The days that followed were surreal in their calm. The creature had not returned, nor had I caught any sign of Anthony himself. The grand halls, once echoing with terror and whispers, were silent but for the soft shuffle of servants going about their duties. It was almost as though the horrors of that night—the monstrous form that had attacked Elara, the desperate cries, the blood-stained floorboards—had never occurred at all.
The manor's rhythm settled back into its accustomed pace. Servants moved gracefully, heads bowed, voices quiet. Their eyes occasionally flicked in my direction, polite and reserved, but never inquisitive. Their silence carried the weight of long-practiced discretion; none dared to question what they had seen or heard. Perhaps they had all learned that the master's ways were not to be questioned. Perhaps they knew the night's events had been the product of the curse, something beyond even their understanding.
And I had no news of Elara. No word, no sign. Had she escaped? Had she survived the creature's assault? I tried not to dwell on it, not to imagine her fate. The thought was unbearable. My mind reached for scraps of hope: perhaps she had fled through the broken window I had glimpsed, perhaps she had vanished into the night, free. Perhaps…
I convinced myself that I had defeated the beast. That creature that had struck terror into the hearts of the brides before me—the one that had loomed over Elara and lunged at me in the hall—was gone. Perhaps it had perished. Perhaps Anthony had been taken away by the curse itself, forever trapped in some other form. Perhaps… perhaps I was finally free.
Yet even in this quiet, the knowledge of what had happened haunted me. I could not go back to my family. My father, mother, and relatives had sold me as if I were a possession, a commodity, without thought for my life or my freedom. There was no return. The thought of their judgment, their scorn, their laughter at my misfortune made my skin crawl.
But here… in Thorn Manor… Anthony was gone. I was alive. The servants obeyed, the halls stretched endlessly before me, filled with treasures, books, and secrets that whispered of luxury and power. I had survived the curse. The creature was defeated—or so I believed.
And so, a wicked, almost gleeful thought took root in my mind. If Anthony was truly gone, then I was free to claim the manor as my own. I could live here, as the widow of the master, inhabiting rooms that had once been forbidden to me, enjoying the opulence, the warmth of the hearth, the wealth, the hidden pleasures. I could finally be free of the cruelty and betrayal of my family. A perfect plan.
Days passed, and the new routine of life in the manor became familiar. I discovered the small joys of exploration—hidden alcoves behind tapestries, spiral staircases that led to forgotten rooms, windows that framed the moon and stars perfectly. I indulged in books, lingering over passages by the fireplace late into the night. I dressed in gowns I had never imagined wearing, marveling at the silk sliding across my skin. I even allowed myself moments of laughter when a servant made a tiny error, reminding me that life, even in a house born of horror, could hold fleeting pleasures.
The mansion was quiet, obediently so. The absence of Anthony, or the creature, lent me a sense of safety, almost a false security. My pulse slowed, my heart lightened, and I allowed myself to believe that this was my home now—my sanctuary. My days were spent wandering the halls, reading, planning small meals, and finding pleasure in the warmth of the fire. Even the shadows no longer seemed hostile; they were just shadows, cast by flickering flames.
I had grown used to it. I had adapted to the rhythms of the manor, to the quiet of the servants, to the cold elegance of every room. Each day passed uneventfully, the horrors of the past fading like distant memories. I told myself I had survived. I told myself I was safe.
And yet… there was always the lingering doubt.
I had no word from Elara. No one could confirm her fate. The thought of her, her terrified eyes, haunted me during the quiet moments. Had she escaped? Was she hiding somewhere in the manor? Or had she succumbed to the curse like the others? I pushed the questions away, focusing instead on my own survival. If I was to live, I needed to focus on myself, to understand the house, and to plan for my safety.
Night after night, I found comfort in the library, curled up on the couch by the fireplace, a book in hand and the fire's warmth spreading through my limbs. I allowed myself the illusion of peace, the sense of control over my own life. The wind whispered outside, rattling the windows, and I turned pages, absorbed in stories that felt safer than my own reality.
And then, the voice came.
Soft, deep, and familiar.
"You live well in my manor."