Chapter 233: Hoppy’s Silent Revenge on His Father’s New Family.

While the shadows of the drainage tunnel held a cold, silent tragedy, the merchant’s estate remained bathed in the soft, warm glow of Eternal Ember lamps.

Inside the children’s wing, the mother smoothed the silken sheets over Holly and her brother.

"Did Papa’s hand stop hurting?"

Holly asked sleepily, her fingers tightening around the worn plush doll that seemed so out of place in this opulent room. The mother whispered, leaning down to kiss her forehead,

"Yes, darling. Papa was just tired. He’s fine now. You just focus on your dreams. Tomorrow, we might even go to the bakery for those honey tarts you like after you sang at the square."

She tucked the blankets in tight, her movements practiced and gentle, the very picture of maternal devotion. She hummed a soft, sweet lullaby as she backed toward the door, lingering just long enough to see their eyes flutter shut. To anyone watching, she was the heart of a perfect home.

Stepping out, she closed the door with a nearly silent click and made her way to the master bedroom.

The room was dim. Her husband lay on his side, his back to her, his breathing heavy and rhythmic. She moved quietly, shedding her outer robe and sliding into the expensive linens beside him. She reached a hand to rest it lightly on his shoulder as she murmured,

"Poor thing... He’s so exhausted he fell asleep instantly. He’s probably too tired to even think about the day’s sales."

She reached out, her fingers trailing lightly over the fabric of his nightshirt. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

"He really does love his work... what a good father you are."

She leaned over and blew out the small lamp on the nightstand. The room plunged into total darkness.

"Rest, dear. The past is gone. Tomorrow will be even better."

She settled in, her breathing soon evening out as she drifted into a peaceful, guiltless sleep. But beside her, the merchant’s eyes snapped open in the dark.

He didn’t move. He didn’t make a sound. He remained perfectly still, staring at the wall with a hollow, wide eyed gaze. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. Every time he closed his eyes, he didn’t see Holly or his shop—he saw his first daughter... Hoppy.

He wasn’t sleeping. He couldn’t sleep. He lay motionless in his sprawling, expensive bed, listening to the suffocating silence of the manor. He realized then that the darkness outside was nothing compared to the void he had invited into his own chest.

Paralyzed by the weight of his mistakes, he stared into the far corner of the room. Just as his wife finally drifted into a restless slumber, the temperature began to plummet.

A supernatural chill seeped through the floorboards, frosting the edges of the fine silk blankets. It wasn’t the brisk bite of a winter breeze; it was the heavy, bone deep cold of an open grave. The merchant’s breath hitched, his exhales blossoming into a thick, spectral mist.

"It’s... so cold..." he whispered, his teeth beginning to chatter.

The silence of the room shifted, no longer empty, but filled with a presence that felt like the weight of a thousand debts left unpaid. He watched, terrified, as the frost crawled up the walls, tracing jagged patterns in the expensive wallpaper, drawing closer to the bed.

Then, out of the deepest shadow in the corner, something began to manifest.... A figure floated silently from the wall, passing through the solid stone as if it were smoke.

It was small—barely four feet tall. It didn’t make a sound, but the air around it distorted with a sickly, purple glow. The figure flickered instantly from the corner to the foot of his bed.

The merchant’s throat tightened. He wanted to scream, to wake his wife, to leap from the bed—but his muscles refused to obey. He was pinned by a primal, soul crushing terror. The figure was...

"Hoppy?"

Through his blurred vision, he saw her orange hair, now matted and dull like rusted wire. Her skin wasn’t the warm tone of a living child; it was the grey, translucent pallor of the White Spirit, flickering and fading with Fading Form.

Her eyes were no longer the bright, curious ones that used to look at him with such simple love. Now, they were two hollow pits of Spirit Sight, burning through the dark like spectral coals. They didn’t just look at him; they peered through his ribs, seeing every ounce of jagged guilt hidden within his chest.

"Hoppy... m-my daughter."

But the visual horror was only the beginning. The sweet, comforting scent of lavender that usually filled the bedchamber was violently snuffed out. In its place surged the overwhelming, metallic stench of the sewers—a foul mixture of stagnant water and waste.

Then, beneath the grime, came a new smell: the sweet, cloying rot of the Zombie. It was the smell of something that was supposed to be dead, yet was still moving.

The merchant’s lungs burned as the air grew thick and putrid. He was suffocating in the dark, paralyzed by a Lingering Presence that made the very walls of his bedroom feel like they were closing in to crush him.

The figure of Hoppy didn’t just walk; she moved with a jerky, unnatural twitch, her small feet making a wet, squelching sound on the expensive rug. Each step she took toward the bed felt like a hammer blow to his heart.

The man’s eyes streamed with tears of pure, agonizing heartbreak. Seeing her like this... broken, filthy, and dead was a mirror held up to his own soul. He wanted to scream, to beg for a chance to go back to the ruins of Oozewell and pick her up, but his vocal cords were frozen in a silent, jagged sob.

Then, the phantom stopped at the edge of the mattress.

Slowly, her jaw began to unhinge. Her mouth opened wider and wider, far beyond what should be humanly possible, stretching into a black, bottomless abyss.

From the depths of that dark, gaping maw, her voice emerged—no longer a whisper, but a hollow, distorted echo that vibrated in his very bones.

"Father..."

The word was wet and heavy.

"Why did you send me away?"

The merchant’s heart seized, his screams trapped behind a throat frozen shut by the supernatural chill.