Lilith leaned back on her hands, her hair spilling like ink across her nightgown. A sly smile played at the corners of her lips.

“I warn you,” she said softly, eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Mine doesn’t have giants. Or poison fruit. But it hurts just the same.”

Without another word, she leaned forward and blew out one of the candles. The flame hissed into smoke, casting the room in a deeper hush. Shadows thickened around them.

She began.

“I was raised in a manor where everything was tested — the water we drank, the guests who entered, even the roses in the garden. My family believed we were descended from nobility. Royal blood, they claimed. But blood means nothing if you can’t prove it. Not to them.

Feelings? Irrelevant. What mattered was sensitivity. Tradition. Purity.

“When I turned thirteen, I was taken to the tower — a locked room with no keyhole, tall glass windows, and stone walls that whispered when the wind blew. They called it the Testing Room. I was told it was time for the ‘Trial of Sensitivity.’ A rite of passage for girls like me.”

Her voice grew quieter, silkier.

“If I was truly of noble descent, they said I’d feel what others could not. That was the rule. The test. If I passed, I’d be honoured. If I failed… I’d sleep soundly, and they’d know I was a fraud.”

Beatrice shifted. “That’s awful.”

Lilith smiled faintly, almost tenderly. “It gets worse.”

“They brought in mattresses. Not one or two. Twenty. Piled one atop the other until they towered over me like a monument. Then, at the base, they slipped something in. Not a pea — no, that would be too kind.”

She paused, letting the silence settle.

“A thread. Just one. Black as ink and thinner than a hair. They said it had been pulled from the wedding veil of a madwoman — a distant ancestor who had torn out her own eyes on her wedding night. They claimed her screams had been sewn into it.”

Jonathan let out a low whistle. No one laughed.

“I was told to climb the ladder and lie on the topmost mattress. The room was cold and utterly silent. I lay there and waited. Hours passed. The moon rose. The windows shuddered. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t sleep.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“It started in my bones — a steady, dull ache. Then the visions came. But I was still awake. I saw eyes blinking from the wallpaper. Felt the prickle of invisible spiders crawling up my arms. Heard something breathing beneath the bed, whispering my name — but backwards. Always backwards.”

Her hands clenched in her lap.

“By morning, I was pale and shaking. I had blood under my fingernails from clawing at the sheets. When they pulled me down, I collapsed into my mother’s arms. She smiled.”

Lilith blinked.

“They cheered. Said I’d passed. That I was worthy.”

Alice looked horrified. “They tortured you and called it tradition?”

Lilith gave a soft, knowing laugh. “Oh, it didn’t end there. Every generation, one girl is chosen — a girl who proves she’s truly one of us. A daughter of the line. But they keep us apart. Say we’re too fragile. Too sensitive. We’re not allowed to speak. Not allowed to compare notes.”

She leaned forward now, eyes burning brighter.

“But here’s what I never told anyone.”

The group leaned in unconsciously.

“That night, I returned to the room alone. I couldn’t sleep. Something was… wrong. I climbed the tower of mattresses once more and cut open the bottom layer.”

Her voice trembled — just barely.

“The thread was gone.”

Silence.

“In its place was a finger. Small. Dry. Wrapped in a black ribbon.”

Jonathan gasped. Beatrice’s hand flew to her mouth.

“I tried to show someone the next morning, but the mattresses were gone. Burned. They said it was tradition. One use only.”

Lilith’s voice softened, faraway.

“So now, I sleep light. I hear things others don’t. Feel things they say aren’t real. And sometimes, when the night is very quiet, I lie in bed and feel the thread again — winding its way up my spine. Stitch by stitch.”

A silence settled over the room like a shroud.

Cedric, usually composed, let out a slow breath. “You might actually be the scariest one here.”

Lilith smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Alice sat straighter and gave a nervous laugh. “Alright. Let’s stop there for tonight. Before one of us starts sleepwalking.”

The final flickers of candlelight danced along the walls, casting long shadows that shifted like ghosts retreating from the dawn. The silence that followed Lilith’s story lingered, as though even the wind outside dared not speak.

Eventually, Cedric stood and stretched with a quiet groan. “Well,” he murmured, “that was... delightful nightmare fuel.”

Beatrice gave a tired laugh, curling into her blanket. “I’m not sure how I’m supposed to sleep after that.”

Jonathan, still wide-eyed from Lilith’s tale, stood more slowly, casting a glance toward the far side of the room.

Margaret slept peacefully, her arms tucked beneath her head, lips parted slightly in slumber. A soft lock of hair had fallen across her cheek, and in the dim light, she looked so calm, so utterly unbothered by the horrors they’d just conjured.

Jonathan’s gaze lingered a moment too long.

She looks ever so cute when she sleeps, he thought, then quickly blinked the thought away and rubbed the back of his neck.

Alice raised a brow. “Are you coming, Romeo?”

Jonathan flushed. “Y-Yeah. Just... stretching my back.”

The girls moved quickly and quietly, knowing the routine by heart now. Lilith pulled the rope from beneath her bed — a long, thick cord they had “borrowed” from the groundskeeping shed weeks ago. Together, the three girls held it firmly as Cedric approached the attic window.

He went first, climbing down with careful ease.

Jonathan lingered a moment longer, glancing one last time at Margaret.

“Same time next week?” he whispered with a lopsided grin.

Alice nodded. “Midnight. Don’t be late.”

Jonathan lingered a moment longer, casting one last glance toward Margaret. She stirred in her sleep, murmured something unintelligible, and turned over, still lost in dreams. He smiled faintly.

He nodded. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She smirked. “You missed my story, actually. So yes — don’t be late this time.”

Jonathan scratched the back of his neck, sheepish. “I’ll make up for it.”

“You better,” she said, only half-playfully. “It was a masterpiece of terrifying nonsense.”

He gave a small salute, then disappeared into the dark below.

The girls reeled the rope back in, folded it neatly, and slid it beneath Lilith’s bed, hidden from sight. As they returned to their places, the hush of the room seemed deeper than before — not heavy, but thoughtful. A silence woven from stories, secrets, and something older still.

Beatrice let out a yawn. “Do you think we’ll ever run out of stories?”

Alice rolled onto her back, staring at the canopy above. “Not a chance.”

Outside, the rain had thinned to a mist. Inside, the girls drifted one by one into dreams, the remnants of their tales following them like shadows.