“I suppose it’s my turn now,” Cedric muttered, settling cross-legged on the floor as a gust of wind pressed against the windowpane. He brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, eyes avoiding the flickering candlelight.

“Let me guess,” Alice teased from the edge of the bed, a crooked grin on her lips. “A thrilling tale of economic collapse and lukewarm tea?”

Cedric rolled his eyes, but a reluctant half-smile curved his mouth. “Not quite.”

He leaned back slightly, gaze drifting to the ceiling above them. For a moment, the room fell into silence—save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall and the occasional creak of the old floorboards beneath them.

“I lived in a tall, narrow house,” he began quietly, “on the edge of a forgotten town where the chimneys belched smoke into a sky that never cleared. Everything felt grey. Faded. Like a memory that refused to leave. My mother ruled the house with an iron will and a silver cane. She walked with purpose, spoke with sharp edges, and never once looked back.

“We were once wealthy. Merchants. Bankers. Visionaries, she said. But now the rooms echoed, the tapestries had moth-holes, and the mirrors were dusty enough to forget yourself in.”

His voice grew distant.

“One night, I heard whispers rising from the cellar—soft, like someone speaking through cloth. I hadn’t been down there in years. The last time I did, I saw rats bigger than cats and a crack in the wall that breathed cold air. But something pulled me this time. A feeling. Or maybe a need.

“When I opened the door, the scent hit first. Damp earth. Rot. Something old and hungry.

“In the centre of the room sat a sack. Woven, rough, and sealed with red thread. Inside were seeds — bone-white, smooth, and warm to the touch, as if they held heartbeats.”

Lilith’s brows furrowed in intrigue.

“There was a note attached: Plant one. Trade for what you’ve lost. I didn’t understand it. But something in me didn’t care. So I took one and buried it in the courtyard behind our house.”

He exhaled slowly.

“By morning, something had grown.”

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed. “A vine?”

Cedric shook his head. “Not a vine. A spine. Twisted, jointed, pulsing. It coiled upwards, splitting the sky, bone-white and twitching as if it were trying to escape the world altogether.”

Beatrice shuddered.

“Did you climb it?”

“I had to,” Cedric said. “My mother was livid when she saw it. She called it shameful — said I was chasing shadows instead of legacy. She told me I was no son of hers. So I ran.”

He swallowed.

“I climbed.”

A pause. Then, softer:

“The higher I went, the stranger the world became. The air shimmered — thick and static, full of invisible voices that whispered my name in languages I didn’t know. Clouds brushed against my skin like silk. Then, above it all, I saw it.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“A mansion. Floating in the sky like a corpse in water. Ancient. Rotting. Held together by sheer will and threads of mist. It hung there, cradled by the clouds, groaning with every gust.”

“The doors opened on their own,” Lilith murmured, enraptured.

Cedric nodded. “Inside, the hallways twisted. I’d walk straight and end up in the same place. Rooms shifted behind me. Sometimes I’d hear footsteps — soft and deliberate — but every time I turned, nothing. Just more portraits. Dozens of them.”

He looked around the room at his friends.

“They were of me.”

Jonathan blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Different versions. At different ages. Some older. Some… unfamiliar. Some with scars I’ve never had. Some smiling, some crying. One of them had his eyes sewn shut.”

Lilith leaned forward. “And then?”

“I reached a great hall,” Cedric whispered, “and there he was. The Giant.”

They all stilled.

“He wasn’t monstrous, not in the way you’d think. He wore a fine suit and had long white gloves. His face was calm. Smiling. But it was the kind of smile that watched you bleed. His shadow stretched across the floor like it was made of liquid. I couldn’t move.”

Cedric’s voice lowered even further.

“He said, I’ve been waiting, son.”

A breath caught in Beatrice’s throat.

“He called himself the Giant. Said he’d built the mansion centuries ago when the world below had begun to rot. Said the Bonevine chose its heirs — one each generation. That I had been chosen. Like he was. That I’d have wealth, power, and the kind of legacy men kill for. That the world was mine… if I stayed.”

Alice’s voice was a whisper. “What did you do?”

“I told him I didn’t want it,” Cedric said. “But he took my hand and pressed it against the wall. It melted under my touch. And when I pulled back, a new portrait had appeared.”

He looked down at his palms, lost in the memory.

“It was me. Older. Wearing his clothes. His gloves. Smiling that same smile.”

The silence was heavy now, thick with tension.

“I ran,” he said. “But the staircase crumbled behind me. The Bonevine turned to ash as I fell. Everything went black.”

“And then?” Lilith asked.

“I woke up in bed. Covered in dust. My mother never spoke of the vine again. But when I looked at myself in the mirror, my hand — the one he’d touched — was bruised black. As if someone had gripped it. Hard.”

He hesitated, then added, “And every night since, I’ve dreamt of that mansion. It’s always closer. Louder. Like it’s waiting for me to come home.”

No one spoke.

Then Lilith let out a low whistle. “You’re one existential crisis away from becoming a full-blown ghost story.”

Cedric gave a hollow, bitter smile. “Maybe I already am.”

Alice nudged his shoulder gently. “That was really good, Cedric. Creepy. Heavy. But… brilliant.”

Beatrice nodded slowly. “The Bonevine… it felt real. Like it wasn’t just part of the story.”

“Too real,” Jonathan muttered, glancing at Cedric’s hand.

Alice turned to him, breaking the spell. “Well then, Mr. Johnson. Looks like you’re up.”