CHAPTER 6: Not Her, Not Me, Not This
The note fell from her fingers like ash.
She tore it straight down the middle—then again.
Each slice more violent than the last.
"Stop pretending like you know me," she hissed under her breath.
She shoved the shredded pieces into the drawer, slamming it shut like she was trying to silence a voice only she could hear.
The dresses in the closet mocked her.
Made of silk and lace. Dust-laced delicacy.
Exactly her size. Old fashioned but according to her taste.
Yet felt entirely wrong.
Too tailored. Too perfect.
Too… familiar.
She stared at them like they might blink.
"I am not wearing you," she said aloud, shaking her head.
"You don't belong to me. None of this belongs to me. Stop pushing yourself on me."
And with that—she shut the closet.
Hard and loud.
The echo of the doors thudded through the empty halls like a gunshot.
---
But the mansion didn't have the same idea.
And it didn't like being told "no."
---
That night, it began again.
The whispers.
Not outside her door—inside her room.
Shadows murmured just below hearing, slinking around her thoughts like oil in water.
Some old language and old fashioned names.
Her name—but not said the way anyone alive would say it.
Like a trapped prayer.
Like a curse engraving in her soul
---
At 1:17 AM
Elara sat upright in bed, sheets clinging to her sweat-slicked body.
The closet door was open again.
No.
Not just open.
She opened it widely.
Inside—those same damn dresses.
She gave a closer look and noticed
One of the gown was gone.
She looked down at herself in disbelief.
The nightgown she wore?
It wasn't the one she went to sleep in.
It was silk.
Ivory.
Victorian.
"No," she choked out.
"No, no, no—"
She scrambled out of bed and rushed to the bathroom, flicking the light on.
And there—staring back from the mirror—wasn't just her face.
Behind her…
Lazareth.
Watching.
She spun around.
Nothing.
There was no one.
But the mirror?
Still showed him.
Closer now.
"Fuck it! Just when I thought you finally gave up."
---
She screamed and smashed it with her elbow.
Blood spilled down her arm like ink.
The glass shattered.
But the reflection…
Remained.
Untouched.
And his voice—calm, cruel, dripping obsession—breathed from nowhere.
"Darling, why hurt yourself?"
And then she heard another whisper.
She couldn't understand what it was.
She looked from the side of her eyes. What? Now Lazareth was standing behind her whispering in her ear. This time it was clearer than before.
"You haven't changed, have you. You are still the same as before.", he paused before speaking again "Bold as ever. Stop hurting yourself."
And she felt a light kiss on her neck.
Elara looked in the front again. Her eyes wide open. The broken mirror was back to its original shape.
She quickly looked at her hand. Her hand was healed as if it was never injured.
And Lazareth…
He was already gone.
---
The next morning.
She tried to burn the nightgown in the fireplace.
It wouldn't catch any fire.
She poured lighter fluid.
Lit a match.
The flames danced—consumed everything.
But when she looked again hours later…
The gown lay neatly folded on her bed.
Crisp. Clean. Waiting.
The painting she burned?
Back on the wall.
Lazareth's signature darker than ever.
---
Desperation carved her hollow.
She picked up the phone again.
The phone charger doesn't work at all But it was surprising enough that the charging never went down even after all this time had passed. Yet no message could reach anyone. As if trying to remind her of helplessness.
Tried to call… anyone.
It rang.
Static.
Then—
"Who are you trying to reach, darling?"
"Leaving me again?"
"Did you really think this mansion will let you?"
She screamed and hurled the phone across the room.
"Cut the crap!"
"What do you WANT FROM ME?!"
No reply.
Just the sound of her name—over and over—layered in voices.
---
That evening, she found the dining room doors wide open.
Candlelight flickered.
A table set for two.
Her favorite wine.
A place card that read: "Elara."
She walked slowly toward the chair.
Her fingers brushed the fabric—and a cold hand caught her wrist.
Lazareth.
Fully present now.
Not mist. Not a memory.
But him.
Tall. Dressed in black. Eyes that knew every version of her—even the ones she hadn't met yet.
"I missed dinner with you," he said softly.
"Every night for centuries."
She yanked her arm away, wild-eyed.
"Don't touch me! Don't look at me like I belong to you—"
"But you do."
She backed away fast, knocking into the table.
"You're a ghost. A trick. A parasite stuck in my head—this is because I'm grieving—because I'm broken—"
"No," he said. "This is because you promised me forever."
"I'll rather choose to die."
"No," he said simply. "You can't."
Before he could speak Elara ran towards the window to the dining room, opening it and ready to jump
Lazareth spoke, his voice with a glimpse of anger, "Don't do anything stupid Elara. It's only gonna hurt you and there's no outcome."
Elara looked at Lazareth with a mocking expression. "You think I'll let you fool me? If I can't be free this way. I'd rather free myself the other way."
"No…Elara I can't see you hurt—"
Before Lazareth could complete his sentence Elara jumped out of the window.
"No!"
Elara hit the ground, the intense pain of breaking bones.
"Ahh– I didn't know it would hurt so much," she spoke to herself.
Her ears ringing with strange bell sounds and mockery.
The last she could remember was the fear in Lazareth's eyes before passing out.
And boom
"Huh?," Elara spoke.
She was again standing in the window of the dining hall. In the same exact position before she jumped.
"I'm not dead?," she questioned herself, "How's that possible?"
"No! I really jumped down." She could still feel the severe pain of her bones crushing.
She was lost in her thoughts when her hand slipped and she was about to fall again.
"Elara!"
A hand pulled Elara back before she could fall.
Elara and that person fell on the dining hall floor.
Elara looked. It was Lazareth. His expression was like he was about to cry.
"I told you not to jump! Not to jump!" Lazareth shouted. He was calm most of the time, it was the first time Elara saw him so emotional.
Lazareth continued, " I told it'll only pain you. You can't die from it."
Elara felt a weird emotion in her chest, " Why does it matter to you whether I die or not—"
"It matters!, it matters!, it matters to me Elara!" Lazareth spoke, "Why don't you realize Elara. You're my whole universe."
He continued, "You know how surprised I was when you jumped, even if it won't let you die doesn't mean you won't feel any pain."
"Are you worried?"
"Seriously? Is that all you've to say? I was panicking here!" He covered his forehead with his big palm. "Of course I was worried. Not just worried. I was about to die again from a heart attack."
It was the first time in Elara's life someone spoke so highly of her, worried about her, thought of her as someone so precious, but it was a bit funny for her too, Lazareth wasn't all that bad afterall.
She unknowingly laughed.
Lazareth looked at her like he couldn't believe his eyes. "You're laughing at this?" But it was still nice. It was the first time she laughed since she had been trapped here with him. Her laugh made him forget his anger.
Elara stopped when she realized.
"Ahmm.." Elara cleared her throat, "so umm—"
Before she could speak Lazareth hugged her, burring his face in her shoulder, "I'm sorry…. just this once don't push me away." His voice was trembling.
Elara was gonna push. But strangely… she didn't, she didn't feel frightened or disgusted by him.
"Yeah only this one. I'm only doing this because he looks pitiful. Yeah that's why I'm doing this–" she told herself. Denying the fact she liked it a little too.
For a phantom he surprisingly felt warm.
"Yeah just this once.." Elara said before closing her eyes.
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