The wind shrieked down the trees as Elena Harper stood before the rusty gates of Rosehill Manor, the rain wetting her coat and saturating her jeans. Big drops ran down her forehead, making it hard to see. She'd not been to the estate since she was eight—and at that time, it hadn't seemed to be watching her.
Now, it did.
The mansion towered like an abandoned specter atop the hillside, its gothic outline cloaked in ivy and mist. Windows—some shattered, others only clouded by grime—glittered weakly in the grey light, reflecting flashes of movement that could have been merely the trees. Cracks spread across the stone face, and the iron fence creaked with each puff of wind. It should have been torn down.
Instead, it belonged to her.
Thanks, Grandma.
The lawyer's words still ringing in her mind, two days new and already dreamlike:
"Your grandmother left you the house, Miss Harper. But she left one condition. No renovations. No removals. Let the house speak to her."
Let the house speak? What did that even mean?
She exhaled into the mist.
This was it. Her grandmother's final gift. Or punishment.
Eleanor Harper's will had been clear:
To Elena, I leave the house. But more importantly, I leave what lies hidden within it. It found me once. It will find you too.
Cryptic. Typical. Her grandmother had always been dramatic.
Eleanor Harper had always been. unorthodox. She'd written letters rather than phoning, and hissed secrets into locked doors. Elena's mother would speak of her very little, only with a shiver and the phrase, "She was always too in love with the past."
And yet here Elena was. That—and an odd, gnawing feeling of duty.
The gates groaned slowly open by themselves, as if the house itself was considering allowing her inside. She reassured herself that it was only the wind.
In the house, Rosehill was a tomb of silence.
Dust covered all surfaces like snow. Time—old paper, stale perfume, and something sinister underneath—filled the air. Chandeliers were low in the high ceilinged hall, their crystals muted by cobwebs. Oil paintings adorned the walls, grim and colorless, their painted eyes accusatory and weighed down. She swore they shifted fractionally when she walked past, their faces changing fractionally when she looked away.
Elena shrugged off the shiver creeping up her back and pushed ahead.
After a hesitant hour of walking around, she had wandered into her grandmother's former bedroom. It was exactly as she had left it: high windows hung with tattered velvet drapes, a carved four-poster bed with a crackly lace cover, and a fireplace long untouched by fire. The wallpaper curled in gracious flakes, and the room retained the faint scent of rosewater and mothballs.
But something else was here now. A tension. A heaviness in the air, as though the room were holding breath.
She started to unpack the little bag she'd brought, placing it on the dresser as though moving into a room she did not quite trust. And then she turned—and stopped.
In the corner, there was an old armoire. Not only old—locked. Bolted shut with heavy, rusty chains wrapped around its handles like manacles. She furrowed her brow. Why would someone lock up a closet?
She knelt down and saw a yellowed paper tag attached to one of the handles, dry as a chip. The ink was worn, but the hand was unmistakably her grandmother's—angular, elegant writing.
Don't open it. Not until she's ready.
A shiver ran through Elena's spine.
She didn't touch it.
Not yet.
She told herself she'd take care of it tomorrow.
That night, she couldn't sleep.
The storm roared back with increased vengeance, battering the windows with sheets of rain and flinging tree branches against the panes in wild clawing. Lightning cut across the room in furious bursts. She shifted in bed, agitated, heart pounding with nervousness.
The armoire towered in the shadows. Still bolted. Still locked.
But the chains were swaying.
No wind. No movement in the room. Just. swinging. Back and forth. Like something inside had shifted.
Elena slowly sat up, her breath misting in the cold air.
She stretched out to grab her phone on the nightstand.
Dead. Of course.
And then she saw it.
On the floor, just a couple of feet from her bed:
wet footprints.
Bare. Human. Fresh.
Leading from the armoire. to where she lay.
Her breath caught. Her mind screamed to run, but her body refused to move.
The silence pressed in around her.
Then she heard it—a whisper. Soft and velvety.
Barely louder than the wind, yet unmistakable.
"You've come home."