Allen was still deep in the Runic text, trying to parse the implications of the name 'Tremere,' when Daisy decided she had reached her limit for the evening. Her initial fear had apparently been replaced by a sharp, prickly irritability—a classic Harris family defense mechanism.
"Alright, Professor, put the ancient scrolls away," Daisy said, her tone swinging from anxious to bossy in the blink of an eye. She was standing by her bed, clutching a pair of silk floral pajamas like a shield. "It's past midnight, and if I don't get some sleep, I'm going to be a nightmare tomorrow. Out you go."
Allen looked at her, a bit baffled by the sudden shift in weather. One minute she was begging him to stay, the next she was practically shoving him toward the corridor. He realized then that even with all his magical training and past-life experience, the internal logic of a teenage girl remained the world's greatest unsolved mystery.
"Fine, fine. Don't trip over your own shadow," Allen joked, tucking the black notebook under his arm.
The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy, final thud that echoed down the dark hallway. He shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips as he turned to walk the short distance to his own room.
But the smile died instantly.
His bedroom door, which he was certain he had left closed and latched, was standing ajar. A sliver of pale, flickering light spilled out from the gap. Inside, he could hear the distinct, rhythmic sound of movement—the soft scuff-scuff of footsteps on the floorboards. Then, a voice. It wasn't a person talking so much as a series of dry, rasping whispers that sounded like dead leaves skittering across stone.
Allen's hand flew to his holster, the smooth wood of his wand sliding into his palm. He didn't call out. He didn't hesitate. He moved with the practiced silence of a duelist, his heartbeat steadying as his adrenaline spiked.
As he approached, the door began to swing shut on its own, the hinges letting out a long, tortured creak that belonged in a low-budget horror film.
"Who's in there?" Allen demanded, no longer caring about being quiet.
He lunged forward, his hand gripping the heavy iron doorknob. With a violent jerk, he flung the door wide and stepped into the room, his wand leveled at chest height, ready to unleash a stunning spell.
Nothing.
The room was exactly as he had left it. The fire in the grate had burned down to glowing embers, and the shadows were long and still. He checked behind the heavy velvet curtains, under the bed, and inside the massive wardrobe. Empty.
"Playing games, are we?" he muttered to the air.
He blew out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He knew he hadn't imagined the footsteps. In a house this old, residue was common, but those whispers had felt... intentional. He lit the bedside candlestick, the flame casting a warm but flickering glow that did little to soothe his nerves. He sat at the head of the bed, reopening the Tremere diary, hoping for a clue he might have missed. But the ink remained silent, and eventually, the weight of the day's travel and the heavy dinner took their toll. He drifted off into a shallow, fitful sleep.
He wasn't out for long—maybe an hour, maybe two. It wasn't a dream that woke him, but a sensation.
He felt a crushing weight on his chest, as if a large dog were sitting on him, and then, a pair of hands—ice-cold, like they had been dipped in a frozen lake—wrapped firmly around his throat. His eyes snapped open, but his vision was blurred, and his muscles felt like lead. It was classic sleep paralysis, but with a terrifyingly physical edge.
With a mental roar of defiance, Allen forced his magic to flare outward. The sudden surge of internal energy broke the hold, and he sat bolt upright, gasping for air.
The room was silent once more.
The air was warm, kept comfortable by the manor's ancient charms, yet Allen was shivering. He looked down and realized his blankets had been violently kicked to the foot of the bed. As he leaned over to retrieve them, his ears caught it again.
Whispering.
It was coming from the window. The long, gauzy curtains were dancing, fluttering wildly as if caught in a gale, despite the fact that he had shut the window tight before bed. The moonlight filtered through the fabric, creating swaying, distorted shadows on the floor that looked like elongated limbs reaching for him.
"Just the wind?" Allen whispered, his hand gripping his wand so hard his knuckles turned white.
He climbed out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold floorboards. He walked slowly toward the window, intending to check the latch. As he drew closer, the curtains suddenly went limp, falling back into place as if the wind had simply died.
Allen reached out and pulled the fabric aside. He let out a sharp, involuntary gasp.
The window was perfectly closed. Not a single draft was coming through the seal.
He stared out into the bleak, snowy night for a long moment, his own reflection ghostly in the glass. And then, the reflection changed.
Behind his shoulder, a small, pale face appeared—a young girl with hollow eyes and a dress the color of dried blood. She didn't look like a solid person; she was a shimmering, translucent smudge on the world. The Girl in Red. She stared at him for a fraction of a second before flickering out of existence.
Allen spun around, a spell on his lips, but the room was empty.
Then, he felt the cold again. Not from the front, but from behind. The icy hands returned, brushing against the skin of his neck, and a voice—hollow and desolate—echoed directly into his ear.
"Why... why have you come here? This was my place... I was so peaceful in the quiet..."
Allen didn't panic. He had dealt with spirits before, though none quite this physical. He pivoted, his wand tip glowing with a searing, golden-white light.
"Lux Aeterna!"
It was an ancient spell he'd deciphered from the Ravenclaw Tower records—a concentrated burst of Positive Energy. It was meant to cleanse, to heal, or in the case of the restless dead, to repel. He didn't want to destroy her; he just wanted to break the haunt.
The light flared like a miniature sun. The girl shrieked—a sound like tearing metal—and clutched her arm where the light had scorched her spectral form. She didn't walk out; she simply dissolved through the heavy oak door, leaving a trail of faint, shimmering mist behind.
Allen stood there, chest heaving. He hadn't expected the spell to be that effective. He'd never actually used it on a sentient spirit before. He quickly threw on his robes and boots. If there was a hostile ghost wandering the halls, he needed to check on Daisy and the others immediately.
Before he could reach the handle, a thunderous knocking erupted from the other side. Bam! Bam! Bam! It was so heavy it vibrated in Allen's teeth.
He leveled his wand. "Who is it? Identify yourself!"
No answer. Only more frantic, deafening pounding.
Allen took a breath, centered his magic, and yanked the door open. He almost knocked Daisy over.
She looked like she had just crawled through a hedge backward. Her hair was a tangled mess of frizz, and her eyes were wide with a mix of fury and confusion. She didn't wait for an invitation; she pushed past him and began frantically checking the corners of his room.
"Daisy? What happened? Did you see the girl in red?" Allen asked, closing the door behind her.
"The girl in what?" Daisy snapped, looking under his bed. "I don't care about girls in red! Allen, have you seen a mirror? Any mirror?"
Allen blinked. "A... mirror? That's what you're worried about?"
"I've been to Emily's room, Mom's room, even the guest bathroom down the hall," Daisy said, her voice rising in pitch. "There isn't a single mirror in this entire wing. Not one! How am I supposed to live like this? I look like a swamp hag!"
Allen froze. His mind raced back through the previous evening. The dining room, the hallways, the foyer... he realized with a jolt of clarity that she was right. For a manor this opulent, the absence of reflective surfaces was a glaring, impossible oversight.
Tremere. No mirrors. Aunt Josephine's constant hat and her flushed, unnatural skin.
The pieces were clicking together into a picture he didn't like. Vampires, in the older traditions, avoided mirrors—not because they didn't have reflections (that was mostly a myth perpetuated by Gilderoy Lockhart's nonsense books), but because they couldn't stand to see the stagnation of their own souls. Or perhaps, in this manor, it was a practical choice to avoid reminding the 'guests' of what they really were.
"No mirrors," Allen repeated softly. "Daisy, go back to your room. Lock the door. If you hear anything—anything at all—you use that signal charm I taught you."
"Are you going to tell Dad?" Daisy asked, seeing the gravity in his expression.
Allen looked toward the window where the ghost had appeared. "Not yet. He's so happy to see his sister. If I'm wrong, I'll break his heart. If I'm right... well, I'll deal with it. I've got the right spells for this."
He spent the rest of the night in a chair, wand across his lap, watching the door.
The next morning, the manor felt different. The sunlight hitting the snow outside reflected through the windows, making the dark green walls look almost cheerful. Allen headed downstairs, his pockets stuffed with a strategic amount of Honeydukes' best chocolate—a peace offering for a ghost, or a quick energy boost for himself.
In the kitchen, his mother and Aunt Josephine were working in tandem, their wands flicking through the air as pots stirred themselves and bacon sizzled on a magical griddle.
"Morning, everyone," Allen said, forcing a yawn and a bright, innocent smile.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," Morgan said, glancing over her shoulder. "I thought you'd sleep until noon after that trek yesterday."
"I would have," Allen lied, leaning against the counter. "But I went to comb my hair and realized I couldn't find a mirror. Aunt Josephine, am I going crazy, or is there a shortage of glass in this house?"
Josephine paused her wand movements for a fraction of a second—so fast most wouldn't have seen it. She turned to him, her expression perfectly calm, though her eyes remained shadowed by the brim of her hat.
"Oh, it's a vanity thing, dear," she said with a light, airy laugh that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I've always found mirrors to be such a distraction. In a house this old, one should focus on the atmosphere, not one's own reflection. I had them all removed years ago. I hope you don't mind a bit of a rustic experience?"
She looked at him then, and for a moment, Allen felt like he was being measured for a suit—or a coffin. She was either a world-class actress, or she truly believed her own lie. Either way, the "Atmosphere" of the manor was about to get a lot more interesting.