Chapter one
The soft thud of your boots on the brittle marble echoes throughout the empty space, unsettling in its clarity. Every step you take seems to awaken the ghosts of the past that linger in the air like dust. The mansion is silent except for the occasional rustle of ancient papers and the distant creaks of rotting wood. The soft, sickly glow from the dark window guides your every movement, urging you deeper into the forgotten halls of this once-grand manor. The atmosphere hangs thick with memories that refuse to die, stories that remain untold, whispering through the cracks in the walls and the long-forgotten remnants of furniture.
As you pass another room, the faintest touch of sound echoes—something subtle, like the fluttering of wings. But there is no bird here, no living creature, just the dust and decay that have overtaken this place. You stop and listen, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. Nothing. The air is thick with a heavy silence, only disturbed by your own breathing and the whisper of fabric brushing against your skin.
The light continues to dance across the walls, its movement mesmerizing yet eerie. It flickers like a candle struggling to stay lit in a storm, casting long, distorted shadows that crawl across the rotting floorboards and forgotten relics. The farther you go, the stronger the pull becomes, urging you to follow it, to understand its story. But there is something unsettling in its beckoning, something that tells you this place is not meant to be explored.
The staircase looms ahead, its once-graceful curves now jagged and uneven. The banister still clings to its broken form, specks of faded gold hanging onto the peeling wood like ghosts of a past opulence. You wince at the sharp sting in your hand, the blood trickling down your fingers, as if the mansion itself had marked you. But the pull of the staircase is too strong to resist. Without thinking, you wipe the blood on your sleeve and step forward, climbing the broken steps with caution, your feet causing another series of creaks that seem far too loud in this empty space.
With each step, you're filled with a strange sense of nostalgia, though you've never set foot in this place before. It's as if the walls themselves are familiar, as though you've been here before in another life, in another time. The house breathes with you, its ancient timber groaning under your weight. And yet, it seems to reach out to you, to invite you deeper into its mysteries, into its forgotten heart.
At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretches before you, dark and narrow, bathed in the faint, flickering light. There are more doors here, many of them broken or hanging from their hinges, offering glimpses of rooms consumed by time. As you pass one of the doorways, you notice something strange. A reflection in the shattered mirror on the wall—a fleeting glimpse of a figure, barely visible, dressed in tattered finery, standing just beyond the edge of your vision. You stop, your breath catching in your throat, but when you turn, there's nothing there. Just the empty, decaying hallway.
You continue walking, trying to shake the unease that settles into your bones. But the mansion seems to grow alive in your presence, the floors creaking under your weight, the shadows deepening around you as though the very walls are watching, waiting for you to uncover their long-buried secrets.
The light continues to beckon, leading you to the end of the hall where a door stands ajar. A faint sound, like a whisper, drifts through the crack. You hesitate, your hand reaching for the doorknob. It feels cold beneath your fingers, the metal slick with age and dampness. With a slow push, the door creaks open, revealing a room bathed in an otherworldly glow.
Inside, the walls are covered in peeling wallpaper, their faded patterns barely recognizable. The floor is littered with shards of broken glass, and a heavy, old-fashioned chandelier hangs from the ceiling, its crystals caked in dust. Yet, it is the figure standing in the center of the room that draws your attention.
A woman, her figure hazy, like a memory fading in the light of day, stands at the far end. Her back is turned to you, but you can feel the weight of her gaze on the back of your neck. She wears an elaborate gown, though it too has fallen victim to time—its fabric tattered and frayed, its colors dulled to an indistinguishable gray. Her long, dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and she seems to shimmer in the faint glow that fills the room.
Her presence is unsettling, but at the same time, there's something soothing about it, something familiar. As you step forward, she turns to face you, her eyes a haunting, empty void. For a moment, there is no sound, no movement. Then, with a voice as fragile as the wind, she speaks.
"Why have you come?" Her words float through the air, soft but piercing, as if carried on a current that exists only within the walls of the manor.
You open your mouth to speak, but no words come. The mystery of the place, the haunting sensation of déjà vu, fills your thoughts. The woman tilts her head slightly, watching you with an unreadable expression. She steps closer, and you notice that the air around her seems to shimmer, as though the very fabric of reality is bending to her presence.
She raises a hand, her fingers brushing the surface of a nearby table, and the dust falls away like snowflakes caught in a breeze. Beneath it lies an old, ornate box, its surface covered in intricate carvings that seem to move and shift as you stare at them.
"This," she says, her voice almost a whisper now, "is what you've been searching for."
Her eyes meet yours, and in them, you see a reflection of something long buried—a secret, a story forgotten by time. You take a step forward, drawn by the mysterious pull of the box. But just as your hand is about to touch it, the room grows cold, the light flickering wildly, and the walls begin to groan under the pressure of something ancient awakening.
The woman smiles—a slow, sad smile—and then, as quickly as she appeared, she vanishes into the shadows, leaving you alone with the box.
For a moment, everything is still, the only sound the faint rustle of paper in the wind. The mansion waits, as if holding its breath, and you feel the weight of its forgotten past pressing down on you.
You reach for the box, and as your fingers brush its surface, a sudden, sharp pain shoots through your hand. You pull back, and the room seems to shift around you, the very air thickening, closing in. The mansion is alive, and it's watching you.