Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 173 - Hundred And Seventy Three

The back house of the ancestral hall stood apart from the main manor, a solitary stone structure nestled in the shadow of ancient yew trees. It was a place of temporary rest, a waypoint between the world of the living and the cold, final embrace of the family crypt.

Tonight, it held a secret that the Thompson family was desperate to bury.

Inside, the air was unnaturally still. It smelled of damp earth, old, rotting wood, and the faint, sickly-sweet scent of funeral incense. A single, thick white candle burned on a small, unsteady table near the head of the coffin. Its flame sputtered and danced, casting long, erratic shadows that seemed to crawl up the rough stone walls like dark, grasping fingers.

The simple wooden coffin lay in the center of the room on a trestle. It was unadorned. No gold leaf, no velvet lining, no family crest. Just plain, rough-hewn pine for a criminal who had taken her own life in a dungeon cell.

The heavy wooden door creaked open slowly, the rusty hinges groaning in the silence. A cold breeze from the outside swept into the room, swirling the dust on the floor and making the candlelight flicker violently, threatening to extinguish the only source of warmth.

A figure slipped inside.

It was Senna. She wore a dark, heavy cloak, her hood pulled up to hide her face, though there was no one here to see her triumph. She closed the door softly, shutting out the wind, but the chill remained in the room, a cold that seemed to seep from the stones themselves.

She walked toward the coffin, her steps light and eager. She didn’t move like a mourner coming to pay respects. She moved like a thief coming to admire her prize. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

She stood before the plain wooden box. She reached out a hand, her fingers tracing the rough grain of the wood. A smile, slow and cruel, spread across her face.

"Finally," she whispered, her voice echoing in the small, empty space.

She gripped the edge of the lid. It was heavy, but she shoved it aside with a surprising strength born of adrenaline and malice. The wood scraped loudly against wood, a harsh sound in the sacred silence.

She looked inside.

Marissa lay there. She was dressed in a simple, white burial gown that looked more like a nightdress than a shroud. Her hands were folded peacefully over her chest. Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the dim candlelight, the color of old marble. Her dark hair was spread out around her head like a halo on the rough pillow.

Senna leaned closer, her eyes scanning the body for proof. She needed to see it. She needed to know it was real.

She saw it. A dark, angry red line circled Marissa’s neck, a bruise that stood out starkly against the white skin. The mark of the rope. The mark of strangulation.

"He actually did a good job," Senna thought, a thrill of dark satisfaction running through her veins. "The assassin. He made it look real. He made it look like she did it to herself, just as I ordered."

She stood up straight, inhaling deeply. She exhaled a long breath, letting the tension of the last few days leave her body. It was a sign of finding peace. A twisted, dark peace born of victory.

"You are finally dead," Senna said to the body, her voice gaining strength.

She looked at Marissa’s still, beautiful face. Even in death, she looked regal. Even in a pine box, she looked like a Duchess. It annoyed Senna.

"Grand Duchess means nothing," Senna sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. "Title means nothing. In the end, you are just meat in a box. Just like everyone else."

She chuckled. It started low in her throat and grew.

"You thought you could beat me?" Senna asked the corpse, her voice rising. "You thought you could take him from me? You thought you could banish me? You were a fool. You could never beat me."

She laughed louder, the sound bouncing off the stone walls, a harsh, jagged noise that violated the silence of the dead.

Just then, the candle flickered.

It didn’t just dance in the wind. It dimmed. The flame turned a strange, sickly blue color, shrinking until it was just a tiny, desperate spark.

The room became cold. Not the chill of the night air, but a deep, bone-seeping cold that made Senna’s breath fog in front of her face. It was the kind of cold that starts in the marrow and works its way out.

The silence broke.

Senna heard voices.

They were whispers. Faint, indistinct, coming from the corners of the room where the shadows were deepest. They sounded like chanting. They sounded like the wind whistling through dry leaves.

"Murderer... murderer..."

Senna stopped laughing. The sound died in her throat. She looked around, her eyes wide.

"Who is there?" she demanded, her voice trembling slightly. "Show yourself!"

There was no answer. Just the whispers, growing louder, overlapping, a chorus of accusations.

Then, she saw movement.

In front of her. At the foot of the coffin. Marissa stood there.

Senna gasped, her hand flying to her mouth to stifle a scream. She stumbled back, hitting the wall with a thud. She stared at the coffin.

Marissa was still lying in it. She could see the white dress. She could see the hair. She could see the red line on the neck.

But Marissa was also standing in front of her.

The standing Marissa was dressed in the same white burial gown. Her skin was grey, the color of decay. Her eyes were dark pits, empty of life but full of malice. The red line on her neck was bleeding, fresh, dark blood trickling down onto the white fabric, staining it crimson.

"No," Senna whispered, shaking her head. "It’s not possible. It’s a trick."

She turned to run to the door. But Marissa was there too.Standing right in front of the door, blocking the exit.

Senna screamed. She spun around, looking for an escape, for a window, for anything.

She turned again and saw Marissa standing right behind her.

"How does she keep disappearing and appearing in all the exits?" Senna asked herself.

This Marissa looked like a dead person who had crawled out of the grave for revenge. Her hair was matted with dirt. Her lips were blue. She reached out a hand, her fingers long, pointing at Senna.

Senna fell to the floor. Her legs gave way under the weight of her terror. She scrambled backward, her hands scraping on the rough stone, trying to get away from the apparition.

"Are you human?" Senna shrieked, her voice high and thin with fear. "Or are you a ghost?"

The figure didn’t speak. It just stared down at her with dead, accusing eyes.

The whispers grew to a roar, filling the small room. The candle went out completely, plunging the room into absolute, suffocating darkness.

And in the dark, Senna could hear breathing. Not her own. But the slow, ragged, wet breathing of something that should not be alive, getting closer, and closer.