The Last Message in the Rain – Part 5: The Room with No Time

Subtitle: Elara enters a haunted estate where time unravels, and the truth hides in mirrors, memories, and something that should never have survived the fire…

The rain poured in torrents that night, the storm relentless as Elara stood at the entrance of the old estate on Hollowridge Lane. The wind howled through the branches of the trees, sending chills down her spine. There was something almost alive about the place, its decaying walls whispering secrets she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear. But the letter had come, and it led her here.

The fifth one.

“Tonight, when thunder shakes the trees, follow the path to where time stopped breathing. He’s waiting.”

She could have turned back. Should have. Anyone with any sense would have. But the curiosity—the need for answers—had wrapped around her heart like a vice. She had to know who was behind the letters, why they seemed to know so much about her, and what the shadow in her dreams was trying to show her.

The moment she stepped inside, the mansion swallowed her whole. The door creaked shut behind her, leaving her in a dark, empty hallway. Moonlight filtered through the broken windows, casting pale shadows across furniture draped in white sheets, as if the house itself were mourning the past.

At the far end of the hall, an old grandfather clock stood. Its pendulum had stopped long ago, its face cracked like a memory fading with time. Elara moved past it, her breath shallow, every creak of the floor beneath her feet making her feel like she was being watched.

As another bolt of lightning lit up the sky, a room to her right briefly glowed—its floral wallpaper peeling, its faded elegance hiding something darker. Elara’s heart skipped as she stepped into the room. A large, antique mirror hung above the fireplace, its glass cloudy and smudged with time.

On the mantle, a note lay waiting, as though it had been placed there just for her.

“Look closely.”

Elara’s pulse quickened. She turned to the mirror, expecting to see her reflection. But what stared back at her wasn’t her at all.

It was her, but… not her. Blood soaked her clothes, her mouth wide in a silent scream, eyes wild with terror. Behind her mirrored self, a man stood, his face hidden behind a porcelain mask.

She spun around, heart thundering in her chest, but the room was empty.

A crack of thunder rattled the house, shaking the floor beneath her feet. When Elara glanced back at the mirror, her reflection was normal again. She let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling.

But then, the note had changed.

“He was here. He still is. Don’t blink.”

Elara’s throat tightened. She wanted to move, to run, but something in her bones held her in place. Her eyes darted to the hallway, and she heard it—the unmistakable sound of slow, deliberate footsteps, the floorboards groaning under the weight of something... someone.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for her flashlight, but when the beam flickered to life, it barely cast any light.

Suddenly, another note fluttered down from the mirror. It was barely legible, scrawled in the same frantic handwriting:

“He hates the light.”

She didn’t know what to do. Her mind raced, each second feeling like it stretched on forever. She fumbled through her coat pocket, fingers brushing against something cold—her father’s silver Zippo lighter, the one she had found in his belongings after his death.

With shaking hands, she struck it. The tiny flame illuminated the walls around her.

Elara’s breath caught in her throat.

Etched into the plaster, running along the walls, were timestamps.

6:44 p.m. — You entered.

6:58 p.m. — You looked in the mirror.

7:01 p.m. — You blinked.

7:05 p.m. — He’s here.

7:10 p.m. — You die.

Her hand shook as she glanced down at her watch. It was 7:08.

She didn’t wait for the last timestamp. She turned and ran.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she bolted through the house. The halls twisted around her, every door slamming shut as she passed, trapping her inside a labyrinth of fear and confusion. The house wasn’t just haunted—it was alive, warping reality, moving to its own twisted rules.

At the top of the stairs, she found another letter, pinned to the wall with an old, rusted key.

“The attic holds what he fears. The end begins there.”

She didn’t question it. There was no time to question anything. Only to act.

Elara raced down the hall toward the narrow door at the end, her breath coming in ragged gasps. The storm outside was deafening, its fury only adding to the madness she felt closing in on her.

The attic.

She climbed the stairs, her legs shaking with every step. As she ascended, memories she hadn’t thought about in years flooded her mind. Her father reading ghost stories during storms, her mother’s sudden disappearance—the one thing that had haunted her since childhood—and the dreams... always the dreams.

When Elara finally reached the attic, she saw a trunk sitting in the far corner. A child’s drawing was taped to its lid, a simple sketch of a family—her family. Her mother, her father, and a little girl in a yellow coat.

Her coat.

Tears welled in her eyes as she lifted the trunk lid. Inside, there were photographs, toys—things from her childhood that she had forgotten. But at the very top was an envelope. Her hands shook as she opened it, the paper crinkling under her fingers.

Inside was a birth certificate.

Name: Elara Morgan

Date of Death: July 28, 1998

Cause: House Fire – Declared dead. Body not found.

Elara’s world shattered.

The night of the storm. The fire. She had thought she survived. But this... this was proof that she had been dead all along. That fire—her father’s death—it wasn’t an accident. It was something else. Something far darker.

The floor creaked behind her.

Her body went rigid. She didn’t have to turn to know who it was. She could feel him there, standing at the threshold of the attic door.

The man in the porcelain mask.

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He simply pointed at the open trunk.

Elara turned slowly, her heart in her throat. Inside the trunk, a final note had appeared:

“He protects what remains. Finish remembering. Or be forgotten again.”

Her head spun. The house, the fire, the letters—it was all coming together now, but the truth was so much darker than she could have ever imagined.

To be continued...