By dusk, Clara discovered a hidden stairwell behind a tapestry depicting the crucifixion. It spiraled downward into a massive underground library.
Dust hung thick in the stale air. Candles flickered spontaneously, casting shadows that moved independently. Every book seemed to whisper when touched, murmuring prayers backward.
Ethan gulped.
"They're… talking to us, right?"
Clara shook her head, opening a leather-bound tome.
"They're not talking. They're remembering. Every fear, every whispered sin, every doubt leaves a mark."
In the center of the library lay a large book, its cover pulsing faintly, warm under her fingers, as if alive.
A whisper drifted through the stacks:
"Read me… if you dare."
Ethan flinched violently.
"I dare nothing!"
Clara smirked.
"You're no fun."
The pages turned themselves. Visions of students who had vanished over decades filled the air — faint outlines of shadows, eyes hollow, mouths screaming silently. Clara felt a chill crawl through her spine.
The library was not merely storing knowledge; it was feeding on the sins and fears of those who entered.