mansion is up on a hill, surrounded by tall iron gates and trees so old, they look like they've been there since the dawn of time. The first time I saw it. I thought it was beautiful in a strange way. The kind of beauty that makes you stop and stay. even if it unsettles you a little. Plants here die faster than a pot of boiling water dries up,

but it's my job to keep the grounds looking respectable. Nobody expects perfect roses, but I can at least keep them from turning into black sticks overnight. I've learned to live with the strange things. A stoic attitude helps. If you jump at every creek in the floorboards or eerie shadow flickering through the fog, you won't last a time. day. That's what O'Reilly, the human caretaker, told me when I first started. O'Reilly's been here longer than I have, longer than anyone who's still breathing. He's wiry, with a face like an old tree, tough, but somehow still warm. He's good company when we're both on the clock, though we mostly work in different parts of the mansion. He takes care of the

inside. I take care of the outside. And the mansion, Well, it takes care of itself. It didn't take long for me to meet the others. The first was Lady Laverne, the resident fortune-teller and formal herbalist. Her crystal ball sits on a tall wooden pedestal in the library, wedged between dusty tomes and half-melted candles. I remember stumbling upon her on my second day, thinking it was some kind of tacky decor. And then her voice echoed through the room. Well, well, another victim of Hartwell's peculiar hiring process.

I nearly dropped the watering can. Her face appeared in the swirling mist inside the crystal ball. She was sharp featured and elegant, with eyes that sparkled like a stormy sea. She sounded like she'd swallowed a pheasaurus, always using big words and dramatic flourishes. Oh, it's not much of a life being stuck in this glass prison, but it's better than the alternative. Don't touch the curtains. They're hideous. I've been trapped here for centuries, and the decor hasn't improved one bit. She wasn't wrong about the decor.

Every room in the mansion looks like it's been ripped from a dozen different eras, none of which match. Then there's Headless Jack. He's the kind of guy who could probably win you over at a bar if he weren't, you know, headless. Jack pops up when you least expect him. You'll be pruning a hedge or sweeping a hallway, and suddenly there he is, carrying his head under one arm. Hey, Tom. Hey, uh, careful with those rose bushes, they, uh, they, they, they, they bite back. He said one evening.

His head blinked and gave me a wink. I'll admit the first time I saw him, I froze. But Jack's got a way of putting people at ease. He's sarcastic and quick-witted. Like a comedian who happens to just be missing something. Last but not least is Count Bernard. He's technically a vampire, though I've never seen him drink anything except the thick red liquid in his goblet. Could be wine.

Huh, could be blood. I don't ask. Bernard spends most of his time in the dining room, where he critiques the cook's meals like a snobby food critic. This stew is an abomination. Do you call this seasoning? I've seen better efforts from the rats in the cellar. He announced one evening as I walked past the doorway.

The cook, a cranky old ghost named Frank, slammed a spoon down. You can't even eat it, Bernard. How the hell would you know? The bickering is endless, but oddly comforting. During the day, the mansion opens to tourists. They pay good money for Hartwell's haunted experience, which includes fake fog machines, spooky soundtracks, and jump scares.

The tourists have no idea that the hauntled. They think Lady Laverne's crystal ball is a clever trick, and that Headless Jack is a paid actor. Jack loves playing into it. He'll pop up behind a tour group, his head tucked under one arm, and give them a little bow. The screams echo all the way to the garden. Bernard, on the other hand, despises the tourist and hides whenever they're around. "'Hugh, humans, "'vapid creatures with no sense of decorum,' "'he mutters with disgust.

"'The only place off-limits to the tours, "'and everyone else, is the West Wing. "'No one talks about the West Wing. "'It's the one part of the mansion I've never seen. "'They didn't lock it up, but they might as well have. "'Heavy velvet ropes stretch across the entrance, and old wooden screens block off the hallway leading to it. O'Reilly told me not to ask about it.

I don't pry. I don't need to. The West Wing was the master's section of the house. His bedroom, his private study, and who knows what else. When he died, they sectioned it off and no one's been inside since. Not even the ghost. Still, the West Wing looms. It's a constant presence in the mansion,

a secret hidden behind ropes and screens. And like all good secrets, it's only a matter of time before someone tries to uncover it. There's a rule about the Hartwell Mansion. If you die here, you stay here. Forever. I didn't believe it at a moment. at first. O'Reilly told me on my third day, matter of fact, as if he were reminding me to lock the

greenhouse doors, he tightened his grip on the mop he was holding and explained it plainly. Once you were there, you became part of the place, and it didn't let go. I thought he was joking until I met Daisy. Now Daisy's a dog, or she used to be. Now, she's a skeleton of what must have been a big, proud German shepherd, I think. Her bones click and clatter when she walks, but she still carries herself like she's alive. Her tail wags when she's happy, even though it's just a string of vertebrae. We met on my first day. I was planting daisies near the fountain, trying to make the place look less like the set of a horror movie. I'd barely got in the last bulb in the ground when she came bounding up out of nowhere.

She dug up the whole patch in seconds, dirt flying everywhere. You are a menace, I told her, shaking my head. But I couldn't stay mad at her, not when she sat there wagging her bony tail like she'd done me a favor. I named her Daisy right then and there, and she's been my companion ever since. The lure around the mansion is that once you're inside, the outside world forgets about you. At least that's what the ghosts say. Some of them swear they've tried to leave, only to find themselves right back at the front door. It's not just ghost. Creatures live here, too. Some as friendly as Jack and Daisy, and others. Not so much.

I've learned to keep my head down, stick to my work, and avoid certain parts of the house after dark. One of the things O'Reilly told me was to never wander alone at night. Daytime was fine, but nighttime was different. Most of the residents were harmless, but there were a few you would not want to run into after dark. I've had a few close calls. Once, I was trimming the hedges near the back gate when I heard heavy footsteps behind me. When I turned around, nothing was there. But the roses nearby were crushed as if something had barreled through them.

Daisy stood in front of me, her bony frame stiff as a board. She growled, a low rattle that echoed in the quiet garden. You know what? let's call it a day, I said, backing away. Daisy stuck close to my side all the way back to the main path. The mansion runs on a mix of mystery and money. There's a family fund that pays O'Reilly and May, though I've never met anyone who claims to be a heartwell. It's enough to keep the place standing and pay for basic upkeep, but the real money comes from the supernatural tours. During the day, the house feels almost normal, bustling with visitors, snapping photos,

and marveling at the special effects. Most think Daisy is some kind of animatronic, a clever trick for the show. And I let them believe it. The rest of the mansion's operation is obscure. O'Reilly handles the books, but even he shrugs when I ask where the money comes from. There's something unsettling about that, but I try not to think about it too much. The mansion has a way of making you accept things you'd normally question. Daisy.

Daisy keeps me sane. I talk to her while I work, partly to pass the time, and partly because she listens better than most people. You know, these flowers don't stand a chance. I don't know. I'll give it a shot. Maybe they'll last the week. I said one morning, crouched beside a bush that had already started to wilt. Daisy sat beside me, tilting her bony head as if she understood.

Her jaw opened and closed in what I could only describe as a pantomime of a dog's panting. Yeah, you know what, you're right, they're doomed. She followed me around the garden, her bones clinking softly with each step. Sometimes I'd toss her a stick to see what she'd do. She'd pick it up, shake it like a real dog, and drop it at my feet. You're a good girl, I said, scratching the air where her ears used to be. Her tail wagged, a rhythmic clatter against the cobblestones. Daisy's more than just a companion.

She's a reminder that not everything in this place is grim or dangerous, Some things, even in a cursed mansion, can still bring a little light. Of course, not everyone here is as friendly as Daisy. There are things in the mansion I haven't met and I don't want to. O'Reilly calls them the quiet ones, though we won't say much beyond that. He always insisted the best way to avoid trouble was to keep your head down and focus on the work. That was the only way to stay on their good side, if they even had one. So, I focus on the plants, the grounds, and daisy.

The rest? I leave it to the mansion. It's better that way. For now, the West Wing stays roped off. The residents keep to their routines, and I do my best to keep the garden alive, one doomed flower bed at a time. It was late when the last group of kids finally left the mansion. A school trip, they'd called it, but it felt more like babysitting a pack of wild animals. They'd screamed at every creek of the floorboards, pounded on the old furniture,

and left sticky fingerprints on nearly every surface. By the time the tour guide ushered them out, the place felt more alive than the ghosts themselves. O'Reilly and I stayed back to clean up, as we always did. after the tours. The mansion needed to be ready for the next day, and neither of us liked leaving things half done. Daisy, exhausted from the chaos, had curled up by the fire in the library. She looked peaceful, her bony frame rising and falling like she was dreaming of chasing rabbits. I made a pot of coffee in the kitchen. It was the least I could do for O'Reilly after a day like this. His mop leaned against the wall, and he sat in an old chair near the hearth.

His shoulders slouched from years of hard work. I brought him a steaming cup and settled into the chair across from him. The library was quiet now. The only sounds, the crackling fire, and the occasional rattle of Daisy's bones as she shifted in her sleep. The warmth of the flames felt good after the chill of the day. I sipped my coffee slowly, letting the heat spread through me. My mind wandered, as it often did during quiet moments like this.

The West Wing, always sectioned off and looming in the mansion's shadow, crept into my thoughts. It'd been on my mind for months now, the unanswered questions gnawing it may. Everyone whispered about it, but no one ever seemed to say much directly. The West Wing was very. more than an abandoned part of the mansion. It felt like the heart of the curse that held this place together. It was where the ghost came from, where the strange creatures seemed drawn to, and were Daisy never strayed. I'd seen her stop at the velvet ropes before, her bones stiffening,

as if she was afraid to go inside. I heard the rumors, of course, everyone who worked here at, The West Wing was said to be the most dangerous part of the mansion, a place where even a ghost feared to linger. The air itself was said to feel heavier there, like it was pressing against you, daring you to step inside. The stories about the mansion's old master always seemed tied to it, though the details varied depending on who you asked. Some said he was a madman, consumed by his own gene. Others said he was cursed long before the mansion ever became what it is now. But the version that stuck with me the most was the one about his fiancée. The master of the house had been a brilliant inventor, a man of extraordinary talent and ambition.

He'd studied abroad at a prestigious university, earning the kind of education that only the wealthiest and most gifted could afford. When he returned, he was eager to share his inventions with the world. He had plans, blueprints for machines that could change industries, revolutionized the way people lived. He trusted his fiancée with these plans, sharing them in confidence, believing in her love and loyalty. But she betrayed him. She gave his blueprints to another man,

not only breaking his heart, but destroying everything he'd worked for. The inventions were stolen, the credit taken by someone else. His name was tarnished. His reputation ruined. According to this version of the story, the betrayal consumed him with rage. In his fury, he set fire to the west wing of the mansion, destroying everything he'd once held dear. The fire gutted the place, leaving it charred and blackened, a skeleton of what it once was. The West Wing remained that way, untouched and abandoned. The curse seemed to center there,

spreading its influence throughout the mansion, but never leaving its source. There were stories about what happened to those who dared enter. Some were said to come out changed. Their minds broken, or their bodies marked by some terrible fate. Others, they didn't come out at all. The rumors were grim, people setting fires, jumping from windows, falling ill with inexplicable diseases. No case was ever officially linked to the mansion. The authorities couldn't prove anything, and most didn't want to dig too deep.

But those who worked here... Who lived here? Knew the truth. Daisy stirred by the fire, her tail giving a slow wag. For a moment, I wondered if she'd known the master of the house. The thought gave me pause. Daisy was a mystery in her own right, a loyal companion who seemed as much a part of the mansion as the walls themselves.

She'd been here long before me, long before O'Reilly even. and yet she never wandered far from the living spaces. The West Wing was off limits to her, as it was the rest of us. O'Reilly once said that some places are better left alone, and I was starting to understand what he meant. The mansion had its secrets, and while curiosity pulled at me, I knew better than to push too far. The fire crackled softly as I finished my coffee.

The warmth settling deep in my bones. O'Reilly set his empty cup on the small table beside him and stretched. The weariness of the day etched into his movements. Daisy shifted again, her tail giving another faint wag before she settled back into stillness. We closed up for the night, blocking the doors and turning out the lights. The mansion was quiet again. The kind of stillness that settles in once the day, chaos has passed. I didn't think much about the West Wing after that night by the fire.

O'Reilly's stories were chilling, sure. But they felt just like that. Stories. At least that's what I told myself. And then the ghost hunters came. It was a group of four, two men and two women, all in the early 20s. They came in during the last tour of the day, carrying cameras and EMF detectors like they were stepping onto a Hollywood set. One of them, a tall cocky guy with slicked back hair, stood out immediately. He spoke loudly, cracking jokes and acting like he owned the place. I could tell his friends were embarrassed. They kept apologizing to the tour guide, trying to keep him in line. His girlfriend, a quiet woman with long dark hair, seemed especially nervous, like she was second-guessing the whole trip.

When the group reached the west wing, the guy did their usual spiel, warning everyone not to cross the ropes. The area was forbidden, and even the spirits avoided it, they explained, lowering their voice for dramatic effect. That was all the tall guy needed to hear. Later that evening,

after the tour had ended, and the group was supposed to be gathering things to leave, I spotted him slipping away. He ducked under the ropes and disappeared into the west wing, a flashlight in his hand. His girlfriend called after him, but he waved her off laughing, told her he'd be back after ten minutes. I figured he'd take a look, scare himself, and come running back.

He was gone longer than I expected. His friend started getting worried, calling his name and pacing near, the ropes, just as they were about to go after him. He reappeared. But he wasn't the same. He didn't say a word, didn't crack a joke, didn't even make eye contact. His face was pale, and his hands shook as he handed the flashlight back to one of his friends. When they asked him what happened, he just mumbled that they needed to go and started walking toward the exit. The group left quickly. There were earlier excitement replaced by uneasy silence. It stuck with me the way he looked, like he'd seen something he couldn't explain, something

he wished he hadn't. But I still didn't believe the stories, not fully, not until I read the news a few weeks later. The same man had jumped from a second-story window of his apartment. He didn't die, but he broke his arm pretty bad. The article said he'd been acting strange in the days leading up to it, locking himself in his room and refusing to talk to anyone. After the man who'd snuck into the forbidden part of the house ended up in the news,

I started looking at the place a little differently. Still, the day-to-day didn't change much. O'Reilly and I opened up the mansion as usual. It was another school trip, this time with younger kids. They couldn't have been more than, I don't know, seven or eight years old, all dressed in matching school uniforms that made them look like a row of tiny penguins. All of them except one. There was a little girl in a bright yellow raincoat.

Her blonde hair tied neatly in a bun. She stood out like a light bulb. It was hard not to notice her, bouncing along at the back of the group with her hands stuffed into her coat pockets. She looked shy, keeping to herself while the other kids ran ahead, pointing and shouting at everything they saw. I smiled to myself as I headed to the greenhouse. Kids had a way of bringing life to the place, even if they left sticky handprints on everything. I was pruning flowers when the little girl wandered in. She must have slipped away from her group, her yellow raincoat catching the sunlight as she peeked around the door.

Instead of scolding her, I knelt down to her level, holding my clippers loosely in one hand. Well, hey there, what brings you over here? You lost? She hesitated, clutching the edge of her coat. Her eyes darted to the greenhouse door like she was thinking about running, but then she looked back at me. I smiled and reached for a yellow daffodil blooming near the edge of the planter. You know, I said plucking it carefully. This one looks like you. I held it out to her, the bright petals almost matching her raincoat. She giggled, a small sound.

She took the flower, turning it over in her little hands. Thank you, she said. What's your name? I asked. Lucy. Well, Lucy, I'm Tom. Nice to meet you. She nodded, still holding the flower. And then she looked up at me with wide eyes.

I don't let Ghost. She blurted out. I raised an eyebrow. You don't, huh? She shook her head quickly. The kids in my class make fun of me because I'm scared of them. They think it's funny, but I don't. I leaned back on my heels, thinking,

You know, ghosts can be afraid of you too, I said after a moment. Her eyes widened. Really? Yeah, really. The trick is to look right at them. They only move when you look away. But if you look straight at them. Like this.

I demonstrated with an exaggerated stare making her giggle. Well, they usually back off. They're not as tough as they seem, I said. Lucy smiled, her grip on the daffodil relaxing. I'll try that, she said. Good. Now let's get you back to your group before they realize you're missing. I stood up and walked her to the greenhouse door, keeping an eye out for her teacher. When we spotted the group, I pointed them out and she nodded.

Thanks, Tom. She said, waving as she ran back to join him. I waved back, watching until Lucy disappeared into the crowd of tiny penguins. The little daffodil I'd given her peeked out of the pocket in her yellow raincoat. And her small smile was the last thing I saw before she rejoined her group. The rest of the day unfolded in its usual rhythm. The tours came and went, the sounds of excited chatter echoing through the mansion. I worked quietly in the greenhouse, pruning and watering the plants,

letting the activity around the house fade into the background. The calm held until the commotion started. It was just before the last tour of the day, when raised voices broke through the usual noise. There were hurried footsteps at a wave of panic that seemed to spread through the mansion. Putting down my tools, I left the greenhouse and headed toward the source. In the main hall, the air was thick with tension. O'Reilly stood near the teacher, who looked pale and anxious, her hands twisting nervously.

A group of children huddled nearby their usual energy replaced by a heavy silence. The scene made the reason for the disturbance obvious. Something was wrong. The teacher explained in rushed, shaky sentences that the group had done a headcount before leaving, only to find Lucy absent. They'd searched everywhere they could think of, the library, the dining hall, even outside the mansion. But there was no sign of her.

Lucy was missing. The teacher's face was pale, as she explained how they'd searched every corner of the mansion calling for her. But she was nowhere to be found. The other children stood in small groups, their usual energy, replaced by nervous, silence. O'Reilly, his jaw tight, started managing the adults and kids, asking questions and making sure no one wandered off. I scanned the group and noticed three boys huddled together near the back.

Their faces pale. Their eyes wide with guilt. They avoided looking at anyone. They're shifting feet betraying their anxiety. I approached them, my boots heavy on the floor, and they They flinched slightly when I stepped in front of him. What happened? I asked. And it didn't take much for them to break. One of them stammered through an explanation, his voice trembling. They dared Lucy to go into the West Wing, calling her a scurdy cat and laughing when she protested.

The other two chimed in, each trying to defend themselves. But the truth was clear. They'd bullied her into it. My stomach churned. Of all the places in the mansion, the west wing was the most dangerous. It was like a maze, filled with crumbling architecture, blackened walls, and worse things that lurked in the shadows. If Lucy was in there, I needed to get her out and fast. I turned to O'Reilly.

He understood immediately, nodding as he stepped in to manage the chaos. He spoke quickly to the teacher, explaining that the mansion would be closed for the rest of the day, and that all remaining tours were cancelled. He started organizing the children, keeping them in one place, while assuring the adults that everything was under control. Meanwhile, I headed for the library. Daisy trotted after me, her bony frame clicking softly on the wooden floors. I didn't have a clear plan yet,

but I knew I couldn't go into the West Wing blind. There was someone in the mansion who might be able to help, though her advice often came wrapped in riddles. Lady Laverne's crystal ball sat on its usual pedestal in the library, surrounded by dusty books and flickering candles. Her face materialized in the swirling mist inside the glass as I approached, her sharp eyes narrowing, as she noticed Daisy and May.

Well, well, the gardener seeks my counsel. This must be serious. Her voice echoed. It is. A little girl has gone into the West Wing. I need your help to find her. Laverne's expression softened slightly, though her sharp features remained unreadable.

The West Wing, a labyrinth of ruin and rage. You're brave to even consider entering. I didn't respond, my jaw tightening. There wasn't time for compliments or warnings. She studied me for a moment, the mist in the crystal ball swirling faster. The girl is the light in the darkness,

a beacon, bright and small. She is near. but in danger. I leaned closer, trying to catch every word. What danger? Lady Laverne's expression shifted. Her sharp eyes narrowing as the mist inside the crystal ball swirled violently.

The West Wing is not like the rest of the mansion. It's the heart of the curse. You're human. flesh, blood, and bone. And that makes you vulnerable. You have no strength there. Not against what you will face. You must use your wit. Think quickly. And most of all, you must be brave. Fear will only feed the dangers within. If you falter, they will consume you. I opened my mouth to press her for more specifics, but before I could speak, the library door creaked open. Count Bernard strolled in, his usual air of disdain softened by what looked like genuine concern.

His goblet was absent, replaced by a small glass jar in his hand. I couldn't help but over here. The gardener, heading into the west wing. Brave, perhaps, but very foolish without aid. He held up the jar. Inside, three tiny glowing blue lights floated lazily, pulsing faintly, like tiny heartbeats. Willow whips, or willows, as I call them. You mortals have your legends about them, how they lead travelers to their destination.

release one, and it will guide you through the west wing. But, he paused, holding up a finger. You only have three. Use them wisely, garner. He handed me the jar, his cold fingers brushing mine briefly. The lights inside the jar pulsed brighter for a moment, before settling again. I'd heard of these tiny things before. Willow wisps were strange little lights, like tiny blue flames floating in the air.

In legends, they're sent to guide travelers with pure intentions, leading them through forest, swamps, or dark places they'd otherwise get lost in. The stories say they glow brightest for those who are brave, kind, or have a purpose worth fighting for. but they're tricky, too. Some say they lead those with bad hearts astray, deeper into danger. Thank you, I said, the weight of the jar heavier than it seemed. Bernard gave a curt nod,

his usual grumpiness returning. Yes, yes, don't make me regret wasting my goodwill, he said before stepping back, folding his arms as if he were already done with a matter. Before I could respond, headless Jack floated through the far wall. He carried his head under his arm, the features twisted with concern.

Hey, you're not really going to do it, are you? You could die in there, you know. And if you do, he hesitated, looking at the jar in my hand. You know, you die in there. there, you'll be stuck here forever. With us. I know, but Lucy doesn't have anyone else.

I began. If I can save her, I have to try. Jack frowned, his mouth pulling into a thin line. Well, the West Wing's different. Even ghosts like me can barely exist there. You know, the curse is too strong, too wild. But... He paused, then nodded slowly.

Well, if you find yourself in a tight spot, call for me. I'll come if I can. Thank you, I said. I glanced at the three of them, LeVern, Bernard, and Jack. None of them looked pleased, but there was a kind of reluctant respect in their expressions. They understood the risk, maybe better than I did. and they were still offering their help. I turned to Daisy, who stood by my side.

Her bony frame, still and alert. I crouched down, resting a hand on her smooth skull. You don't have to come with me. This isn't your fight, I said. Daisy tilted her head slightly, her tail giving the faintest wag. She stepped closer, pressing her skeletal frame against my knee in silent defiance. I smiled despite the tension. All right, I guess we're doing

this together then. Daisy's tail wagged more enthusiastically, a faint rattle that somehow felt like reassurance. Standing, I gripped the jar of willows tightly in one hand and adjusted the flashlight on my belt with the other. With Daisy at my side, I turned and headed toward the west wing. The library's warm light faded as we walked, replaced by the dim, cool glow of the mansion's corridors, the weight of what lay ahead pressed on me with every step,

but I kept moving. Daisy's steady presence grounded me. Her quiet rattling steps, a reminder that I wasn't completely alone. When we reached the entrance to the West Wing, the newly plastered walls and velvet ropes greeted us like a silent warning. I paused for a moment, taking a deep breath.

The jar in my hand pulsed faintly, the tiny blue lights inside swirling gently, as if waiting for my command. I flicked on the flashlight, its beam cutting through the dimness, and stepped forward. The entrance to the west wing loomed ahead, and with Daisy at my side and the jar of willows in hand, I crossed the threshold.

Whatever waded inside, we would face it together. The West Wing felt like a completely different world, as Daisy and I stepped further inside. The first thing I noticed was how that was how that, It seemed. The ceilings were high, impossibly so, like they stretched endlessly upward. Every sound I made, my boots scuffing against the floor, Daisy's bony clicks, echoed faintly, as though there were unseen depths below us. The floor had a strange hollow quality, like walking on a drum. It was unnerving, reminding me there were floors.

beneath this one, hidden from view. Broken glass glittered across the ground, scattered from the broken remains of chandeliers that once hung from above. The walls around us had all been blackened by the fire long ago. Daisy stayed close, her growls quiet but constant, her unease clear in the way she walked. The hallway opened up ahead, leading us in the way.

into a massive room that could only be described as a grand lobby. I stopped in my tracks, overwhelmed by the sheer scale of it. The space was cavernous, with blackened beams criss-crossing high above, their edges jagged where the fire had chewed through them. In the center of the room, a chandelier hung from the ceiling, its frame broken and twisted. Beneath it, the remains of old furniture were scattered, a burnt sofa here, a cracked table there. The room split into three directions, each path leading deeper into the west wing.

One went straight ahead, one to the right, and one to the left. I hesitated, staring at the dark corridors. I didn't know where to go. Lucy could be anywhere. And this place felt like it stretched on forever. I glanced down at Daisy. Her head tilted up toward me, waiting for me to decide. I remembered Bernard's words.

The jar of willows was tucked securely in my pocket, and I pulled it out, unscrewing the lid. The three tiny lights inside floated lazily, glowing faintly blue. I, uh, I need help, Minding Lucy, please. I didn't know if the willows understood me, or if I even needed to be plied, but it felt right to ask.

One of them stirred, its glow brightening slightly, before it floated upward. For a moment, it hovered in front of me, bouncing lightly as if testing the air. And then, with a sudden burst of energy, it veered sharply to the left, leaving a faint trail of blue light in its wake. All right, let's go, girl, I murmured to Daisy, and we followed.

The hallway to the left twisted and turned, its path uneven and cluttered with debris. The faint blue glow of the willow guided us ahead. We passed rooms that must have once been magnificent. There were ballrooms. Their grandness faded, but not forgotten. High ceilings with scorched paintings, long forgotten by time, stretched above us. The remains of chandeliers lay in crumpled heaps, surrounded by broken mirrors and cracked marble floors. The heat grew heavier as we walked, though I tried not to think about it too much. Daisy's growls quieted, replaced by determined as she stayed close to my side.

The hallway eventually led us to a set of large double doors. Their metal hinges rusted but still intact. The willow passed effortlessly through the crack in the doors, its blue glow spilling faintly into the room beyond. I pushed the doors open slowly, stepping into what looked like a cathedral. The ceiling soared above and possibly how. supported by blackened beams that arched like the ribs of a giant beast.

The room was strangely beautiful. Rows of charred pews stretched ahead, their wood cracked and split from years of neglect. At the center of the room was a garden, but had been dead for a long time. The ground was dry and cracked, with the remains of plants reduced to brittle stalk, that crumbled at the slightest touch.

In the middle stood a huge tree, its branches bare and twisted, reaching up like bony fingers toward the ceiling. On the far side of the room was a single statue. It was an angel, carved from pale stone. Its wings were large and spread wide, but its face wasn't peaceful. The angel looked down,

tears carved into its cheeks. Its hands were held out, palms up, as if catching its own tears. The willow floated in a slow circle around the angel, then came to rest at the base of the tree. Its soft blue glow pulsed faintly before stopping. Daisy let out a low growl and lowered her head, sniffing the ground carefully. We're close. I said quietly. Before I could move, I heard something behind the angel statue. It was faint at first, like a low creek or groan, but it was enough to make me freeze and place.

Daisy stiffened beside me, her tail rattling softly. I turned my head slowly, just enough to peer around the edge of the angel statue. My breath caught in my throat. There was something there, easily 20 feet tall, moving through the cathedral. Its head brushed the ceiling beams, forcing it to hunch its massive shoulders. Its arms hung low, nearly touching the floor, and its movements were slow. I couldn't make out its face, but its sheer size made the room feel even small. I duck behind the base of the angel statue, pressing myself into the cool stone. Daisy crouched beside me,

but her tail wouldn't stop rattling softly. The sound like bones knocking together. My heart raised as I grabbed her tail gently, holding it still. Quiet, I said. The monster moves slowly, its heavy footsteps echoing across the cathedral. It hadn't noticed us yet, but it was getting closer. Every step made the floor beneath me feel like it might give way, and I pressed harder against the base of the statue, hoping its wide wings would keep us hidden. Lady Laverne's warning rang clear in my mind.

I couldn't win if physical fight against anything in the West Wing. But I also remembered her other advice. I couldn't be afraid. I closed my eyes and forced myself to take slow, deep breaths through my nose. My chest felt tight, but I made myself stay calm, focusing on each breath as if it were the only thing keeping me grounded. For the first time in years, maybe since my mom got sick, I prayed. Wasn't much of a prayer. I couldn't remember the words, and what came out was broken and jumbled.

Still, I whispered the only thing I could remember, clinging to it like a lifeline. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow, I said it again and again. The monster ducked its head under one of the great arches, moving slowly across the cathedral. Its footsteps grew fainter as it moved further away. Its massive form disappearing through a doorway on the other side of the room. I didn't move until the sound of its steps completely faded. When I finally exhaled, felt like I'd been holding my breath the whole time. I looked at Daisy, who was still crouched beside me, her bones tense but steady.

She tilted her skull toward me, as if waiting for my next move. I nodded. Let's go. The willow was still at the base of the angel statue. its soft blue glow dimming slightly. It circled slowly in place, but it didn't move forward. I crouched down beside it, watching as its glow faded completely. It had run out of whatever energy it had.

And that meant I only had two left. I tucked the jar back into my pocket and stood, glancing at Daisy before stepping forward. The next hallway loomed ahead. dark and twisting, but I had no choice but to keep going. The cathedral's stillness lingered behind us as we moved into the unknown. Daisy stayed close, her rattling footsteps, the only sound in the silence. Whatever lay ahead, I knew we had to keep moving. Lucy was still out there, and I wasn't leaving without her.

The next set of hallways stretched out ahead. As Daisy and I moved forward, I noticed the walls were covered in paintings. They were everywhere, filling every inch of space. Some were large, dominating the walls with intricate frames, while others were smaller, crammed together like puzzle pieces. The scenes in the paintings varied, couples dancing in grand ballrooms, knights in shining armor, clashing swords, children playing in parks under sunny skies.

Every painting told a different story, a glimpse into different lives and different times. But all of them had one thing in common. Every person in the paintings, no matter the scene, had their mouth wide open in a scream. It wasn't subtle. The expressions were frozen in moments of pure terror, their eyes wide,

Their faces contorted in agony. Even the children playing in the park were screaming. Their mouths stretched unnaturally, as if caught in a silent, endless wail. I forced myself to keep walking, my flashlight's beam bouncing off the glossy surfaces of the paintings. Daisy stayed close. Her clattering steps steady, but I could feel her fear. her tail didn't wag, and her usual curiosity was gone. The hallway twisted and turned, and the paintings continued.

The more I walked, the more it felt like they were watching me. The figures seemed to follow my movements, their unblinking eyes staring as I passed. I focused on the path ahead, not letting my gaze linger too long in any one painting. The further we went, the tighter my grip on the flashlight became. At last, the hallway opened into a crossroads. Three paths stretched out before me. One set of stairs spiraled upward, vanishing into the ceiling. Another led downward into the dark depths below.

The third path veered sharply to the right, disappearing into another hallway. I stopped, my shoulders tense, and glanced down at Daisy. She tilted her head toward me, as if waiting for my decision. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the jar of willows. The two remaining lights glowed faintly, their soft blue pulses steady. I unscrewed the lid and whispered, I need help again. Please show me the way. One of the willows moved.

its glow brightening as it floated upward. For a moment, it hovered in front of me, bouncing lightly in the air. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, it veered sharply to the right, leaving a faint trail of light behind it. All right, come on, Daisy, I said, following the willow as it guided us down the hall. The trail led us deeper into the mansion. The halls grew narrower, the walls darker, and the floor beneath us felt colder with every step. Daisy stayed close, her bony frame rattling softly as she kept pace with me. The hallway eventually sloped downward, and I realized we were descending again.

The air grew damp, and the faint smell of stale water reached my nose. At the end of the path, we came to a set of broken, doors. They hung crooked on their rusted hinges, barely clinging to the frame. Beyond them was a massive ballroom. The willow floated through the broken doorway, circling once before stopping near the center of the room. Its glow pulsed faintly, then faded completely, leaving us in the dim light of my flashlight. I stepped forward, my boots splashing slightly as they hit the floor. Water covered the ballroom just deep enough to submerge my feet. It rippled faintly as I walked, Daisy's bony legs causing soft splashes as she followed me.

The walls of the ballroom glistened, wet to the touch when I placed my hand against one. My stomach tightened as I realized where we were. We were under the lake. The mansion's grounds had a small lake just. outside. It's still waters reflecting the building on calm days. But now, standing in the ballroom with water lapping at my ankles and damp walls surrounding me, I knew we'd gone far below the surface. The room was massive. It's ceiling stretching high above, but the water gave it a strange, distorted feeling. The remains of what must have been a grand chandelier lay submerged in the middle

of the room, its crystals scattered across the floor. I scanned the area with my flashlight, the beam-catching glimpses of ruined furniture, broken mirrors, and floating debris. Everything was soaked as if the lake itself had begun to claim the room. Daisy let out a low growl, her skull tilted toward the far side of the rum. I followed her gaze but saw nothing, just more water and darkness. The situation felt precarious, the weight of the lake pressing down above us. The willow had led us here,

but I couldn't shake the feeling that this place wasn't safe. Still, I had no choice but to keep moving. Lucy was somewhere ahead, and the only way out was forward. The ballroom was quiet, as Daisy and I stepped further inside. the water rippling gently around our feet. And then, in the far corner of the room,

two eyes appeared in the darkness. They blinked once, slowly, and a deep voice rumbled out of the dark echoing through the water-logged space. The quiet ones, those trapped too long in the west wing, with barely a grasp of their humanity left, They were monsters, yes, but not like Laverne, Bernard, or Jack.

Now, the quiet ones became something else. Something twisted. A dark, hollow version of what they once were. They loved to play games, to speak in riddles. Otherwise, they remained silent, watching and waiting. You may only pass if you answer me. my riddle. I froze.

What? Daisy growled low beside me, her bony tail rattling faintly. Before I could react, more eyes appeared, one after the other, blinking into existence all around the rum. Dozens? No, hundreds of eyes floating just above the waterline, surrounding us completely. I couldn't see their bodies only the faint outlines of something shifting in the darkness. The water began to grow murky near the far corner where a cluster of eyes was gathered.

Something red was spreading in the water, staining it like ink. The voice spoke again. You may only pass if you answer my riddle. My mind raised as I forced myself to breathe stuttley. Lady Laverne's advice echoed in my head. This wasn't a battle of strength. It was a battle of wits. What's the riddle? I asked.

The monster's eyes narrowed slightly, and the voice spoke again. I am always hungry. I must always be fed. The more I drink, the more I grow. What am I? I repeated the words in my head, trying to focus. I'd heard this riddle before, but something about the way the monster asked it made me hesitate.

Daisy growled again, and I glanced at her briefly. The eyes around us flickered, unblanking. They were waiting for me to fail. And then I remembered something, a detail from an old conversation with my mom, back when I was a kid. Riddles like this often had simple answers, but they also thrived on misdirection. Fire. The answer is fire, I said. The monster's eyes blinked slowly, and a faint rumble filled the room, almost like a growl of a

You are correct. A chorus of low grumbles filled the room, as the other eyes shifted, clearly unhappy. The first monster spoke again, silencing the others. Get back. Let the human pass. One by one the eyes disappeared, blinking out of existence, as if they'd never been there. The tension in the room eased slightly, though the water remained murky in places. All right, come on, girl, I said. Daisy followed close behind. Her growl fading as we moved toward the far end of the ballroom. The broken doors on the other side led into another hallway,

this one sloping upward. The dampness of the air gave way to something, slightly cooler as we climbed. The path took us back upstairs, into what felt like a more personal part of the West Wing. The walls here were still blackened and cracked, but they were lined with doors, bedrooms by the look of them. Each door was unique, with faded brass plaques and peeling paint that hinted at their former elegance. Some were slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of ruined furniture and broken mirrors. Others were tightly shut. Their locks rusted but intact.

I passed one door that had been forced open. The room inside, filled with the remnants of an old nursery. A broken rocking horse leaned against the wall, its painted eyes staring blankly into the empty space. The sight sent to chill through me, and I moved on quickly. Further down the hallway, we passed what looked like a study or private library. Books lay scattered across the floor, their pages brittle and yellowed with age.

A desk sat in the corner, its surface covered in tools and small mechanical parts. The hallway twisted again, leading us into a room that must have been a laboratory or invention room. The space was cluttered with tools. hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, and strange devices I couldn't name. Half-finished projects sat on work benches, their purposes of mystery. Daisy sniffed at the ground, her bony legs stepping carefully over the debris. I kept the flashlight steady, scanning the room for anything that might hint at Lucy's whereabouts, and we headed out into the next hallway.

The hallway stretched before me, splitting into three parts yet again. Each one looked just as dark and endless as the others. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the jar and unscrewed the lid. The last willow floated out. Its faint blue glow, the only thing cutting through the darkness. Okay, show me the way. The wisp moved lightly in the air before darting forward. forward, leaving its usual trail of blue light behind. Daisy and I followed, weaving through the

narrow hallway as the wisp led us deeper into the west wing. But then it stopped. The corridor ended abruptly in a collapsed wall. Rubble filled the space, blocking any chance of moving forward. The wisp hovered in place, its glow pulsing steadily, as if it were waiting for something. I stared at the pile of debris. You gotta be kidding me. The willow wouldn't move, and there was no way through. I cursed softly, running a hand through my hair. I had no idea how to find another path, and now my last willow was useless.

I felt Daisy press against my leg, her bony frame solid in grounding, even as the situation seemed hopeless. And then I remembered Jack. He'd said to call him if I needed help. I wasn't sure if he'd hear me, or even if he'd come. But it was my only shot. Taking a deep breath, I called out softly. Jack, can you hear me? I need your help.

For a moment, nothing happened. The silence felt heavier, and I wondered if we were truly alone. And then, from the far wall, Jack floated through. His head tucked under his arm like always. He looked rough. His usual charm and mischief were gone, replaced by an expression of unease. His form flickered slight light, like a candle burning low,

and he glanced around nervously before speaking. I hate this place. It's eating. me. What do you need, Tom? I'm stuck. The willow led us here, but there's no way through. I need you to help me find another path, I admitted, gesturing toward the collapsed corridor. Jack floated closer, his head tilting slightly as he surveyed the area. Well, I can try, but I can't stay long. This wing drains me. It's worse for ghosts than it is for the living.

I nodded. I just need a way around, I said. Jack motioned for me to follow, floating ahead as he led Daisy and me through a series of twisting hallways. The path felt longer, more winding than before. And the further we went, the more Jack's presence seemed to dim. Finally, we stopped in front of a long. large ornate door. The wood was scorched. The edges blackened from fire, but the intricate carvings of vines

and roses were still visible. This is it. The master bedroom and the heart of the curse. Jack said. He floated back slightly, keeping his distance from the door. I can't stay here, Tom. I can feel it pulling at me, trying to twist me into something. You're close now, though. Whatever you're looking for, it's beyond this door. I looked at him, seeing how much it cost him to guide me here. Thank you, Jack. He nodded his expression softening.

He glanced at Daisy and then back at May. I hope I don't see you on the other side. He said. It was both a warning and a wish. I understood what he meant. He didn't want me to die here and become one of them. Another ghost trapped in the mansion forever. With a final look, Jack faded back through the wall,

leaving Daisy and me alone in front of the door. I stood there for a moment, gathering my resolve. Whatever lay beyond I had to feel. face it. I wasn't leaving without Lucy. Daisy pressed against my side, her bony frame solid and unwavering. I reached down to give her a quick pat, and then I pushed the door open. The master bedroom was nothing like the rest of the West Wing. As I stepped inside, I was struck by how normal it looked. The walls were covered in floral wallpaper. The colors faded but intact. A large canopy bed stood against one wall. It's dark wood frame polished and smooth. The bed inside was neatly made. The covers pulled tight as if someone had just left it that morning. There was a writing desk in the corner, an ink bottle and a quill still sitting on its surface. A war. Wardrobe stood open, revealing clothes from another era, neatly hung and untouched by time.

Everything about the room felt like the master of the house had stepped out for a brief holiday and could return at any moment. It was the only part of the West Wing that wasn't burnt, not even a scorch mark on the walls. The air felt heavy with silence, and for a moment, I just stood there trying to make sense of it. Daisy walked in beside me, her bones clicking softly. I looked around, scanning the space for any sign of Lucy, but she wasn't there. And then I saw it. A single yellow daffodil rested on the writing desk.

The flower was slightly wilted, but there was no mistaking it. It was the same one I'd given Lucy earlier in the greenhouse. My heart leapt at the side of it. She'd been here. I picked up the daffodil gently, my thumb brushing over its delicate petals. It was proof I was on the right track. Lucy was close.

But something about the room felt off. It was too perfect, too untouched. Every other part of the West Wing was ruined, but here it was like time had stood still. I glanced at Daisy, who was sniffing near the bookshelf. My eyes fell on a picture frame on the bedside table. I reached for it, lifting it carefully. Inside was a black and white photograph of two people in Victorian clothing.

The man was tall and stern-looking, with sharp features and a heavy brow. I could only assume he was the master of the house, Mr. Hartwell. beside him stood a woman, her face soft and smiling. She had an air of grace about her, but knowing the stories, I realized this was likely the woman who had betrayed him. As I studied the photo, I heard a faint click behind me. I turned to see the bookshelf sliding to one side, revealing a narrow staircase leading upward.

Daisy stood by the open space. Her head tilted slightly, a book lying at her feet. You did that, didn't you? Good girl, I said. I knelt down and patted her smooth skull. She wagged her bony tail, the rattling sound oddly comforting. I stepped toward the hidden staircase and glanced down at Daisy. Okay.

The staircase opened into what could only be described as a grand laboratory. The first thing I noticed was the massive ceiling window high above, streaked with grime, but still letting in the fading light of the setting sun. The orange glow poured into the room, casting long shadows over the chaos below. Drawers were overturned, papers spilling out across the floor. Every intact wall was covered with diagrams, blueprints, and blackboards filled with faded chalk markings. The fire had ravaged the space, too. The walls were blackened, the edges of the room crumbling, where the fire had eaten away at the surface. But it wasn't just the damage that made my stomach turn.

It was the gaping hole in the center of the room. where the floor should have been, there was nothing but a jagged, empty chasm, a sharp drop into pure darkness. And then I saw her. Lucy stood at the far end of the room, balancing on a narrow wooden beam that stretched across the chasm. Her small frame was trembling, and her yellow raincoat. stood out like a light bulb. But she wasn't alone. On the far side of the beam towering over her was a demon. It was massive. It didn't need to speak to let me know it was the master of the house, the cursed heart of this place. Its skin was cracked and dark, its limbs long and twisted. I could smell

sulfur, and the heat coming from its body made the room feel like an oven. The demon didn't move, but it turned its head to look at May. And then it smiled. Lucy was crying now. I'm sorry. I just wanted to be brave, she said. I forced my voice to stay calm. It's okay.

You're okay. I said. Daisy barked, a sharp echoing sound that made the demon tilt its head slightly. Its smile widening. I noticed something then. Every time Lucy looked over at me, taking her eyes off the demon, it moved closer to her. Its steps were slow, deliberate, and silent. But it was gaining ground.

Lucy, wait, stop. Don't look away from it. Remember what I told you in the greenhouse. You have to look at it. Don't take your eyes off him no matter what. She sniffled, her small shoulders trembling, but she nodded. You can do this. Just keep your eyes on him and walk slowly backward toward me. I'll guide you the whole way, okay? I'm right here, Lucy. Lucy took a deep breath, stealing herself. She turned her body carefully, so her back was toward me, while her eyes remained locked on the demon.

Step by shaky step. She began to move. I talked to her the whole time. That's it, that's it. One step at a time. You're doing great. I'm right here. Daisy stood beside me.

Her tail rattling softly as she watched Lucy move across the beam. My heart pounded with every step. The beam was narrow, and the drop below was terrible. The room began to shake, the vibrations rattling the debris around us. Lucy let out a yelp as her foot slipped, but she caught herself just in time. The demon laughed, but it still didn't move as long as Lucy's eyes stayed on it. That's it, that's it, you're almost there, just a few more steps. Lucy's small feet shuffled backward, her face pale but determined.

Her eyes stayed locked on the demon. It smiled horribly at her, and she fought back tears. Finally, she reached the edge of the chasm, and I reached out quickly, scooping her into my arms. She was shaking. You did good, Lucy. You did so good. I didn't let go over, keeping my arms wrapped around her, as I slowly backed away from the beam.

Daisy stayed by my side, growling low but steady, as she kept her focus on the demon. The room shook harder now, the heat growing unbearable. The demon's eyes followed us, and it kept smiling. I didn't turn my back until we rounded the corner, putting the demon out of sight. The heat was overwhelming. The shaking was getting worse, but I pushed forward.

We'd made it this far, and I wasn't stopping now. Lucy clung tightly to me as I carried her, her small frame trembling. Daisy stayed close, her bony legs rattling softly with every step I took. I was trying to retrace our path, but the west wing was a maze, and the shaking of the ground made every step feel uncertain. The heat was getting worse, and I could see faint flickers of fire starting to spread along the edges of the room behind us. My grip on Lucy tightened, as I realized we didn't have much time. I reached into my pocket, pulling out the jar. The willows had already run out of energy.

Their glow fading long ago. But I held the jar tightly, staring at it as I walked. Please help us. If what they say is true, you help good people. She's just a kid. For a moment, nothing happened. And then faintly, a soft blue glow began to pulse inside the jar. One by one, the willows reappeared, their light brighter than ever. They floated upward.

their energy renewed, and I felt the surge of hope as they began to circle us. The lead willow shot forward, leaving a clear trail of blue light behind it. The others followed, weaving together in a glowing path that cut through the darkness ahead. All right, come on, Daisy, let's go, I said. Daisy barked once, her tail rattling as she kept close to my side. The willows guided us quickly through the west wing, taking twist and turns I never would have remembered on my own. The blue light cut through the gloom, and I focused on the path I had, ignoring the fire behind us. The ground shook harder, and pieces of the ceiling began to fall,

but the willows moved faster, their glow unwavering. I kept my eyes on them, following their trail with Daisy right beside me. Lucy clung to me the entire time. The fire grew closer, licking at the walls and spreading. The heat was unbearable, and I could feel sweat pouring down my face. But the willows didn't falter. They stayed bright, their blue light leading us through collapsing hallways and over unstable ground. Finally, just as the trail of blue, began to dim. I saw the entrance to the west wing ahead. Count Bernard stood there, his tall frame imposing, even in the chaos. He held Lady Laverne's crystal ball carefully in one hand, her face swirling faintly inside the glass. O'Reilly was at his side, his face tight with worry, and headless Jack hovered

just behind them. O'Reilly called out to me, waving his arms over his head. I pushed forward until I stumbled out of the West Wing and into the safety of the main mansion. Daisy followed, her bones rattling as she barked sharply. Bernard gave a quick nod of approval. Jack floated closer, his eyes scanning Lucy before looking at me. You, you look terrible, he said. I managed a weak smile.

My knees nearly giving out as I set Lucy on the ground. She stood shakily, her hand still clutching mine. You're alive. Miracles do happen, it seems. Lady Laverne said, her voice echoing faintly from the crystal ball. The others murmured their agreement. Though Jack's expression darkened as he glanced back toward the west wing, that that place should never be opened again, he said.

A little later, after things had calmed down and the fires had been extinguished, Lucy and I sat together in the garden outside the mansion. Daisy lay nearby, her bony tail wagging. Lucy looked up at me, her big eyes filled with gregers. guilt. Thank you for saving me, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to cause so much trouble. I shook my head, giving her a small smile. There's nothing to be sorry for. You were brave. She blinked, tilting her head. I was? I nodded. Yeah. You were brave enough to face the monster, brave enough to walk across that beam even when it was scary.

It's a lot more than most people could do. Really? She asked again. Yeah, really. You're the bravest light bulb, I know. She smiled at that. The mansion still loomed behind us, its secrets buried deep within its walls. But for now we were safe.

and that was all that mattered. After the incident with Lucy, O'Reilly and I agreed the West Wing needed to be sealed off for good. We couldn't risk anyone else wandering in there, especially not kids. For weeks, we worked on renovations, putting up thin walls of plaster to block off the entrances. Wasn't a perfect solution, but it was the best we could do. The mansion didn't make it easy, as if the west, West Wing itself resisted being hidden. Still, we kept going, covering doorways, and making the space

blend in with the rest of the house. When we were done, the West Wing was concealed. The entrance was gone, hidden behind plain walls that gave no clue to what lay beyond. It wasn't much, but it was a lot better than leaving it open. Life at the mansion slowly returned to normal, or at least what passed for normal here. The tour is resumed, with visitors marveling at the history and supposed its special effects.

They laughed, screamed, and took pictures, completely unaware of how real the mansion's secrets were. Inside, the monsters carried on as they always had, Headless Jack popped up unexpectedly in hallways, cracking jokes and scaring visitors in his usual charming way. Lady Laverne stayed in her crystal ball, loudly criticizing the curtains and furniture any chance she got. Count Bernard still grumbled about the cook's food, even though he never tasted it. Some things never changed. For me, life settled back into its usual rhythm.

The gardens always needed work, and I found comfort in tending the flower beds and trimming the hedges. Daisy was my constant companion, trotting beside me with her rattling steps and wagging tail. She never strayed far, even on long days when the sun beat down or the wind swept through the grounds. I found myself planting more daffodils around the mansion. They're bright yellow blooms, bringing a sense of warmth, to the old weathered stone. One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the sky in soft hues of orange and purple,

I stood in the garden, a spade in one hand, and a tray of daffodil bulbs in the other. I glanced up at the mansion, my eyes lingering on the west wing. From the outside, look the same as always. It's towering walls unyielding and still. But I knew the truth. I knelt in the dirt and planted another bulb,

pressing the soil gently around it. Daisy lay nearby. Her bony frame stretched out as she watched me work. I paused for a moment, and I thought about all that had happened. Lucy was safe, and Daisy and I had both survived. I just hope that whatever's inside the West Wing is hidden now, and that no one else ever finds it.