Elena woke before the sun. The world outside her window was still dark, the sky heavy with gray clouds. Her room felt colder than usual, as if the walls had kept the night trapped inside. She had barely slept. Each time she closed her eyes, she heard it again—her name, spoken in that deep, strange voice.
When she finally dressed and made her way downstairs, she felt like a ghost moving through her own home.
The breakfast room smelled of bread and tea. Her grandmother, Lady Isolde, sat at the table in her usual chair. She was a tall, thin woman with silver hair pulled neatly into a bun. Her hands were wrinkled but steady as she stirred her tea with slow, careful movements.
"You look tired, child," her grandmother said without even glancing up.
"I couldn't sleep," Elena replied. She sat down and tried to eat, but her stomach refused food.
Lady Isolde finally looked at her, eyes sharp and searching. "Did the house whisper to you?"
Elena froze. Her spoon clattered against her plate. "What do you mean?"
Her grandmother sipped her tea calmly. "This house has a voice, Elena. Most people cannot hear it. But blood does not lie. Sometimes, it speaks to those who carry the line strongly."
Elena's skin prickled. She wanted to ask more, but something in her grandmother's face warned her not to push. The old woman's lips pressed into a thin line, and she went back to her tea as if the conversation had ended.
The rest of the meal passed in silence.
That afternoon, Elena walked to the library. The large double doors creaked as she pushed them open. Dust floated in the sunlight that fell through tall windows, turning the air into a golden haze. The smell of old paper and leather was strong, comforting in its own way.
She loved this room. It had always been her escape. But today, something pulled her deeper into the rows of shelves. She trailed her fingers across the spines of books until one section caught her eye. A narrow crack ran along the side of the shelf, barely visible unless you stood close.
Her heart quickened. She pressed her hand against it. The wood moved slightly, with a faint click, and part of the shelf slid open. Behind it lay a hidden compartment.
Inside rested a small, leather-bound book. Its cover was dark, cracked with age, and marked with a strange symbol: a circle with a single drop of blood carved at the center.
Elena pulled it out carefully. The leather felt warm against her hands, almost alive. She opened the first page. The writing inside was old, the ink faded but still readable.
"To my blood, to my children, to those who carry my curse—know me, for I am your beginning."
Her breath caught.
The handwriting was elegant but strange, each letter curling like it had been written in a time long past. She turned the pages slowly. There were drawings—moons, stars, crosses, and symbols she didn't recognize. On one page, there was a sketch of a man with piercing eyes and sharp features. He looked almost exactly like the figure in the painting in the hall.
Elena's hands trembled.
And then she heard it again.
"Elena…"
The voice was deeper now, stronger. It seemed to rise from the very pages of the book, curling around her ears like smoke.
She gasped and almost dropped the book. Her lantern flickered though there was no wind.
"Who's there?" she whispered.
No answer came, but she felt something inside her stir. Her heart pounded so hard it hurt. The voice had not come from the air. It had come from inside her blood.
She closed the book quickly and pressed it against her chest. Her skin was cold, yet her body burned from within.
"Elena?"
She jumped, spinning around. It was only Tomas, the stable boy. He stood in the doorway, his dark hair messy, his shirt streaked with hay and dirt. His brown eyes were wide as he looked at her.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
Elena nodded quickly, though her hands were shaking. "I… I'm fine."
His eyes fell to the book clutched against her chest. "What's that?"
"Nothing," she said too quickly. "Just an old book."
Tomas frowned. "It doesn't look like nothing."
She forced a smile. "It's just family history. You wouldn't be interested."
But Tomas didn't look convinced. He had grown up working in the manor, but he was not blind to its secrets. The villagers always whispered about the family. Some said their blood was cursed, that their ancestors were not entirely human.
"Elena," he said softly, "be careful. Some stories are better left unread."
She wanted to laugh, to tell him it was just a silly old book. But the weight in her arms and the echo of the voice inside her made it impossible.
"Thank you, Tomas," she said instead. "I'll be careful."
He hesitated, then nodded and left, his footsteps fading down the hall.
Alone again, Elena returned to the book. She sat at one of the long tables and lit a fresh candle. The flame wavered, casting tall shadows across the shelves.
She opened to another page. This time, the words made her skin crawl:
"Blood remembers what flesh forgets. I walk within you, as I walked in those before. Through your veins, my curse endures."
Elena closed her eyes. The words felt like a hand pressing against her chest. She thought of her grandmother's strange warning at breakfast. Blood does not lie.
"Elena…"
The voice again—this time closer, as if it was whispering directly in her ear. She turned quickly, but no one was there.
The candle flame stretched tall, then bent sharply, as though pushed by unseen breath.
Her fear grew heavy, but so did her curiosity. Who was this ancestor? Was he the man in the portrait? The one her grandmother refused to speak about? And why did the voice call to her and no one else?
That night, Elena placed the book beneath her pillow. She told herself she would not open it again until she was ready. Yet when she finally drifted into uneasy sleep, her dreams were filled with fire, blood, and a man with crimson eyes.
In the dream, he stood at the edge of a dark forest. His cloak flowed like smoke, and his pale face seemed carved from marble. He lifted a hand toward her.
"My blood," he whispered.
Elena's body trembled. She wanted to run, but her feet would not move. The man stepped closer. His eyes glowed red in the darkness.
"You are mine," he said. "You always have been."
She woke with a scream, her sheets damp with sweat. Her heart thundered in her chest. For a moment, she thought she saw him standing in the corner of her room, tall and shadowy. But when she blinked, he was gone.
Only the silence of the night remained—and the faint echo of his voice still ringing in her blood.