Ethan Ward stood in the tight chamber beneath The Haunted Haven, the rusted bell clapper from the tollkeeper’s tower cold in his hand, its eye symbol glinting faintly in the dim light of his flashlight. The locket pulsed hot against his leg, his parents’ whisper—Ethan, we’re here—a lifeline pulling him closer to the signal’s core. Sophie Bennett gripped her wrench beside him, her flashlight beam steady, her grin fierce but tinged with exhaustion. Lydia Kane hovered ahead, her crimson dress vivid against the stone, her ring glowing softly, while Dr. Nathaniel Pierce adjusted his receiver, its faint beep cutting through the stillness, his cold eyes locked on the widening crack in the wall.

  “Round twelve,” Sophie said, her voice sharp despite the weariness. “Core time, right? Feels like we’re about to punch the Haven in the face.”

  Ethan smirked, pocketing the clapper beside the locket, key, badge, and Patient 0 tag. “Good. It’s been asking for it.” He swept his flashlight across the chamber—slick stone walls, green symbols pulsing faintly—and the hum returned, softer now, a whisper threading through the air, his dad’s voice faint within it. “Lydia, what’s next?”

  “The lost,” she said, her whisper sharp, stepping toward the crack. “The signal’s echoes—those it couldn’t bind. They’re here, guarding the heart.”

  “Echoes?” Ethan asked, the locket flaring. “Not the damned?”

  “No,” Lydia said, her gaze softening. “The damned were trapped—these chose to stay. Your parents’ hope drew them—kept them fighting.”

  Pierce raised his receiver, its beep steadying. “Residual frequencies,” he said, voice low. “The signal’s leftovers—stronger than shadows, weaker than the tollkeeper. They’re the last line.”

  “Then we break through,” Ethan said, the journal under his arm—Hope’s the echo—grounding him. He stepped into the crack, the stone scraping his shoulders, the others following—Sophie with a grunt, Lydia silent, Pierce with a calculated stride.

  The chamber beyond was vast—raw stone arching high, its walls carved with glowing symbols, the air thick with damp and sorrow. At the center loomed a circle of mirrors—cracked, warped, reflecting nothing but darkness—surrounding a rusted pedestal, a faint red glow pulsing from its top. The hum swelled, and whispers erupted—not screams, but voices, layered and pleading, his mom’s clear among them: Ethan, see us.

  “The echoes,” Lydia said, her ring glinting as she stepped aside. “They’re here—bound by hope, not pain.”

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  Before Ethan could respond, the mirrors flared—light spilling out, blinding—and figures emerged—not shadows, but ghosts, solid yet translucent, their faces human, worn, desperate. A man in a tattered coat, a woman clutching a broken doll, a child with hollow eyes—dozens, stepping from the glass, their whispers swelling into a chorus: Free us.

  Sophie raised her wrench, her grin faltering. “Echoes, huh? They don’t look free.”

  “They’re not,” Ethan said, the key glowing in his hand, the locket burning. He stepped forward, and the ghosts turned, their eyes locking on him—pleading, not hostile. “Mom? Dad?”

  The woman with the doll stepped closer, her voice soft, trembling. “They saved us,” she said, her form flickering. “Kept us here—hope against the signal. But it’s fading—we’re fading.”

  Ethan’s chest tightened, the locket flaring—his parents’ photo glowed, their faces vivid, smiling faintly, Lydia’s beside them. “Saved you from what?” he asked, the key pulsing.

  “The Haven,” the man in the coat rasped, his eyes hollow. “It took us—trapped us. John and Mary fought it—gave us this.” He gestured at the mirrors, the red glow pulsing stronger. “But it’s not enough.”

  Pierce’s receiver beeped wildly, and he stepped forward, voice sharp. “The pedestal—it’s a relay. The signal’s last anchor—hope’s holding it, but it’s breaking.”

  “Then we finish it,” Ethan said, lunging for the pedestal. The ghosts parted, their whispers softening, and he slammed the key into a slot at its base, the glow erupting. The hum spiked, a low roar shaking the chamber, and the mirrors trembled, reflecting his parents—not shadows, but them, standing together, his mom’s voice clear: Ethan, let them go.

  “Let who?” he shouted, the key burning, the ghosts shimmering around him.

  “Us,” the child whispered, stepping closer, her hollow eyes sad but calm. “They stayed for us—hope’s the echo. Free it.”

  Ethan’s throat tightened, the locket searing, and he twisted the key harder. The pedestal groaned, the red glow flaring, then fading, and the mirrors shattered—one by one, a high, piercing sound as the ghosts sighed, their forms dissolving into mist. A small object clattered from the pedestal—a rusted locket, twin to his own, etched with an eye, its clasp warm.

  The chamber stilled, the hum gone, the whispers silent. Ethan picked up the second locket, flipping it open—his parents’ photo, younger, smiling, alone. “They’re free,” he said, voice raw, turning to Lydia. “The lost—the echoes?”

  “Gone,” she said, her ring dimming, her gaze soft. “Their hope held them—you broke it. The heart’s open now.”

  Sophie lowered her wrench, her grin returning. “Echoes zero, us one. Nice save, boss.”

  Pierce adjusted his receiver, its screen flat. “The signal’s dead—almost,” he said, voice low. “They’re beyond this—one last step.”

  Ethan nodded, the twin lockets heavy in his hands, his parents’ whisper gone but their presence close. He turned to the wall, the crack widening into a dark passage, a faint light pulsing from within—no scream, just silence, waiting. “Then we take it,” he said, stepping forward. “No more echoes.”

  Sophie hefted her flashlight, her grin fierce. “Round thirteen, heart’s end. Let’s finish the song.”

  Lydia’s ring glowed faintly, Pierce’s shadow steady beside her. Ethan gripped the key, the lockets a dual pulse, and led them into the dark—the Haven’s heart exposed, its last secret calling.