Carl was in the west hallway, the one that had taken the worst of the sentinel’s null wave. The air still felt thin here, like the magic had not fully grown back yet. He muttered to himself as he measured a cracked support beam.
“Alright, you old nightmare house,” he grumbled. “Just hold still for five minutes so I can…”
The wall beside him shifted.
Not a creak. Not settling.
A deliberate, smooth, sliding movement.
Carl froze.
“…Dale,” he called. “Dale, the house is doing the thing again.”
No answer.
The wall slid another six inches, revealing a thin vertical seam that absolutely had not been there a moment ago.
Carl backed up slowly.
“Nope. Nope. I am not doing this today. I came here to fix drywall, not…”
The seam widened.
A soft, warm glow spilled out. Golden. Steady. Ancient.
Carl stared.
“…oh hell.”
The wall finished sliding aside, revealing a narrow doorway framed in old carved wood. The carvings were runes, glowing faintly with a soft amber light, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Carl whispered, “Dale, the house is opening a door. A door that was not here. A door I do not want.”
Ravenloft’s lights flickered gently, like a reassuring pat on the shoulder.
Carl pointed at the ceiling. “Do not patronize me.”
The house hummed, warm and coaxing.
Carl stepped forward slowly, cautiously, like a man approaching a sleeping bear with a vendetta.
The room inside was small and circular, impossibly old. Dust motes floated in the golden light, drifting in patterns that looked almost intentional. Shelves lined the walls, filled with objects that did not belong in any normal witch sanctum.
Old journals bound in cracked leather. Ancient blueprints scattered across the floor. A map of Hollowmere from centuries ago, marked with strange symbols. A silver book etched with runes that pulsed faintly when Carl looked at it. Tools that looked half carpenter and half spellcaster. A portrait of a woman with storm-gray eyes and a knowing smile.
Carl swallowed.
“This is a witch room,” he whispered. “A real witch room. A secret witch room. I am not qualified for this.”
He reached toward a shelf, and the entire room brightened, as if recognizing him.
Carl yanked his hand back.
“No. No, no, no. I am not touching anything. Last time I touched something in this house, it purred at me.”
Behind him, the runes flickered, almost laughing.