Whispers of Hollow Manor
– The Arrival
The storm rolled over the moors like a restless beast, its claws raking lightning across the sky. The carriage wheels groaned as they cut through the wet mud of the winding road, carrying Clara Bennett closer to the place that locals only spoke of in hushed tones — Hollow Manor.
Clara pulled her shawl tighter against the biting wind, her historian's notebook clutched to her chest. She had been hired by the Historical Society of England to document and restore the decaying estate, which had stood abandoned for nearly a century. To her, the project was an exciting challenge — uncovering lost architecture, tracing forgotten lineage, and breathing life into history. But to the villagers in nearby Ravencroft, Hollow Manor was not history. It was a wound that had never healed.
The driver muttered something under his breath as the carriage slowed before the wrought-iron gates. They stood tall, rusted and bent with age, draped in ivy that looked almost like veins in the moonlight.
"Best you stay no longer than you must, miss," he warned, his voice rough with superstition. "That house… it remembers."
Clara offered a polite smile, though a chill crawled down her spine. She stepped out into the drizzle, her boots sinking into the wet earth, and pushed the heavy gates open. They groaned like something waking from a long sleep.
The manor loomed ahead — vast, skeletal, its towers clawing at the stormy sky. Windows stared down like hollow eyes. For a moment, Clara thought she saw a flicker of light in one of them, but when she looked again, it was gone.
Inside, the air smelled of dust, damp stone, and something faintly metallic — like dried blood. Her lantern cast long shadows across cracked walls, faded tapestries, and furniture veiled in sheets. She paused in the grand hall, tracing the carvings along the staircase banister: roses entwined with thorns.
Clara set her notebook on a dusty table and began sketching the hall's design. Her pencil moved quickly, but her thoughts wandered to the stories she had overheard in the village tavern. They said Hollow Manor had belonged to the Blackwood family, who had vanished overnight in 1823. Some claimed they had fled, others swore they had been taken by the Devil himself. But one tale clung stubbornly to her mind — that of the heir, Adrian Blackwood, a man said to have loved too deeply and been cursed for it.
As the storm howled outside, Clara's lantern sputtered. The flame bent as if disturbed by a breath. She turned sharply.
Someone was watching her.
The shadows shifted at the top of the staircase. Clara froze, her heart pounding. She raised her lantern higher, calling out, "Is someone there?"
No answer. Only silence.
She forced a nervous laugh at herself. It's only your imagination, Clara. Old houses always creak.
But as she returned to her sketch, she felt it again — that prickle at the back of her neck, the heavy awareness of eyes upon her. The air grew colder, her breath misting faintly.
Then came the sound — soft, low, like a whisper carried on the wind. Her name.
"Clara…"
The lantern slipped from her hand, clattering against the stone floor. The flame extinguished, plunging her into darkness. She stumbled backward, fumbling for her matches, but before she could strike one, lightning flared through the tall windows — illuminating the figure at the top of the staircase.
A man.
Tall, with dark hair and eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the storm's light. His clothes were strange, not of this century, and his presence was both commanding and sorrowful.
Clara's breath caught in her throat. She knew at once who he must be, though it was impossible.
"Adrian… Blackwood?" she whispered.
The figure did not move, did not speak. And then, just as quickly as the lightning had revealed him, the shadows swallowed him whole.
The manor was silent again, but Clara's heart was not. It thundered, echoing the storm, carrying with it the terrifying certainty that she was not alone in Hollow Manor.