The Harrow Testament
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Part 10: The Door Opens
Fiction Story: Part 10: The Door Opens - They thought it was just a haunted house. But the Harrow House doesn’t feed on fear—it feasts on secret desires. As old wounds surface and forbidden temptations rise, the line between terror and longing dissolves. Fear burns off like fog, replaced by touch, heat, and surrender. The Harrow Testament is a gothic confession of aching bodies, unraveling minds, and pleasures too strong to resist.
Caution: This Fiction Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Horror Mystery Paranormal Ghost Light Bond Polygamy/Polyamory Oriental Female Anal Sex Analingus Double Penetration Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism Leg Fetish Smoking Halloween Slow AI Generated
When Truth is spoken, we sigh. We forgive not, nor absolve. We keep. And we wait for the next Mouth to open.
— Testament of Elias Harrow, 1764
For a moment after Naomi’s sobbed climax, there was silence. The three of them were tangled in sweat and tears, and for a heartbeat the house seemed ... satisfied.
But then the heartbeat returned. Not soft now, nor seductive. Louder. Heavier. Like the throb of a great drum beneath the earth.
The mirrors that had reflected Naomi’s shame now flickered. They no longer showed the three entwined. Instead: Clara’s flushed face, Dylan’s lips pressed to her temple. Another flicker: Jade astride Marcus, eyes wild, sweat slick on her throat. Another: Naomi herself, spread open, moaning. The mirrors became windows, flashing glimpses of every hidden chamber at once.
Naomi shuddered, burying her face in Marcus’s chest. “It’s not finished.”
“No,” Dylan’s voice came from the threshold, low and sure. He was there suddenly, Clara at his side, as though the walls had folded around them and delivered them into the cellar. Clara clutched his arm, eyes too wide, cheeks hot with shame and longing both.
The murals shifted too — once orgiastic scenes now twisted into directions. Painted arms pointed, painted mouths opened in silent cries that became arrows. The walls themselves bent, archways blooming where none had been, staircases collapsing into ramps that slanted inexorably downward, always toward the cellar.
The heartbeat drove them. They tried to resist, each in their way. Marcus braced his shoulders against the door, but shadows curled like ropes, tugging him forward. Jade cursed and spat, dragging her nails against the wall, but the floor tilted her down regardless. Clara clutched Dylan tighter, whispering frantic prayers, but each prayer seemed to echo back in the heartbeat: truth, truth, truth.
And so, willingly or not, the five converged.
The chamber widened as they entered — a central vault they had not seen before, domed high above, its walls painted with the most explicit mural yet. No disguises now. No peeling plaster. Five figures, naked and entwined, their faces eerily like their own. Mirrors ringed the chamber, endless reflections multiplying the image until it was inescapable.
The heartbeat slowed. Waiting.
For a long moment, none of them spoke. Only their ragged breathing filled the space. Naomi sat hunched on the velvet floor, hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes red from crying. She couldn’t lift her gaze from the mural overhead. She wanted to cover her eyes, but the mirrors gave her no escape.
Marcus shifted beside her, fumbling his shirt closed as if modesty could stitch back what had been torn open. “Well,” he rasped, trying for levity. “Guess the house likes a crowd.” His laugh cracked halfway, brittle and hollow.
Jade rolled her eyes, but her voice betrayed her. “Shut up, Marcus.” She pressed her back to the wall, arms folded tight, as if she could make herself small. Her thighs still trembled, the ghost of climax buzzing through her, and she hated that she wanted more.
Clara’s voice broke the silence. “It brought us here on purpose.” Her eyes darted from one mirror to another, each one showing some obscene angle: Naomi’s wet sobs, Jade’s wild hunger, Marcus undone, Dylan and Clara themselves entwined. “It wants something from us.”
Naomi laughed — sharp, almost hysterical. “What more could it want? It’s had everything.” She wiped her eyes with shaking hands. “It’s shown us ... everything.”
Dylan’s reply was quiet, but it carried. “Not everything.”
They all turned to him.
He stood tall, shirt open at the throat, Clara pressed close at his side. His gaze moved over the mirrors and murals, taking in every multiplied reflection. His accent sounded steadier than he felt. “It hasn’t had the truth. Not fully. Not all of it.”
Jade barked a laugh, brittle as glass. “Truth? What do you think we’ve been doing all night, Cross? Playing Scrabble?”
But Dylan only shook his head, grave and certain. “Desire isn’t the same as truth.” His eyes flicked to Clara — soft, then away again, as though afraid the mirrors already knew too much.
The heartbeat deepened, slow and deliberate.
This was the hinge, the click of the lock turning: bodies had spoken, but the house wanted the grammar of plain speech.
Dylan was right. The house wasn’t just showing them their secrets anymore. It was waiting. Demanding.
The silence after Dylan’s words was sharp as a knife. Desire isn’t the same as truth.
Marcus snorted, shaking his head. “That’s rich. We’ve spilled enough ‘truth’ tonight to last a lifetime.” He gestured roughly toward the mirrors, which obediently flickered to show him astride Jade, then kneeling over Naomi as she wept and begged. His face burned crimson. “What else do you want, huh? What’s left?” He threw the question at the walls, at the air itself.
The heartbeat answered: one deep, steady thrum that rattled the mirrors in their frames.
Naomi flinched as though struck. “It’s going to keep us here,” she whispered. Her arms wrapped tight around herself. “It’s never going to let us out.”
“Don’t say that,” Clara hissed, clutching Dylan’s arm. Her lips were pale, her hair plastered damp against her forehead. “Don’t—don’t even think it.”
Jade pushed off the wall, her voice sharp, brittle. “For once, Reed’s not wrong. We’ve given this place everything. Every dirty little thought, every scream, every—” She stopped herself, jaw tightening. “What’s left?”
The murals above shifted, as if to answer. What had been obscene tableaux blurred and reformed: five shadowed figures, hands over their mouths. A chain of silence. The painted eyes stared down at them with terrible intensity.
Dylan’s voice cut through, quieter but certain. “Secrets.”
The word seemed to ripple across the chamber. The mirrors flared white, then darkened to show each of them alone, faces warped with private shame: Marcus grinning too wide, hiding the ache in his chest. Jade staring at herself in a cracked mirror, laughter painted over longing. Naomi curled in bed, biting her knuckles to stop herself from crying out a name. Clara with her hands pressed between her thighs in the dark, whispering Dylan’s name as though in prayer. Dylan himself, gazing at Clara from a distance, lips moving with words he never said aloud.
Marcus swore under his breath, shoving a hand through his hair. “No. No, this is bullshit.” His voice cracked on the last word.
Naomi trembled, tears rising fresh. “It’s not done with us.”
Clara shook her head, voice breaking. “It wants everything. Every part of us.”
You didn’t need a guidebook to read the pattern: the house had moved from spectacle to testimony.
The heartbeat thudded once, then again, reverberating through the stone as though the walls themselves had lungs. The mirrors still glowed with each of their private, shameful visions.
Marcus barked a laugh too loud, too sharp. “Oh, come on. This is a parlor trick. Smoke and mirrors. It’s just ... it’s just showing us shit we already know.” But his voice broke at the edges, and the mirror showed him again: making faces, cracking jokes, while his eyes — his real eyes — looked hollow. He turned away, shoving both hands through his hair. “Fuck this. I’m not—”
Naomi interrupted, her voice ragged. “You think I wanted this?” She jabbed a finger at the mirror, which still showed her alone in her bed, thighs slick, whispering names she never dared say aloud. “You think I wanted any of you to know?” Her chest heaved. “If it knows that, it knows everything.”
Jade’s laugh was a blade, bright and sharp. “So what? We just sit here and confess all our dirty little secrets until it lets us walk out?” She swept her arm at the murals, where the painted mouths were still covered by painted hands. “That’s insane.”
“Not insane,” Dylan said softly. His voice carried anyway. “Necessary.”
Jade wheeled on him, eyes flashing. “And what makes you the expert? You think because you’ve been the brooding gentleman all night that you can just—”
Clara’s hand shot out, grabbing Jade’s wrist. “Stop.” Her voice was shaking, but strong. “He’s right.”
The mirrors turned on Clara then, cruel and unflinching: her body curled under her sheets, whispering Dylan’s name into the dark, her fingers buried between her thighs. Her face flamed. “Oh God.” She buried her face against Dylan’s chest, but the image lingered.
Jade stared at her, mockery rising to her lips — but it faltered. “Well, isn’t that precious,” she muttered instead, biting down hard on the rest.
Marcus swore again, pacing the chamber. “We can’t—this isn’t—” His voice cracked. “What if we tell it everything, and it still doesn’t let us out?”
Naomi’s laugh was bitter, splintered. “Then at least we’ll die with nothing left to hide.”
Silence fell again, broken only by the heartbeat, steady and implacable.
The snare had been there all along: lust was the bait; speech was the price.
The heartbeat thundered so loudly now it felt like the mortar of the cellar might crack. Each pulse rattled their bones. The shadows tightened their grip, no longer playful or merely cruel — but punishing, suffocating.
Naomi broke first.
Her knees struck the stone, the sound echoing like a verdict. Invisible hands wrenched her backward, bowing her like a penitent before the altar of her own deceit. The mirrors above her bloomed with light — not mercy, but memory. Dozens of Naomis shimmered there, each caught in some small betrayal: the flicker of eyes toward Jade’s mouth, the pause at Marcus’s hands, the laughter that lingered too long.
“I spent my life trying to be the strong one. The smart one. In control. I thought if I kept my heart behind glass, no one could break it. That if I labeled every emotion, I’d never drown in one.”
Marcus choked out a sound. “Naomi—”
“Don’t,” she said quickly. “Please. If I stop, I won’t start again.” Her hands were trembling. “Just let me say it.”
“You—God, Marcus—you were everything I wasn’t allowed to need. You were loud and reckless and bleeding at the seams, and I wanted to throw myself into it. I wanted the mess. I wanted the noise. I wanted to feel something so big I couldn’t explain it away. I wanted to break things with you. Break rules. Break silence. Break myself open and not be punished for it.”
Her voice cracked, softer now. “You made chaos feel like truth.”
“And you...” Naomi’s voice shook, as she turned to Jade. “You scared me more than anyone ever has. Not because you were cruel—because you never pretended. You were raw from the start. You didn’t need to control everything—you just burned. You saw straight through me, and I hated you for it—and I wanted you anyway.”
She drew a shuddering breath. “You made want look effortless. You made it feel sacred. I wanted to be pulled into that fire. Not to be destroyed, but to be changed. I wanted to stand inside you until the wind took my name. I wanted to strip everything back until only the wanting was left.”
“I didn’t know,” Jade said hoarsely. “I never knew you saw me like that.”
Naomi’s voice cracked. “This isn’t about sex. Not really. It’s about surrender. About losing the part of me I built to stay safe. I wanted to fall apart and still be wanted.”
Her breath hitched. “You were the only ones I couldn’t master. And I wanted you for that. I wanted to stop thinking. Stop controlling. Just once, I wanted to burn—and call it mine.”
She trembled. “I want both of you—not just here, not just tonight, but in every quiet moment after, when the house is gone and the wanting remains. I want to be known by you. Fully. Even the broken parts. Especially the broken parts.”
The shadows loosened around her, almost reverent. Naomi’s body slumped forward, not crushed but emptied—stripped bare by truth, and still trembling from the cost.
Marcus surged forward against the shadows. “Let me go!” he shouted, and this time, the house seemed to listen.
“Marcus—” Naomi began, but he was already shaking his head, words spilling ragged and raw.
But he cut her off, voice fraying at the edges. “Don’t. Please—don’t make it easy. Let me fuck this up myself. I need to say it before I lose my spine.”
His voice broke, and for once he didn’t laugh it off. “I wanted you both. For so long I’ve wanted you.”
He turned to Jade first. “You hit me that first night—for staring too long—and all I could think was, At least she sees me. You were fire and fury and every instinct I never learned how to follow. I thought wanting you would be the death of me. But what scared me more was what came next: that if I got you, I’d fuck it up.”
Jade’s face was wet with tears. “You should’ve said something.”
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