Chapter 191 Strong Georgia

Chapter 191 Strong Georgia
Georgia - 
The house felt quieter than usual when I heard the car pull up to the front of the mansion. For days, the silence had been almost unbearable. There had been only Elena’s soft footfalls and the occasional distant clink of silverware, but now, something had changed. The sound of their return—the crunch of tires against the gravel driveway, the slam of car doors, the bustle of the staff rushing to greet them—ripped through the stillness, reminding me of how different the world was up there, how alive it was. How much I had been forgotten. 
Carlisle and Adeline were back. 
I pressed my ear against the cold stone wall, straining to catch every sound. The vibrations of the house shifted as they entered. The front door opened and closed, the voices, once muffled outside, now clear. The sharp, unmistakable sound of Carlisle’s commanding tone, followed by Adeline’s soft laughter, mingled in the air. 
And then, the silence again—only this time, it was different. This time, it had a weight. They were back. The newlyweds. 
I had been waiting for this moment for what felt like eternity. Not just because it was the inevitable return, but because now, the real game would begin. 
I slid down the wall, hugging my knees to my chest. The damp of the cellar had seeped into my bones by now, a constant companion to my isolation. I had counted the days of their honeymoon with marks scratched into the stone—fourteen days of freedom for them, fourteen days of deeper imprisonment for me. 
“Enjoy it while you can,” I whispered into the darkness. My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, raspy from disuse. “Enjoy your perfect life, your perfect husband. See how long it lasts.” 
The sound of footsteps above grew more distant, moving deeper into the house. I closed my eyes, picturing them walking hand in hand through the marble entrance hall, her eyes wide with renewed wonder at what was now her home. What should have been mine. 
I lay still, listening. The house was no longer empty, no longer quiet in the way I had become accustomed to. There were new sounds, new patterns—Adeline’s soft footsteps, the way her laugh drifted through the halls, the faint rustling of her skirts as she moved. I cataloged everything, every noise, every shift in the air. I had nothing but time now, nothing but the sounds to guide me, the movements above to track like prey. 
Over the next few days, I learned their routines quickly. Adeline’s movements were light, delicate—easy to predict. She wandered from room to room, often lingering in places I knew were once mine. The drawing room, the dining hall—places where they would sit together, where they would laugh, where they would be happy. 
Carlisle, on the other hand, moved like a shadow. His steps purposeful, calculated. He spoke less now, but his presence was always felt. I wondered sometimes if he felt the weight of my eyes on him, even though I was trapped below. I listened for the creaks of his boots as he passed over the floors, the sharp clicks of his fingers when he gave orders. I studied every sound like it was a puzzle, trying to make sense of it, trying to find a way to crack it open, to make them feel me. 
“Morning coffee in the sunroom,” I murmured to myself, marking another invisible note in my mental map. “He leaves for his study at precisely nine. Returns at noon for lunch. She spends the afternoon reading in the library or writing letters in the small parlor.” 
Each detail, each fragment of their daily lives became a weapon in my arsenal, ammunition I was gathering for a war they didn’t yet know they were fighting. 
Bertha would have wept at the routine of it, at the domestic bliss they were crafting above my prison. But Strong Georgia—she saw opportunity in every sound, every pattern. A vulnerability to exploit. A way to make my presence known. 
I knew they had to feel me—there was no way they couldn’t. The house wasn’t big enough for me to stay hidden forever. 
Elena’s visits had become my only tether to the world above. She was the one who still spoke to me, who still looked at me with some degree of pity—or perhaps it was something else. Maybe she feared me. But when she came, she would always tell me what she had seen, what she had heard. And she wasn’t subtle in her words. 
“She’s redecorated, Georgia,” Elena told me one morning, her voice hushed as though the walls could hear. “Everything is new. All the things you left—gone. Every trace of you. Gone.” 
“Like I’d been a stain scrubbed from the floors. But stains leave ghosts. And I was learning to haunt.” 
I almost smiled at that. What did it matter? What did it matter if she had torn down every corner that once felt like mine? What did it matter that she had replaced the things that had once been mine with whatever fresh, new objects suited her? It didn’t change what I had already lost. It didn’t change the fact that I was still here, beneath it all. 
But still, I felt the familiar twinge in my chest—an unnameable ache, something raw. There was a desperation to their actions, wasn’t there? To erase me completely, to make it as though I had never been. 
“Tell me more,” I demanded, sitting up straighter against the wall. “What exactly has she changed?” 
Elena kneeled to place the fresh linens on the floor, her eyes averted. “Your dressing room—it’s been transformed. All new furnishings, new drapes. The color scheme is different too. Lighter. Softer blues and creams where you had those deep burgundies.” 
“And my things?” I asked, though I already knew the answer. 
“Packed away. Or disposed of.” Elena’s voice was flat, as if trying to drain the words of their power to hurt me. “Your clothes, your books, your keepsakes—all gone from sight. She’s had your portrait removed from the gallery.” 
I closed my eyes, imagining it—the systematic erasure of my existence, the removal of every trace that I had ever walked those halls, ever slept in that bed, ever called that place home. 
“She wears your pearls,” Elena added, almost as an afterthought. “The ones he gave you. I’ve seen her with them twice now.” 
“She wears your pearls.” The words hooked under my ribs. Those pearls had once warmed against my pulse, memorized the shape of my collarbones. Now they clung to her throat like a noose. 
That was the one that cut deepest—the image of my pearls around her neck, nestled against her skin. The pearls he had fastened around my own throat with such tenderness, such promises. I touched my bare neck reflexively, feeling the phantom weight of them. 
“And Carlisle?” I asked, masking the tremor in my voice with cold indifference. “How does he seem with his new bride?” 
Elena hesitated, and in that pause, I heard everything I needed to know. 
“Happy,” she said finally. “He seems... at peace.” 
I laughed then, a harsh sound that echoed through my prison. “Peace,” I repeated. “We’ll see how long that lasts.” 
Of course he was. Peace was easy when you buried your sins alive. 
Elena left shortly after, clearly unnerved by the gleam in my eye, the edge in my voice. But I didn’t care. I didn’t need her to understand. I needed her information, the scraps of the world above that she brought me, the details I could weave into my revenge. 
I wondered, as I lay there, if they thought that by removing every trace of me, they could make it disappear. 
But I wouldn’t disappear. I would never disappear. 
My mind began to sharpen. I had begun to map the house in my head—every room, every hallway, every creak of floorboards that echoed from above. The walls were my lifeline now, the only things that connected me to them. I pressed my palms against them, feeling for any vibration, any subtle shift. 
I began to chart their movements. Adeline’s footsteps—predictable, soft. Carlisle’s—harder, heavier. The way they traversed the mansion, the way the sounds changed as they passed certain rooms, the way the silence settled afterward. I drew invisible lines in the air, lines I could trace and follow. I could feel the house in a way that only someone trapped beneath it could. 
At first, I could do nothing with the knowledge. But I kept the pattern in my head, a growing obsession. 
Then, I discovered the pipes. 
It happened by accident. I had been tracing the walls, searching for weaknesses, for some connection to the world above, when my fingers brushed against the cold metal running through the stone. I followed it with my touch, realizing it extended upward, likely connecting to the plumbing above. 
I pressed my ear against it, listening. Nothing at first—then, suddenly, the distant sound of water rushing through. Someone was using the bathroom directly above. 
I smiled in the darkness. A connection. A direct line. 
I began to experiment. I tapped lightly on the pipe, listening to the vibration it created. I scratched my nails against the metal, testing the sound. I learned which pipes ran where, which ones created the loudest echo, which ones connected to which rooms above. 
It took time—hours—days—until I had everything in place, until I understood how the sounds could travel, how to make them loud enough. 
And then one night, it happened. 
I waited until the house had grown quiet, until I knew Adeline would be alone in the bathroom adjacent to the master bedroom. Carlisle would be in his study—he always retreated there after dinner for at least an hour. A creature of habit, my Carlisle. 
I positioned myself by the pipe that I knew ran straight up to the clawfoot tub in their bathroom. Drawing a deep breath, I began to scratch my nails against it, slowly at first, then with increasing pressure. A persistent, unnatural scraping. I added a rhythm to it, intentional and undeniable. This was no accidental sound, no house simply settling. 
My nails split against the metal, leaving rusty smears like old blood. I didn’t stop. Pain was just another language now, one they’d taught me to speak fluently. 
The pipe vibrated. The sound grew stronger, louder. A tapping. A scraping. 
I felt a sick thrill run through me as I heard it begin to rise, the way the sound began to spread, reaching the upper floors, creeping into the rooms above. 
Adeline had to hear it. I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t help it. 
It took a moment. But then, I heard her gasp. Above me, a glass shattered—her hands shaking?—followed by her sharp gasp. Good, I thought. Let her cut herself on me. 
Her footsteps rushed across the floor above. The sound of her calling out to someone—Carlisle. Her voice shaking with confusion, with fear. 
“Hello?” I heard her call, her voice muffled but unmistakable. “Is someone there?” 
My heart thudded in my chest, so loudly I thought the walls might break under the pressure. I didn’t know if it had worked, if she knew it was me. But I didn’t care. 
I had carved my name into their peace. The first of many scars. 
I had made my first mark. 
I had sent my message. 
And I would do it again. And again. Until they could no longer deny my existence. Until they knew I was here, in the shadows, watching. Waiting. 
I pressed my lips close to the pipe and breathed into it, a long, slow exhale that might almost sound like a sigh traveling up through the walls. A ghost’s whisper. 
Above me, I heard Adeline’s quick, panicked footsteps retreating from the bathroom, calling Carlisle’s name with increasing urgency. 
I smiled in the darkness, all teeth and no joy. The expression felt like a wound. 
“Welcome home,” I whispered to the pipes. “You’ll wish you’d stayed gone.” 
This was just the beginning. Now that I had found a way to reach them, to remind them of my presence, the game had truly begun. And I intended to win. 
Strong Georgia was awake now—hungry. And she would not be silenced.