Page 95 of Porcelain Grave

I close my eyes, a single tear tracing a path down my cheek.

Go on then, Mummy, I think, my heart aching. Get the fuck out of here. Go to where the souls go. Find the girls. Find some peace.

I take a deep breath, the cold air stinging my lungs, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I can actually breathe. She's gone. She's finally, truly, at rest.

Chapter 31

I’m back in the attic of the Tin Heart toy shop, the air thick with the scent of old dust and something metallic, like dried blood and ozone. The space feels smaller now, charged with a heavy, humming energy that makes the hair on my arms stand up.

We’re seated in a wide circle on the floor, the rough wood scraping against my legs. I’m perched on a moth-eaten velvet cushion, a deep crimson that looks almost black in the dim light. Rhys is beside me, his massive frame taking up twice the space of anyone else, his hand gripping mine with a possessive, grounding strength. Opposite us, the Six Who Speak As One are draped across mismatched antique chairs and low stools, their presence an oppressive weight that fills every corner of the room.

Between us, the floor is a chaotic masterpiece of occult shit. A massive circle is drawn in salt and crushed obsidian, etched with jagged runes that seem to pulse with a faint, sickly violet light. Scattered within the perimeter are blackened candles dripping wax like frozen tears, bundles of dried sage and nightshade, and several bowls of thick, dark liquid—blood and something else that smells like a fucking graveyard. A single, ancient grimoire lies open in the center, its vellum pages yellowed and curling.

The Six begin the spell. Their voices merge into one, a discordant, droning chant that doesn't sound human. It’s a vibration that rattles my teeth and makes the floorboards shudder. The candles flare up, the flames leaping high and turning a ghostly blue.

Then, it happens.

Next to the wooden box where the twins' remains are kept, the air begins to fracture. It looks like a corrupted video file—static and jagged lines tearing through the reality of the room. A figure flickers, glitching in and out of existence, a strobe light of horror. Then, with a sudden, sharp snap, the glitches vanish, and they are there.

"Ophelia..."

My heart fucking skips a beat. I gasp, my grip on Rhys’s hand slipping as I instinctively recoil before the longing hits me. I pull away from him, my boots clicking softly on the wood as I step closer.

I stop dead, my breath hitching in my throat.

Cordelia and Rosalind.

They look exactly as they did that night—twelve years old and absolutely butchered. Their dresses are soaked in deep, crusty crimson, clinging to their small frames. Jagged, gaping butcher’s knife wounds carve across their chests and stomachs, the edges of the skin raw and torn. Their pale skin is translucent, almost blue, and their eyes are wide, haunting voids of grief and confusion.

"I'm here," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I'm right here."

I swallow hard, looking at the gore that defined their end. "He's gone. Papa... he's dead. He paid for every fucking thing he did to you. He's rotting in hell where he belongs."

Cordelia speaks first, her voice a hollow echo that sounds like wind through a tomb. "We felt it... the scream of his soul as it broke."

Rosalind tilts her head, a small, sad smile touching her blood-stained lips. "The darkness felt lighter when he stopped breathing."

I feel a tear slide down my cheek. I reach out, though I dare not touch the raw wounds. "If I bury you... if I give you a proper resting place like I did for Mum... will you find peace? You can be with her. You can finally stop hurting."

They look at each other, and for the first time, they speak in a chilling unison, their voices overlapping. "No."

I blink, confused. "What? Why? You can be free."

"We don't want to leave," Rosalind whispers, her ghostly eyes locking onto mine. "We're still twelve, Lia. We're just little girls. And mummy said we should stay with you and keep you safe. You need us more. She will be alright."

“Mummy wants us to stay with you. She says your heart is still bleeding.”

"You're our sister," Cordelia adds, her voice trembling. "Staying with you... it's the only thing that feels natural. We're dead, and our lives were stolen from us by that person we called Papa. We don't want a grave. We want you."

I stare at them, my mind racing. "But how? You can't just... stay like this. You're ghosts. You're glitches in the air."

"The dolls," Rosalind says, glancing at the porcelain figures scattered around the attic. "We want to get into dolls."

I recoil slightly, the sheer weirdness of it hitting me. "Dolls? You want to live in toys?"

I turn back to the coven, my voice desperate. "Is that even possible? Can they actually do that?"

The Six shift, their collective voice humming with a dark, knowing resonance. "It can be done. The spirits can be tethered to a physical vessel, provided the vessel is crafted with intent. They can remain with you, anchored to this world, for as long as you draw breath."