Logically, Maya should be overcome with panic. Her mind, already in turmoil, conjures up scenarios to escape or barricade herself in the bathroom, armed with her toothbrush if necessary. But something deeply strange about this fear inside her no longer seems to work the way it used to. She has crossed a threshold, a point of no return where panic no longer seems like a viable option. She remains frozen there, in the middle of her room, observing the back of her hand with clinical attention, trying to understand what has happened. Someone kissed her, there's no doubt about it. It's strange, it doesn't make sense, but it's there.
Perhaps, in her state of confusion, she herself had brought her hand to her lips? The tea… it must have had a stronger effect than she imagined. Maybe she acted without realizing, in a feverish delirium? This explanation, the only reasonable one, allows her to still hold on to a coherent thought. After all, she's alone, in a locked room, with no sign of any external presence. Yet, a doubt begins to creep in.
She slowly lifts her gaze and scans the room. Everything seems in place, nothing has moved. Yet, the atmosphere feels different, subtly tense, with the unpleasant sensation of a detail she can't grasp. She remains still for a moment, forcing herself to breathe deeply. Stay calm, analyze, listen. She doesn't even know if anyone came to get her for dinner, if Jenks has returned. The entire mansion seems submerged in an almost sacred silence. No noise, no breath, no sign of life.
Gently, she begins to dress, her movements methodical. She finishes drying her hair and ties it into a high ponytail, giving herself the illusion of control, a semblance of normality. Should she go out? Look for the others, perhaps? The idea of confronting the reality outside feels almost unreal, but she can't stay here indefinitely. She heads toward the door, trying to look through the keyhole, but the hallway remains in darkness, with only a faint light barely visible. The main power has still not been restored.
Her gaze then shifts to the window. The snow has finally stopped falling, and a starry sky unfolds before her. The moon illuminates the night with an eerie intensity, almost as bright as during the day. The snow that has accumulated outside now seems like a realistic escape option.
But, as she straightens, a red reflection in the window catches her eye. She quickly turns around and freezes when she sees the woman dressed in her long scarlet and gold veil standing there, across the room. The spirit reaches out, points to the mirror, then, just as Maya looks away, she vanishes.
She struggles to understand what's happening. Usually, the ghosts solid enough to appear to her did so in the form of memories, in the specific places where they had occurred. But now, twice, the woman in her red veil has directly interacted with her. And she prefers not to think about the spirits she saw in the living room, whatever they were trying to do to the participants. Why do these ghosts differ from the ones she saw at Sea View Hotel or even elsewhere? Or is the change in her?
She looks around for what the woman tried to show her. Finally, she understands what's wrong. A detail she hadn't immediately noticed. The mirror. The mirror, right there, next to her. Again, the towel lies on the floor. But more importantly... it no longer reflects the same image as usual. It has moved.
Maya approaches cautiously, her eyes drawn to the dirt marks left on the floor just in front of it. Her fingers stretch out to touch the surface, and without fully understanding how, she grasps the edge and gently pulls it toward her. The mirror, which had seemed securely anchored to the wall, suddenly tilts, revealing an empty space behind it.
Her eyes widen, and she opens it completely. The wall behind the mirror is hollow, a cavity large enough for a person to stand sideways without obstruction. The hallway seems to perfectly follow the architecture of the room, clearly designed to observe without being seen, as she notices the mirror is actually a one-way one. Like a window, someone could see her, watch her, follow her every movement, even see her sleeping, without her suspecting anything.
She freezes for a moment, horror creeping into every corner of her mind as she notices fresh footprints in the dust. Someone has been here. The next moment, adrenaline surges through her, sweeping away the fear. Her lips press together. She has to know. She has to understand what happened here. There's no more running. If someone knows how to get into her room, she must find out who and why. Ashford? Or his mysterious assistants? Jeffrey spent so much time on the upper floors... wasn't that why they chose this house for their little experiment?
And what if it really was him?
No, stop. He's dead. It was just a feverish delirium.
Maya rushes to her nightstand, grabs the flashlight, its flickering but reassuring light, and heads toward the secret passage. Her heart pounds in her temples, but her determination takes over. A deep breath, then she enters the narrow passage, closing the door behind her with a muffled thud. The hallway is narrow, but she manages to squeeze to the right side, knees bent, the flashlight ahead, casting a trembling glow in the darkness. She avoids the ceiling support beams, crouching carefully, making sure to make no noise.
Silence reigns around her, but she feels a strange tension in the air, as if the house is holding its breath. The wind has finally calmed, and she focuses on the sounds coming from the far end of the hallway. She strains her ears. Voices. Whispers, muffled sobs. A chill of fear runs down her spine, but she moves forward, driven by a mix of dread and an irresistible need to know. Her steps take her further, to an intersection where the hallway splits into two. She hesitates, then decides to follow the source of the sobbing.
The path becomes brighter as she approaches, a sort of window at the end of the passage lighting up the darkness. Through a mirror identical to hers, she can see into another room, observing the scene unfolding within. It appears in chaos—fabric, feathers, and wool scattered everywhere. Clothes have been tossed about carelessly, as if someone had hurriedly tried to pack. Cushions are torn open, spilling their white fluffy stuffing like a soft, snowy rain. Balls of yarn are scattered across the floor, tangled in threads, remnants of something once whole. Camille is curled up at the foot of her bed, wearing an oversized white nightgown, her face hidden in her knees pressed against her chest. Her sobs fill the air, unyielding.
Maya immediately notices dark stains on the bottom of the nightgown, then her eyes drop to a razor blade the young girl is holding in her trembling hand. Fresh blood beads along the steel, and Camille's ankles are marked with thin red lines, some still oozing, others healed, evidence of a painful and repetitive ritual. The words Camille murmurs in broken French ooze raw pain, but Maya can't make sense of them. She feels her own heart shatter into a thousand pieces before this heartbreaking sight.
She desperately searches for a mechanism around the mirror, hoping to open it, enter, and help. But nothing moves. The mirror stays still, cruel in its silence. She hesitates, her hand poised to knock against the surface to catch Camille's attention, but she fears it might only frighten her more. For a brief moment, the scene in the hallway with Simon comes back to her: was this what had happened? Had someone knocked to interrupt Simon's intentions?
Later. Camille. Help.
Maya takes a deep breath, ready to turn back and try to reach Camille's room through the door, but a sudden noise calls her attention. Ashford and Jeffrey enter, their presence immediately filling the room with an oppressive tension.
The young girl immediately drops the blade, her fingers opening as if under the reflex of terror. She awkwardly crawls along the bed, desperately trying to escape them.
"No, no, I don't want this anymore! I want it to stop! Please! S'il vous plaît!"
But Jeffrey ignores her pleas and catches her with brutal ease, his hands clamping down on her wrists like vices. He pulls her up and forces her to sit on the bed, indifferent to her heart-wrenching screams. Ashford, meanwhile, picks up the white mask discarded in a corner of the room, a sinister aura around it, almost palpable. Camille screams and weakly struggles, but Jeffrey holds her in place with cold efficiency.
"Please, leave me alone! I want to go home! I want my maman!"
Ashford shows no emotion and, without a word, places the mask on Camille's face with unyielding authority. The moment the mask touches her skin, everything changes. The young girl stops screaming. Her muscles, taut as strings ready to snap, completely relax. Her head tilts slightly, limp like a puppet without strings. Her sobs and cries vanish, and a chilling silence fills the room.
Maya, on the other side of the mirror, stands frozen, unable to look away. She feels helpless, trapped between her fear and horrified fascination. Ashford pulls out a chair and sits facing Camille, a satisfied smile on her face.
"Well. Who do we have this time? What is your name?"
"Sara. I'm a governess for Mr. and Mrs. Hall's children."
Maya blinks in disbelief, her jaw dropping in surprise. Camille's tone has completely changed: her voice sounds deeper, more composed, with a perfect British accent. Even more so, everything has changed—her expression, her posture—everything about her. The young girl is no longer there. In her place is a different entity, detached, almost cold. Maya recognizes that tone, that slow, disembodied cadence. She heard it through the spirit box at the Sea View Hotel. This is how the dead speak.
Ashford, glowing, leans forward, captivated.
"Very interesting. When was this?"
"Spring 1947. The Halls were returning from India after the birth of their second child. I had to take care of them and ..."
"This is all fascinating, but I have more important questions," Ashford interrupts sharply, her impatience obvious.
She grabs Camille's— or rather, Sara's— wrists with brutal force.
"I need to know what you know about the entity."
"I don't know."
Ashford doesn't loosen her grip, her eyes shining with almost insane excitement.
"I know the Halls have a very special family, don't they? A gift... Do you know what I mean?"
Maya, paralyzed behind the mirror, feels her mind waver. The words, Ashford's attitude, all of it evokes a truth she's not sure she's ready to face. Her throat tightens as a cold sweat runs down her back. She remains frozen, unable to look away, as Sara struggles weakly. Her movements seem strange, almost grotesque, as though she were being manipulated by an inexperienced puppeteer. Her wrists twist faintly in Ashford's grip, but her arms almost immediately fall limp, ineffective. She murmurs in a hollow, broken voice.
"I don't know... I don't know..."
Ashford squints, her piercing gaze fixed on the masked face. Her lips curl into a frustrated grimace.
"Who was it this time?" she asks with sharp impatience. "One of the members had to have an atypical personality. As if there were two in one. Who was it?"
Camille weakly shakes her head, a few disordered movements, her shoulders trembling under the effort.
"I don't know... I don't know..."
Ashford's patience snaps. She pushes Camille's wrists away with violent disgust, as if handling something contaminated. She nervously wipes her hands on her blouse, her expression betraying her contempt.
"We're wasting our time with her too," she growls.
Jeffrey, unperturbed, shrugs, a sly smile on his lips.
"The others all look ready. But maybe we'll have more luck with our bad boy. Irony: he's inhabited by the ghost of a woman."
That sentence twists Maya's stomach like a blow from the inside. She leans against the wall, almost curling up, trying to escape mentally from the horror unfolding before her eyes. Her mind, clouded by fear, struggles to make sense of what she's hearing. But the words continue to echo, cold and relentless.
Camille — or Sara — remains sitting at the edge of the bed, her body swaying gently back and forth. She doesn't seem aware of what's happening around her. The white mask covering her face makes her unrecognizable, almost inhuman. A broken doll in a macabre theater. Ashford smooths the folds of her blouse, visibly irritated but not defeated.
"Alright. We'll take care of him first, then the priest and the journalist. I'm not sure the ritual worked with Fred."
Jeffrey tilts his head, thinking.
"And the other girl?"
Maya feels her heart skip a beat. Ashford chuckles lightly, but her irritation seeps through the sarcasm.
"That idiot ripped off her mask before the ritual was finished. I knew it was a mistake to take her at the last minute, but my colleague insisted she was 'ripe for the picking.' She's got an unbearably nosy side."
The psychiatrist adjusts her necklace, indifferent.
"Apparently, she's locked herself in her room. Let her stay there. Without a spirit to speak to, she's of no use to us. If our interrogations lead nowhere, we'll take her up to the second floor. We'll see how our host reacts to her presence."
Maya tenses at those words, her curiosity quivering despite the terror gripping her. Our host?
Ashford snaps her fingers, signaling to Jeffrey that they need to leave. With a sharp motion, she turns on her heels, closely followed by her accomplice. The door to Camille's room slams shut behind them, the sound echoing in the silence.
Maya remains there, curled up against the wall, motionless, even after their departure. Her mind spins at a dizzying speed. Dr. Leclerc knew. He knew everything. No, worse, he had chosen her to be here, trapped in this carefully orchestrated hell. Every detail, every choice, was just a piece of a puzzle she still can't fully understand.
Her survival instinct screams within her. She needs to find Jenks, warn him, and escape this cursed mansion before it's too late. But as she slightly straightens, ready to turn back and consider climbing out of the window, one thought holds her in place.
Their host.
Maya clenches her fists. Part of her screams not to go near the second floor, not to find out what's there. But another part—the same one that's always pushed her to investigate, to snoop, to search for answers where there should be none—refuses to back down.
She takes a deep breath, her hands trembling. She needs to know for sure. Maya casts one last glance at Camille, still motionless, gently rocking on the bed. Then she turns and begins to move down the secret corridor.
She proceeds cautiously, her steps muffled by the narrowness of the passage. The flashlight she holds casts trembling beams across the bare walls, while the surrounding silence is broken only by the occasional rustle of her clothes brushing against the walls. When she reaches a small room where several corridors converge, she stops, stunned.
The space, larger than the tunnels she's navigated so far, is decorated with childlike drawings painted on the walls, aged and cracked with time. A smiling sun occupies the center of a clumsily drawn blue sky. Rudimentary trees line a large red house, likely meant to represent the manor itself. Stick-figure people stand hand in hand in front of the house, like a vision of a bygone, happier time. Maya feels a pang in her chest as she looks at these remnants of innocence.
Then she glances at the different hallways. Were there other entry and exit points? How many mirrors could there be in this mansion?
After a moment of contemplation, she resumes her exploration, choosing one of the corridors at random. Her steps lead her to a staircase descending into an even narrower passage. She hesitates for a moment before turning back. She prefers to retrace the corridors she has already explored, avoiding venturing deeper into the unknown for now.
As she retraces her steps, she passes another one-way mirror. This room, larger than the two others, is cluttered with a desk piled high with files and books. The titles she can make out, even in the relative darkness, speak of esotericism and occultism, mixed with others about psychology and other subjects she struggles to comprehend. A cold shiver runs through her: Ashford's room.
Maya places her hands on the surface, hoping to open it like she did earlier, but it refuses to move. The light from her flashlight reveals a latch on the side, without any visible lock. If it's a mechanism for opening, she doesn't yet know how to operate it. Frustrated but determined, she continues her exploration, fighting against the cold that seems to seep into her bones and the surge of adrenaline that makes her hands tremble.
She passes another mirror, this one offering a view of the main corridor. Maya recognizes the stairs leading to the upper floor, as well as the closed door she guesses must belong to Harriet. A vague worry settles in her: Is the journalist okay? Did she have the idea to lock herself in?
Eventually, she finds the traces of footsteps in the dust. Lacking any other lead, she decides to follow them and ends up finding a ladder leading up to the second floor. After a brief moment of hesitation, she wedges the flashlight between her teeth and begins to climb carefully. The cold rungs slide slightly under her fingers, damp with condensation, but she manages to pull herself up to the top.
The space here is even tighter. The walls close in so tightly that she has to twist her body to move forward. In several places, the passages are so narrow she has to crawl, her breath shallow, feeling her ribs brush against the walls. Every movement is measured, slow, to avoid making any noise that could betray her presence.
When she reaches another mirror, she finds herself facing a room turned into a real control center. A whole wall is covered with television screens, arranged in an oppressive mosaic. Each screen displays black-and-white images, seemingly captured from what looks like an apartment: a living room, a bedroom, a kitchen…
Her eyes catch a vague human movement on one of the cameras but she can't tell who it is. She knows these screens shouldn't be here, just as she knows there's nothing normal about finding a hidden surveillance station in the corners of the mansion. That strange feeling of unease creeps up even more, but curiosity wins out once again.
She continues down the corridor, her flashlight flickering slightly from her trembling grip. The tight walls force her to twist and bend as she moves. She has to duck under a low beam, awkwardly squeeze between two wooden studs that seem to crumble under her fingers. The oppressive silence of the mansion is barely disturbed by the faint creaking of the structure and the muffled sound of her ragged breathing.
As she moves forward, a faint halo of light finally appears in the distance, gently illuminating the passage. The mirror reveals a lavish and unexpected room: a magnificent bedroom, far more opulent than the ones below. Soft lighting from table lamps bathes the room in a dreamy hue. At the center of the room stands a massive four-poster bed, its purple velvet curtains neatly tied at the corners, revealing immaculate white sheets adorned with delicate embroidery. The columns of the bed are finely carved, depicting floral patterns spiraling upwards to their peaks.
The walls are paneled in dark wood, adorned with oil paintings of landscapes and aristocratic scenes. Above the fireplace, a commanding portrait of a woman with a severe yet elegant expression seems to survey the room with an air of authority. Bats and cricket balls hang on the wall alongside prizes and medals. The former owner was clearly a champion. In one corner, an antique vanity cluttered with perfume bottles, brushes, and jewelry stands near a large window veiled by heavy curtains. A silver glow filters through the fabric, signaling the light of the moon. The former owner's bedroom? What was her name again? Mrs Winterbourne? But she passed away months ago.
Maya gently tests the surface of the mirror, her fingers gliding over the cold, smooth glass. To her surprise, the mirror gives way under light pressure, opening with a faint, muted sound. She jumps slightly and freezes, listening intently. No sound responds to her intrusion. At the foot of the mirror, along the wall, crumpled sheets and a pillow lie discarded. The air here smells stale, mingled with a vaguely familiar perfume. Someone is—or was—sleeping here. With a tight throat, Maya slides one leg, then the other, through the opening, taking care not to stumble.
The atmosphere is heavy, steeped in an almost reverent silence. Her eyes scan the room and settle on an adjacent area—a sitting room that opens before her. Through another doorway, she catches sight of a kitchen entrance. An apartment. Likely the living quarters of the mansion's owner.
Maya bites her lip. Ashford had assured her that the owner wasn't here. Could she have lied? Why lie about that? A wave of apprehension rises within her. Every instinct screams at her to turn back, but she ignores it, advancing cautiously, her steps muffled by the thick carpet. She keeps close to the wall, staying in the shadows, watching every corner.
A small red light blinking in the corner of the ceiling catches her eye. A camera. Why monitor this place? And from the other room with all the screens? The thought sends a chill down her spine. She remains motionless for a moment, pressed against the wall, before leaning slightly to peek into the sitting room.
The apparent chaos of the space contrasts with the pristine order of the bedroom. Stacks of books, leather-bound journals with worn corners, and scattered loose papers litter the floor and tables. Maya crouches and picks up one of the journals. She flips through it quickly: a personal diary. Nothing thrilling at first glance—mundane daily accounts and scattered thoughts. She sets it down, her fingers trembling, and picks up another. A photo album. The black-and-white photos depict unfamiliar faces, old English landscapes, and scenes frozen in time.
On another table, notes describe journeys to India, accompanied by sketches of exotic animals and grand buildings. A small candle burns on the edge of one table. Maya realizes she is at the heart of the Hall family's personal archives.
On the coffee table, an unusual object stands out amid the chaos: a heavy metal box, intricately engraved and mesmerizing in its complexity. She also notices a pile of shattered mirrors in one corner, seemingly abandoned to prevent anyone from gazing into them.
"Maya?" A voice calls out, startled.
A voice that stops her cold.
She knows that voice. She has it etched in her memory, unwillingly so. Her body freezes, gripped by a deep, primal terror. She straightens slowly, her breath caught in her throat, and turns as if trapped in a nightmare, desperate to wake before the truth becomes undeniable.
In the doorway stands Jimmy Hall.