Chapter 2: The Black Room’s Hunger

The sounds in the room gradually faded.

Only a man's angry curse could be heard: "Useless! Raised you all these years and you still can't do this right! Not as good as your sister." A woman's muffled sobbing. It made my skin crawl.

The bald man pulled open the door, and the strange scent grew stronger. I nearly gagged. It was sweet and rotten, thick as syrup in the air.

He glared at me, knocking the tray from my hands. "Feeding you all this good stuff—you're as useless as a hen that can't lay eggs."

The bowl shattered, blood splattering across the floor. I flinched, shrinking away from his glare. My breath caught. His words stung, but I kept my head down, playing the part. Stay invisible.

I lowered my head as much as I could, trembling. The urge to run was strong, but I forced myself to stay still.

My shoulders shook, but not from fear. I was cold, empty, and tired—tired of pretending, tired of waiting.

The bald man left, and the crying inside was no longer suppressed.

His footsteps faded, and the sobs grew louder, raw and broken. The walls seemed to absorb the sound, holding it close. I shivered.

I sneaked a glance.

Savannah's hair was a mess, her hands covered in blood. Sometimes she cried with her head down, sometimes she laughed with her head up, like a lunatic, possessed. Her laughter was jagged, slicing through the silence. She rocked back and forth, hands shaking. The blood on her skin glistened in the dim light, making her look almost otherworldly.

Opposite her were rows of four-foot-tall red urns.

The urns lined the wall, each one painted with strange symbols. They looked ancient, out of place in the modern house—a relic from some forgotten nightmare. My mouth went dry.

When I saw what was inside, I was so terrified I fell to the ground, not even noticing the broken bowl shards stabbing into my palm.

The sight was unspeakable—limbs, faces, eyes staring blankly. My breath caught, heart pounding so hard it hurt. I scrambled back, hands bleeding from the glass. My stomach twisted.

Do you know about human livestock?

Blinding a living person's eyes, cutting off their nose, pulling out their tongue, removing their limbs, stuffing them in a jar—eating, drinking, everything inside. As long as they're breathing, they stay in the jar. Like a disgusting monster.

The words stuck in my throat. The horror of it was so deep, so primal, it felt like the world had tilted sideways. I remembered old stories about the South, about cruelty and madness hiding behind whitewashed walls. This was worse than any of them. My hands shook.

Lightning split the silence. In that flash, I felt them looking up at me. My skin prickled.

The thunder shook the house, and for a heartbeat, I swore I saw every eye in those jars turn to me—hungry, pleading, accusing.

Savannah finished crying and walked over barefoot, her black hair tangled around her. The floor creaked under her steps. Blood smudged the wood.

Her steps were soft, almost childlike. The blood smeared across her feet left prints on the wooden floor. She moved like someone in a trance. I held my breath.

That head of shiny black hair looked just like my mother's, whose head had been separated from her body. The resemblance was uncanny, a cruel twist of fate. My chest tightened.

"What did you see?"

Savannah's eyes turned strange—not the usual fierceness, but a hint of enchantment. Her pupils dilated, her voice low and hypnotic. The air between us seemed to ripple, heavy with unspoken threats. My mouth went dry.

I wanted to say I saw nothing, but the bug in my eye could only obey its master. Whatever she asked, I had to answer. My lips trembled.

The compulsion was absolute, like being yanked on a leash. My mouth moved, words spilling out whether I wanted them to or not. I hated it.

Whatever she ordered me to do, I had to nod and do it. I hated the way my body betrayed me. But there was no fighting it—not yet.

Savannah seemed very satisfied.

Her smile widened, triumphant. She patted my cheek, leaving a bloody handprint. I shuddered. Skin crawling.

With her bloodstained hand, she patted my face. "Eden, you are my most successful work." Her words echoed in my head, a twisted blessing. I wondered if she even knew what she’d created. My stomach lurched.

Just before the door closed, the nearest human livestock to me moved. It also had thick, long, black hair. I froze, heart hammering.

The sound was wet and awful, like green wood snapping. I couldn’t look away, even though every instinct screamed at me to run.

When it turned a full one hundred eighty degrees, it stopped. Under the hair was a face no longer human—deathly pale, the swollen eye sockets bulging almost to the floor. I gagged.

It stared at me, unblinking, its breath rattling. I felt something cold and ancient reach for me from inside that jar. My whole body went rigid.

"Creak—"

The door closed.

The lock slid into place with a finality that made my skin crawl. I was alone again, surrounded by monsters, inside and out. Alone. Again.

Savannah walked ahead, and I knelt on the ground, cleaning up the mess. Blood smeared the floor, sticky under my hands. I focused on the mess, just to keep from screaming.

Inside came a burst of giggling, accompanied by thunder, making the mansion feel even more sinister and terrifying. The laughter echoed through the halls, mixing with the storm outside. My skin prickled. It was the kind of sound that makes you check the locks twice and sleep with the lights on.

Savannah danced in tiny steps, singing a song: My heart clenched. I knew this tune.

"Once I had a home, and dear father and mother.

One day, father got drunk, picked up an axe and went to mother.

Father, oh father, chopped many times, red blood stained the wall.

Mother's head rolled under the bed, her eyes still looking at me..."

The words were nursery-rhyme sweet, but the melody was off—too high, too sharp. It made my teeth ache. My skin prickle. My heart pounded.

The more she sang, the more excited she became, as if reborn from the ashes, declaring something to the world. Her voice rose, wild and triumphant. I shivered. It was a performance for an audience of ghosts. I hugged myself tighter.

"Is Miss Savannah crazy?"

"Bless her heart, she's always been a little off."

"Not really, she's like this every few weeks."

"Shh... You can't talk about this here."

The Whitaker family servants whispered, only daring to say these things in the kitchen.

The kitchen was the only place that felt safe—bright lights, clatter of pans, the smell of frying onions. But even there, the fear lingered, heavy as humidity. I could feel it on my skin.

I listened to their gossip without changing my expression. Blank-faced, eyes down. I was a ghost in their world, and they never noticed.

Savannah's meals were always special, always separate from the others. The unfairness gnawed at me. Her food came on silver platters, covered and steaming. The rest of us ate scraps, cold and greasy. Her privilege was a weapon, sharpened by hunger.

After the chef finished, he handed the covered plate to me, then hurried off to wash his hands. His hands shook as he scrubbed, like he could scrub the guilt right off. I watched him, thinking, You can’t wash this away.

Lowering my head, I could smell the strange fragrance from the black room. The scent was stronger now, sweet and rotten. It clung to my clothes, my hair. I couldn’t escape it, no matter how hard I tried. It made my stomach roll.

Savannah never allowed anyone in the room while she ate. Her rules were ironclad. No one dared cross her, not even the butler. The black room was her kingdom, and she ruled it with a velvet fist. I hated how much power she had.

But today, there was an accident. The chef forgot a dish and rushed over: "Eden, Miss Savannah likes you. Please help me take this in." His voice trembled, sweat beading on his forehead. He looked at me like I was his last hope—or maybe his last meal ticket. I almost laughed.

I hesitated, seeing his forehead drenched in sweat from fear. For a moment, I considered refusing. But the memory of the whip, the chain, the cage—all of it—made me nod. "Okay."

Sure enough, I broke Savannah's rule. She pressed me onto the dining table, making me face that "food." Her grip was iron, her nails digging into my skin. The food on the plate steamed, the smell overpowering. I gagged, bile rising in my throat. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go.

A cold voice sounded above me. "Want to eat?" The bloody stench made me recall the day my parents died, the air thick with blood, their eyes full of resentment. The memory crashed over me, sharp and cold. My stomach twisted. My hands shook.

As if they had unfinished business. I could almost hear their voices, whispering in the dark. The weight of their loss pressed on me, heavy as a headstone. My chest ached.

Savannah picked up a fork, stuffed raw meat into my mouth. The suffocating taste was unbearable. The meat was slick and chewy, still warm. I choked, trying to spit it out. She held my jaw shut, forcing me to swallow. Tears burned my eyes.

"Then eat well. If you don't finish, I'll kill you." Her words were cold, final. I chewed, tears streaming down my face. The taste lingered, metallic and wrong. My stomach lurched. I wanted to die.

Blood dripped from my mouth into my collar, choking me until I had to swallow. My throat burned, my chest heaved. I swallowed again and again, desperate for air.

The meat on the plate gave off a special fragrance, and the longer I smelled it, the dizzier I felt. My head swam, vision blurring. I tried to focus, but everything spun. My thoughts slipped away.

The room was airtight, even the curtains tightly drawn. No escape. The air was thick, oppressive. I gasped, clawing at my throat. My heart hammered in my chest.

I crawled on the ground, gasping for breath. My hands scrabbled at the floor, nails breaking. I felt like I was drowning, every breath a struggle. I clawed at my throat, desperate.

Savannah stepped on my hand, grinding it with her heel, the hard shoe almost piercing my hand: "Sister's head rolled under the bed. Her eyes still looked at me..." Her voice was sing-song, detached. The pressure on my hand made my bones ache. Tears stung my eyes.

She started singing that song again, but this time about her sister. The words twisted, taking on new meaning. Her voice cracked, the melody turning sour. It made my blood run cold.

Singing wasn't enough; she let go of me, kicked off her shoes. Her bare feet slapped the floor, toes painted cherry red. She swayed, humming to herself. The sound was soft, strange.

She started dancing barefoot, a perfect ballroom dance. Her steps were graceful, practiced. She spun and dipped, her shadow twirling on the wall. I watched, mesmerized and terrified.

Strangely, as she danced, her shadow split in two. The second shadow moved with her, slightly out of sync. It was eerie, like watching a film reel slip off its track. My breath caught.

As if someone really was dancing with her. The air grew colder, the lights flickering. I hugged my knees, watching with wide eyes. I couldn't look away.

When I told the butler about this, he suddenly slapped me. The blow was hard, sudden. My cheek stung, my head snapping to the side. I tasted blood. My eyes watered.

His expression was cold and terrifying. "Miss Savannah is the most noble person in the Whitaker family. How dare you speak of her?" He glared at me, daring me to argue. I shrank in fear into a corner, heart pounding.

The butler was lame, rumored to have taken a bullet for Mr. Whitaker in the past. He limped, favoring his left leg. The story was he’d saved the boss’s life, earning his loyalty—and a lifetime of pain. I watched him, wondering if the pain was worth it.

After getting old, he developed arthritis and often clutched his leg. On rainy days, he’d mutter curses under his breath, rubbing his knee. The staff whispered that he was haunted, but no one dared say it to his face. Sometimes, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

I blinked my pitch-black eyes, trying to sound casual. "I saw a lot of people in the black room—no hands, no feet, no eyes, no noses. But where did all their flesh go?" My voice was flat, almost bored. But inside, I was burning with curiosity—and fear.

"Shut up!" Another slap. My head rang, vision swimming. I bit my tongue, refusing to cry. I covered my face, silent. My jaw ached, but I held it together.

The butler pounded his leg in pain, patted his chest, nauseated to the point of vomiting, then limped away faster and faster, even forgetting to lock my cage. He staggered down the hall, muttering curses. I watched him go, a small smile creeping onto my lips.

I lowered my hand, the red mark on my face fading before my eyes. The pain ebbed, replaced by a numbness I’d grown used to. I flexed my jaw, testing the bruise. It hurt, but I was used to that.

Sitting cross-legged, bored, I picked at my fingers. The boredom was crushing. I hummed to myself, drumming my fingers on the metal bars. I mimicked Savannah's tone, singing her song. My voice was soft, mocking. The words tasted bitter, but I sang anyway.

Truly boring. Not as fun as before, not exciting enough. I yawned, stretching my arms. The night dragged on, thick and heavy. "Tsk."

I was growing impatient from waiting. My foot tapped against the floor, restless. I glanced at the clock, counting the seconds. The grandfather clock in the living room downstairs began to chime. The sound echoed through the empty house, deep and mournful. Midnight.

Facing the dark corridor, I curled my lips into a smile. The darkness felt alive, watching me back. I grinned, daring it to do something. Time's up. It's coming out. My heart skipped a beat. The witching hour had arrived.

Sure enough, as soon as the chimes ended, footsteps sounded from the first floor—click-clack, click-clack. The sound was steady, measured. It sent a chill down my spine. My breath caught. But something was off. Mixed in with the footsteps was the sound of a ball being bounced, but the ball seemed to lack bounce, thudding heavily on the floor.

Each thud was flat, dull, as if the ball were made of lead—or something worse. Calling it a ball, it was more like… My skin prickled.

The sound drew nearer, clearer. It seemed to come out at this time every night. My heart pounded. The routine was always the same. I’d learned to recognize the pattern, the rhythm of the haunting. Of course, only I could see it. No one else in the house noticed. They slept through the terror, blissfully unaware.

There were no lights in the corridor, only a cold wind approaching, but it didn't come in. The wind smelled of rain and old secrets. I pulled my coat tighter, shivering. My breath fogged in the air. I watched, waiting, heart pounding. No one knew that the world I saw was actually red, even at night.

To me, everything glowed with a faint crimson light—blood memory, pain memory. The world was never truly dark. So in my vision, nothing could be hidden. I saw through walls, through lies, through every mask they wore. Nothing escaped me—not anymore.

Standing at the door was not a "person." The shape was wrong—too tall, too thin. The air around it shimmered, cold and sharp. A white dress trailed on the ground, and when the wind blew you could see red high heels underneath. Her neck was empty. Most terrifying of all, she carried her own head in her hand.

Her head lolled, eyes sewn shut, mouth twisted. The sight made my skin crawl, my blood run cold. Eyes, mouth, and nose all sewn shut with black thread, black ooze dripping from the severed neck. The ooze pooled at her feet, staining the floor. The smell was sharp, acrid, like burnt rubber and decay.

A miserable death—or perhaps, her head was cut off while she was still alive. No wonder the murderous aura could be felt from the first floor. Strangely, she hadn't turned into a vengeful ghost. She radiated rage, but not vengeance. It was as if something held her back, kept her tethered to this world. My curiosity spiked.

Interesting. I licked my lips, curiosity piqued. I’d seen plenty of ghosts, but never one like her. I fiddled with my fingers. Seeing it didn't move, I simply closed my eyes and pretended to sleep. If you ignore a ghost, sometimes it ignores you back. I’d learned that the hard way. Not long after, it probably thought no one was awake, so it continued on without suspicion. The sound faded. I cracked one eye open, watching her go. Heels tapping, bouncing its "ball." The sound echoed down the hallway, fading into the dark.

The iron chain on my neck was a bit in the way. I lightly raised my hand, and the heavy chain instantly fell to the ground. I flexed my neck, rolling my shoulders. The weight lifted. I felt almost free. After crawling out of the cage, I strolled after it as if wandering through a garden.

The hallway was empty, the moonlight silver on the floorboards. I walked slow, savoring the quiet. From afar, I saw the woman in white pass through a door and enter the black room. She didn’t open the door—just drifted through, as if the wood were smoke. I watched, fascinated and horrified.

I didn't follow, but stood at the door, touching my chin thoughtfully. I leaned against the frame, deep in thought. There was a puzzle here, and I was close to solving it. So what is the truth here? The question echoed in my mind. Every family has secrets, but the Whitakers’ were darker than most.

The Whitaker family had guests today. A black Escalade pulled up the drive, tires crunching on gravel. The air was tense, electric. My skin prickled. A man in his forties. Early in the morning, Savannah was ordered by her father to dress up and come downstairs to meet the guest. She fussed with her hair, muttering curses under her breath. The house was a flurry of activity—maids dusting, the butler barking orders. Savannah pulled out a lock of her own hair for the fourth time. She had never been so irritable.

Her hands shook, hair falling in clumps. She glared at her reflection, eyes wild. She kicked and hit me repeatedly. Each blow was sharp, quick. I barely felt them, but I let her vent—better me than someone else. After venting, she suddenly hugged me and cried like a madwoman.

Her arms were cold, her grip desperate. Her tears soaked my shirt, hot and bitter. "What should I do? Eden, I don't want to leave you, I don't want to leave here." Her voice broke, fear leaking through the bravado. For a moment, she was just a scared girl, clinging to the only thing she could control. That strange scent on her grew stronger. How to describe it?

It was like flowers left too long in water, sweet and rotten. Underneath, something metallic, something old—like a grave left open in the rain. Like rotting flesh soaked in perfume for years, dried and then soaked again, over and over. Beneath the sickly sweet scent was still a hint of corpse. My nose wrinkled. It clung to her skin, heavy and inescapable. I gagged, turning my head.

When I realized the person before me might not be "human," my scalp tingled, a chill running from my feet to my crown. The realization hit me like a bucket of ice water. I wanted to pull away, but the bug in my eye writhed, sending a spike of pain through my skull. Just as I tried to resist and push her away, the bug in my eye began to act up, a piercing pain. I gasped, clutching my head. The compulsion was overwhelming, unstoppable. Can't refuse the master, must obey. I gritted my teeth, nodding. My will was not my own.

I could only remind her, "Miss, your father said not to waste time." My voice was barely a whisper, but she heard me. Her tears dried instantly, replaced by icy determination. Her crying stopped. Normally, interrupting her would earn me a beating. I braced for it, but she only nodded, wiping her eyes.

But today was different. She really listened to her father, quickly fixing her makeup in the mirror and hurrying downstairs with her skirt. She adjusted her lipstick, smoothed her dress, and walked out, head high. The mask was back in place. Only after she left did I dare shake my head, trying to block out the scent invading my brain. I took a deep breath, clearing my head. The house felt emptier without her, but also lighter. There was something wrong with this fragrance. It lingered in the air, thick and cloying. I wondered if anyone else noticed, or if it was just me.

Thinking hard, I went elsewhere first. I wandered through the kitchen, the smell of spices and grease comforting. The chef glanced at me, eyes wary. The chef was testing dishes, unsure about one, so he asked the butler to taste it. He held out a spoon, hands trembling. The butler scowled, but took a bite. The butler lifted the lid to reveal a perfectly braised pork knuckle. His face changed drastically, and he rushed to the bathroom to vomit, even bringing up bile. The retching echoed down the hall. I smirked, watching the chaos unfold. I raised my eyebrows in delight. A small victory, but a satisfying one. I tucked it away for later. So that's it.