Whispers of Hollow Manor...
The following days in Hollow Manor passed in a strange rhythm, as though the house itself had settled into watching Clara. Each morning she worked diligently — sketching cracked ceilings, photographing rotting staircases, and recording the faint remains of frescoes long faded by time. But as evening fell, she found herself drawn again and again to the east wing, where Adrian Blackwood lingered.
Though Clara had met him only twice, the memory of his presence stayed with her constantly. The depth of his voice, the sadness in his eyes, the way he had stood protectively between her and the shadows — these images repeated in her mind like verses of a haunting poem. She told herself she was only curious. That her historian's instinct pushed her toward his mystery. But her heart knew otherwise.
On the third night, she returned to the ballroom where they had first spoken. Adrian appeared almost at once, as though he had been waiting.
"You came back," he said, his tone unreadable.
Clara steadied her lantern, meeting his gaze. "Of course. I told you, I'm not leaving."
He studied her for a long moment, then gestured toward the far corner of the ballroom. "If you insist on staying, then you must know the truth. Come."
Clara followed him into a narrow passage behind a collapsed archway. Dust choked the air; broken beams jutted from the walls like bones. At the end of the corridor stood a locked iron door, its surface etched with strange symbols.
Adrian placed his hand against it, and the lock groaned, sliding open as if in recognition. Clara's breath caught.
Beyond the door was a library unlike any she had seen. Unlike the decayed shelves of the main hall, these were untouched, preserved as though frozen in time. Candle sconces lit themselves as they entered, casting a golden glow across leather-bound tomes and faded portraits.
Clara traced the spines of books with trembling fingers. "How is this possible? The rest of the manor is falling apart."
Adrian's expression darkened. "This room is bound by the curse, as I am. It preserves what was… and what can never move forward."
Clara turned to him, her voice soft. "Then tell me, Adrian. What bound you here?"
For the first time, he looked away. His jaw tightened, as though the words themselves were chains he feared to touch. But slowly, haltingly, he began.
"My family built Hollow Manor in 1789. My father was a man of wealth and power, but never of kindness. He sought to bind the Blackwood name to eternity. To cheat death itself."
He moved toward one of the portraits — a stern man with cold, calculating eyes. "He turned to forbidden rites, rituals whispered only in shadows. I opposed him. I begged him to stop. But I was young, naïve… and in love."
Adrian's voice faltered, the weight of memory pressing heavily. Clara felt her heart tighten.
"Her name was Eliza. A governess here. Gentle, kind — the only warmth I ever knew within these walls. My father discovered our love and called it a disgrace. To punish us both, he twisted his rituals into something darker. He killed her —" Adrian's voice broke, the anguish raw even after centuries, "— and cursed me. Trapped me between worlds. Neither living nor dead. Forever bound to this house."
Clara's breath shivered in her throat. The grief in his eyes was unbearable to witness. Without thinking, she reached for him. Her fingers passed through the air where his hand hovered — not solid, not flesh, but enough for her skin to feel a faint, icy tingle. A contact not of this world, but real enough to steal her breath.
"I'm so sorry, Adrian," she whispered.
His gaze lifted to hers, heavy with sorrow and something else — something that lingered dangerously close to hope. "No one has spoken my name in tenderness for over a hundred years. You cannot know what that means to me."
Clara swallowed hard, fighting the ache in her chest. "Then let me help you. Maybe the curse can be broken."
Adrian's smile was faint, brittle as glass. "Many have tried. Priests, mystics, scholars… all failed. And every attempt only fed the shadows you saw that night. The house is hungry, Clara. It takes what it desires. That is why I begged you to leave."
But Clara only shook her head. "You don't understand. For the first time since I arrived, this manor feels alive — not because of its ghosts, not because of its horrors… but because of you. I can't walk away, not now."
Silence filled the library. Candlelight flickered across Adrian's face, revealing an expression torn between warning and longing. For centuries, he had carried only grief. And yet, in this woman's defiance, he saw a spark that threatened to awaken something he had buried: the ability to feel again.
"Then," Adrian said at last, his voice low and trembling, "you must know this: if you remain, the house will test you. It will claw at your mind, your soul. It will not rest until it makes you part of its hunger."
Clara held his gaze, unflinching. "Let it try. I've never feared history's shadows — and I won't fear yours."
For the briefest moment, Adrian allowed himself to smile. Not bitter, not broken — but soft. Human.
But before Clara could take another step toward him, a sound cracked through the silence — a woman's laugh, sharp and echoing through the library walls. Adrian stiffened, his face drained of light.
"Eliza," he whispered.
The candles flickered violently. The portraits rattled. And in the corner of the library, a figure began to take shape — the outline of a woman, her form shivering with rage, her eyes glowing with fire.
Clara froze, realization sinking like ice into her veins. Eliza, the lost love of Adrian Blackwood, had not gone to peace. She had become something else — something consumed by the curse.
And she was looking directly at Clara.
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