The night was quiet, too quiet. A cold wind moved through the trees, carrying with it a strange whisper. Elena held her cloak close as she walked across the old stone bridge toward her family's house. The moon hid behind clouds, and the air felt heavy, as if the world was waiting for something to happen.
The manor rose ahead of her, dark and tall. Its towers looked like hands reaching for the sky. People in the nearby village feared this place. They said spirits and shadows lived inside. But for Elena, it was simply home. Still, tonight, it felt different—like the house was watching her.
She pushed open the heavy doors. The smell of dust and candle wax filled the hall. Along the walls hung old portraits of her family, ancestors long gone. Their painted eyes seemed to follow her every step. She stopped at the largest painting: a tall man dressed in black, with sharp features and eyes that looked too real.
Her grandmother had once told her the man was cursed. Some said he was the first of their line, older than the house itself. Elena always thought it was just a story to scare children. But tonight, under the dim light, his eyes seemed to glow red. Her breath caught. She blinked, and they were normal again—just paint on canvas.
"Shadows," she whispered, shaking her head.
She moved toward the library. Books often kept her company when she could not sleep. But before she touched the door, a chill brushed past her. Her lantern flickered, the flame struggling to stay alive.
Then she heard it.
"Elena…"
The voice was deep, soft, and old. It came from everywhere at once—through the walls, the floor, the air. Her name had never sounded so strange, so heavy.
Her heart raced. She gripped the lantern tightly. "Who's there?" she called, her voice trembling.
There was no reply. Only silence. Yet she felt eyes on her, hidden in the dark corners of the hall.
Elena swallowed hard, her skin prickling. Something was awake in the manor tonight—something that had been waiting for her.