The storm had quieted, but its residue lingered in the manor's bones. Rain clung stubbornly to the eaves, dripping rhythmically against the stone terraces, as though the house itself wept for something unseen. Evelyn awoke to that sound, her dreams tangled with images she could not name—shadows reaching through hallways, eyes glinting from doorways, a voice calling her name though no lips had spoken it.
When she rose from bed, the air in her chamber was chill. The fire in the hearth had burned low during the night, leaving only the faintest amber glow, and her breath drifted pale in the gloom. She pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders before crossing to the window.
Mist had risen thick over the grounds, drowning the gardens in a shifting sea of white. The fountain at the courtyard's center loomed half-swallowed, its angelic figure blurred, wings spread like a specter carved of fog. Beyond it, the east wing's windows stared hollow and unlit, as though that part of the house had been abandoned centuries ago.
Evelyn turned away, unsettled.
Downstairs, the manor was strangely hushed. She had expected the bustle of servants, the clang of trays or the muffled exchange of voices. Yet the silence pressed against her ears like the weight of stone. Only the steady tick of a clock somewhere deep in the corridor kept her company.
As she descended the staircase, she glimpsed a figure near the landing below. Adrian.
He stood with his back to her, one hand resting on the carved banister, his head slightly bowed. The morning light, muted by mist, limned his profile in silver. For a moment, she thought he looked less like a man than a statue caught mid-movement, beautiful and austere.
"Good morning," she said softly, not wanting to startle him.
His head lifted, but his eyes did not immediately find hers. When they did, his expression was unreadable, though his lips curved faintly. "You are up early."
"I couldn't sleep. The storm left me restless." She hesitated. "The house is… unusually quiet."
Something flickered across his face—so fleeting she wondered if she had imagined it. "It is always quiet here," he replied, descending the last step to stand before her. "Ravenscroft was not built for noise."
"Or for comfort," Evelyn said before she could stop herself.
A shadow of amusement passed over his features. "Comfort is not the purpose of old houses. They exist to endure."
She wanted to press further, but his gaze—cool, intent—made her throat tighten. Instead, she asked, "What of the east wing? I noticed it seemed… deserted."
His expression shuttered. "It is closed."
"Why?"
"Because some doors are better left locked." He said it so simply, so matter-of-fact, that the words chilled her more than any warning could.
Evelyn swallowed, sensing she would get no more from him. But as he gestured for her to follow into the dining room, her curiosity gnawed at her ribs.
---
The day passed in muted tones. The mist never lifted, clinging stubbornly to the estate, and the servants—when she glimpsed them—moved like phantoms through corridors, eyes cast down, their voices hushed. Evelyn wandered the manor after luncheon, her fingers brushing over cold stone walls, gilded frames, and velvet draperies that seemed heavy with age.
The more she explored, the more she realized how vast Ravenscroft truly was. Corridors branched into other corridors, staircases twisted unexpectedly, doors led to rooms that seemed forgotten. Each discovery filled her with a mix of awe and unease.
It was in the library that she found her first true secret.
The room was cavernous, lined with shelves so tall a ladder was needed to reach their uppermost volumes. Dust floated in the beams of pallid light that filtered through stained-glass windows, tinting the air with muted colors. Evelyn traced the spines of the books, many cracked with age, their titles barely legible.
One shelf drew her eye: a line of journals, bound in dark leather. They were uniform, each marked only with a year embossed faintly in gold. She pulled one free—1841—and opened it. The script inside was neat, precise, but written in a language she did not recognize. Perhaps Latin, or something older. She flipped through the pages, a chill crawling her spine as she realized every entry ended with the same two words: Semper vigilat.
She whispered them aloud. "Always watches…"
A prickle of awareness made her snap the book shut.
Someone was behind her.
She turned sharply, clutching the journal. Adrian stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, though his eyes—storm-gray and piercing—seemed to search her very thoughts.
"You should not be here," he said, his voice low.
Evelyn steadied herself. "It is only the library."
"Even libraries have teeth."
Her grip tightened on the journal. "Do you write these?"
His gaze flicked to the book in her hands. For an instant, his composure faltered. "No. They belonged to those who came before me."
"And who was that?"
He did not answer. Instead, he stepped forward and held out his hand. "Give it to me."
The air seemed to thrum between them. Evelyn hesitated before surrendering the book. His fingers brushed hers as he took it—cool, steady, but a spark shot up her arm all the same. He replaced the volume carefully, his back turned to her.
When he spoke again, his voice was softer. "There are histories in this house that do not bear revisiting. For your own sake, do not seek them."
"But they call to me," she whispered, surprising herself.
His hand stilled on the shelf. Slowly, he turned, his gaze locking with hers. For a heartbeat, she thought she saw something unguarded flicker there—loneliness, perhaps, or sorrow so deep it hollowed him out.
Then it was gone, replaced by the same impassive mask. "Be careful, Evelyn. Curiosity is a blade that cuts both ways."
---
That night, unable to resist, she left her chamber with a candle in hand. The house was even more disquieting in darkness—the wind whispering through unseen cracks, the floors groaning under her steps, the candle's flame bending as if in protest.
Drawn by instinct, she found herself before the locked doors of the east wing. The handles were iron, cold to the touch, and the keyhole gaped like a small black mouth. She leaned closer.
A sound breathed through.
Not the wind, not the settling of stone. It was a voice—low, indistinct, yet unmistakably human. Her name, perhaps, stretched into a whisper: Evelyn…
She staggered back, nearly dropping the candle. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and she fled down the hall, the flame guttering wildly as she ran.
When she reached her chamber again, she pressed her back to the door, heart pounding. She could not deny what she had heard.
The east wing was not empty.