The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the streets of Paris, but Isabelle felt none of the warmth the golden rays promised. The city, alive with movement and sound, seemed alien to her as she walked through the cobbled streets, her mind consumed by the memory of Lucie's distorted voice.
It had been hours since she received the call, the one she still couldn't fully understand. The sound was like a broken signal—static, shifting, and distant—but there had been something in the distortion that chilled her to the core. It was Lucie's voice, undeniably, but twisted and faint, as if it were coming from some faraway place, a place untouched by time or reality. The words had been incomprehensible, fragmented like a half-finished puzzle, but one thing had been clear: she was calling out for help.
"Help me..." Lucie's voice had crackled, the words barely reaching Isabelle's ears. "I'm... I'm... trapped..."
Then, the call abruptly cut off, leaving Isabelle with an unsettling silence and a gnawing sense of dread. Something had happened to Lucie—something terrible—and she was running out of time to piece together the fragments of her voice.
Determined, Isabelle had traced the signal to its source—a location just outside the city limits. An old, abandoned opera house that had once been the jewel of the district, now nothing more than a decaying relic of the past. The building was one of those forgotten places, a monument to history whose importance had faded like the stage lights dimming for the final time. But to Isabelle, it was more than just a relic—it was another clue, another thread that could lead her to the heart of the mystery.
The opera house loomed ahead, its once-grand façade now a shell of its former self. The windows were boarded up, the ornate stonework crumbling from decades of neglect. The once-splendid columns, which had once held the weight of opulent performances, now seemed more like the bones of a long-dead giant. The doors were sealed shut with iron bars, but Isabelle had anticipated this. She wasn't here to admire the building's architecture; she was here to follow the trail left by Lucie's call.
With her heart pounding in her chest, Isabelle made her way to the back of the opera house. She had already scouted the area beforehand, and the rear entrance was accessible through a narrow alleyway. The door, though old and rusted, gave way easily under the pressure of her shoulder. It groaned in protest, but Isabelle didn't hesitate. She stepped into the darkness beyond, the air thick with dust and decay.
The silence inside was suffocating, as if the building itself were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. The floor beneath her feet creaked with each step, and the smell of mildew and old velvet filled her nostrils. She could almost hear the faint echoes of the past—the laughter of the audience, the soft murmur of conversations, the click of heels on polished floors. But those sounds were long gone, replaced by the eerie quiet of abandonment.
Isabelle took a deep breath and pulled out her flashlight, its beam cutting through the darkness like a lifeline. She scanned the hallway, noting the faded, peeling wallpaper, the cracked paintings that lined the walls. But it wasn't the building's disrepair that concerned her. It was the strange sensation that clung to the air, a sense that she was being watched. It was as if the very walls were listening, waiting for her to make a mistake.
She moved further into the building, the oppressive atmosphere growing thicker with each step. The sound of her boots echoed off the walls, but there was another sound—faint, distant, but unmistakable. It was a low, mournful cry. A woman's cry.
Isabelle froze, her heart skipping a beat. The cry wasn't a figment of her imagination—it was real. She could hear it clearly now, rising and falling in a haunting melody. It was a sound that struck deep into her chest, a cry of despair and pain. It was the kind of sound that seemed to linger in the air long after it had been made, an echo that wouldn't fade.
The cry came again, this time louder, more insistent. Isabelle felt a shiver crawl down her spine. She had no doubt now—it was Lucie. She was here, somewhere in this desolate place, crying for help. Isabelle quickened her pace, her flashlight darting from one dark corner to another, her mind racing with fear and determination.
The sound led her to the grand hall, the main theater of the opera house. The once-majestic space had long since lost its glamour. The velvet curtains hung in tatters, the stage empty and bare. The seats, once filled with eager spectators, were now covered in dust and cobwebs. The chandelier overhead hung precariously, its crystals shattered and scattered on the floor like forgotten dreams.
And there, in the center of the room, Isabelle heard it again—the sound of Lucie's crying. It was as if the very walls of the opera house were amplifying her sorrow. Isabelle's pulse quickened as she stepped cautiously into the center of the hall, her flashlight swinging around the space. The beam of light danced across the room, casting long shadows on the floor.
"Lucie?" Isabelle's voice was shaky, but she couldn't hold back the desperate plea. "Lucie, where are you?"
The crying stopped, but the silence that followed was even more unsettling. Isabelle's heart raced as she strained to listen, waiting for any sign of Lucie's presence. The room seemed to grow colder, the temperature dropping so suddenly that Isabelle could see her breath fogging in the air.
She stepped forward, her boots making soft, echoing thuds on the worn wooden floor. The air felt thick, oppressive, as if the opera house itself were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
And then, without warning, the lights flickered—once, twice—and the room plunged into darkness.
Isabelle's pulse spiked, her hand instinctively reaching for her gun. But before she could react, a figure appeared in the darkness, moving swiftly across the stage. The shape was vague, shrouded in shadow, but Isabelle knew—knew with every fiber of her being—that it was Lucie.
"Lucie!" Isabelle called again, stepping forward, her voice desperate. "Lucie, where are you? What happened?"
For a moment, there was nothing but the oppressive silence. And then—softly, so faintly that Isabelle almost thought she had imagined it—there was the sound of a voice.
"Isabelle..."
It wasn't Lucie's voice. It was faint, distorted, but unmistakably female. The words were like a whisper from the edge of a dream, coming from somewhere deep within the opera house. And then, just as quickly, the voice was gone. The silence rushed back, thick and suffocating.
Isabelle's breath caught in her throat as the room seemed to shift around her. The walls, the stage, the very air itself—everything felt different. As if the building were alive, pulling her deeper into its labyrinth of shadows.
And then, just as she thought she might lose her mind to the overwhelming isolation, the bell rang.
It was faint, distant, as though it were coming from somewhere far below. But it was there, cutting through the silence like a knife.
But as Isabelle turned to follow the sound, she stopped dead in her tracks. There, standing at the back of the hall, was a figure.
It was Lucie.
Her face was pale, her eyes wide with terror. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Isabelle's heart leapt in her chest as she took a step forward, but before she could say anything, Lucie's form flickered—disappearing into the shadows as if she had never been there.
"Lucie?" Isabelle's voice cracked. "Lucie!"
The lights flickered once more.
Then, in the dark, Isabelle heard it—soft, tremulous, almost imperceptible. A single whisper from Lucie's lips.
"Don't trust him."
And then—silence.
The shadows closed in, and Isabelle was left alone in the darkened opera hall, the bell's final tolling ringing in her ears.
To be continued...