The night air carried the scent of damp earth and old wood, wrapping itself around Dorian Graves as he stood at the entrance of Rosewood Manor. He had seen pictures, grainy images in old newspaper archives detailing its sordid past, but standing before it now, he realized none of them had truly captured its essence. It was as if the house were breathing, exhaling centuries of secrets into the chilled night.
The wrought-iron gate groaned as he pushed it open, rust flaking beneath his touch. The path ahead was barely visible, suffocated by twisting vines and fallen leaves. The trees lining the estate swayed like silent sentinels, their bare branches stretching toward the gabled roof like skeletal fingers desperate to claw at the house.
A deep unease settled into his bones. It was ridiculous, of course—a house, no matter how old, was just wood and stone. But something lingered here, unseen yet undeniable.
He stepped forward, his boots crunching against the gravel. The manor loomed before him, a ruined beauty, its once-grand façade marred by time. The windows, tall and elegant, were smudged with dust, yet he swore he saw movement behind the glass. His breath hitched. It had to be a trick of the light.
The key felt heavier in his pocket than it should have. He retrieved it, turning it over in his fingers before sliding it into the lock. As he twisted it, the door let out a mournful creak, swinging inward as if welcoming him or devouring him whole.
Inside, the air thickened, weighted with something unseen yet present. Shadows pooled in the corners, shifting subtly, watching. The grand chandelier above, covered in cobwebs, held unlit candles that had long since melted into gnarled remnants of their former selves. The floorboards beneath his feet groaned, as if waking from a long slumber.
Dorian exhaled sharply, shaking off the discomfort clinging to his skin. He had spent his life chasing solitude, running from the noise of the world. This place—this forsaken beauty—was supposed to be his sanctuary, his retreat from the chaos.
But it was not silent.
A soft whisper curled around the edges of his hearing, distant yet distinct. He turned sharply, scanning the empty foyer.
Nothing.
He forced himself forward, dragging his duffel bag behind him. His footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness, swallowed by the cavernous halls. As he passed an old mirror hanging by the stairway, he caught movement from the corner of his eye. He paused, staring into the glass.
His reflection looked back, yet something stood just behind him.
A figure, barely there, its form hazy like a whisper of mist in the dim light.
His pulse slammed against his ribs. He spun around.
Nothing.
The house was watching him.
Somewhere above, floorboards creaked again—deliberate, measured steps.
He swallowed hard, instinct screaming at him to turn back, to leave while he still could. But then… a voice. Soft. Delicate. Achingly familiar.
"You came."