The morning after the knock, Evelyn stood barefoot in the overgrown garden behind the manor, coffee in hand, trying to convince herself the events of the night had been nothing but exhaustion and imagination.
She hadn't even gone upstairs to investigate. She'd slept on the parlor sofa, the fire gone to ash by midnight, the bourbon gone with it.
Now, mist coiled around the hedges like fingers. The roses were still alive — unbelievably — despite the house's abandonment. Deep red blooms, some the size of fists, tangled in thorn-covered vines. She crouched beside one, brushing a petal.
The scent was overwhelming.
She stood and turned — and nearly dropped her mug.
A man was standing near the back gate.
He was tall, dark-haired, wearing a black coat and leather gloves despite the humid air. His presence felt entirely out of place, as though she'd conjured him out of some old story.
His eyes met hers.
Grey. Cold. Familiar.
"Can I help you?" she called, straightening her spine.
The man didn't answer at first. His gaze lingered on the house behind her before sliding back to her face.
"You shouldn't be here."
Evelyn blinked. "I own the place."
"That doesn't mean it wants you here."
A chill licked her skin. "Who the hell are you?"
"I live nearby," he said. "I saw the lights last night. No one's lived in Blackthistle Manor in over twenty years."
"Then you must be mistaken," she said, bristling. "Because I do now."
He looked her over slowly, as if measuring her soul. His expression softened by the slightest degree. "You look like her."
"Like who?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he turned and began to walk away, toward the cliffs that dropped into the sea.
"Wait," she called. "What's your name?"
He paused. Glanced back.
"Elias."
And then he was gone — swallowed by the fog.
Inside, Evelyn sat at the dusty writing desk in the study and leafed through the documents the lawyer had given her. There were no contacts. No family leads. No information about the manor's history.
But there were journals. Dozens. Some handwritten by her aunt, others older. Cursive ink bled across yellowed pages. Most were unreadable. One was sealed with wax.
She hesitated. Then broke the seal.
Inside was a single entry.
"If she returns, the house will know. It always remembers. I tried to warn them. Love is not gentle here. It feeds."
Her fingers tightened around the paper.
Outside, a shape passed by the window.
She leapt to her feet, heart pounding — but the glass showed nothing but roses and the restless fog.
That night, she did what she'd sworn she wouldn't: she went upstairs.
The hallway stretched too long. The air smelled like dust and dried flowers.
The door that had been locked the night before now stood slightly ajar.
She pushed it open.
Inside was a bedroom, untouched by time. The bed was neatly made with velvet covers. A silver hairbrush sat atop the vanity. Candles — melted and spent — stood like mourners along the windowsill.
And the mirror.
It loomed across from the bed. Oval, cracked slightly in one corner. As she stepped closer, her reflection shimmered faintly. Her face looked… wrong. Paler. Sadder. Her lips parted.
And then the mirror blinked.
She stumbled back.
The mirror was still.
She spun around and fled the room, slamming the door behind her. It didn't feel like retreat. It felt like escape.
Later, curled again on the parlor couch, she lit the fire and poured another inch of bourbon.
She didn't believe in ghosts. Not really.
But something was wrong here. Something was watching. Listening.
She thought of Elias's words.
"It doesn't mean it wants you here."
She closed her eyes.
Somewhere, deep in the bones of the house, she thought she heard music.
Soft. Classical. A waltz, slow and echoing.
And underneath it — a voice.
Low. Male.
Whispering her name.
"Evelyn…"
[End of Chapter 2]