The antique clock in the corner of the room ticked toward 3:02 a.m.
Inside the heart of the towering, ivy-wrapped estate known as Celestara Palace, a pale yellow glow bled through a single crack in the heavy drapes of the study. The rest of the world lay drowned in darkness, and whispering rainclouds gathered in the sky, but the light from that single room burned steady — a flickering flame of obsession, exhaustion, and finality.
Benjamin Gray, celebrated novelist and a man once known for his elegant speeches and velvet voice, now sat hunched over an ancient wooden desk, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered above his typewriter. He wore a black shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the thin scars that lined his forearms — remnants of a car crash that had permanently damaged his left leg.
A thick, round pair of glasses perched at the edge of his nose. His curly hair, now streaked with strands of gray, framed a face aged far beyond its years. A half-burnt cigarette dangled from his lips, the smoke curling upward like ghostly tendrils into the stale air of the study. His left hand gripped a polished cane that leaned against the desk.
Click. Clack. Click.
The last few letters of a sentence appeared on the paper as the carriage of the typewriter shifted with a metallic sigh.
> "William was killed horribly by Isabella… Charlotte, his wife, will definitely find the truth of Isabella and help her to get released from her curse…"
Benjamin exhaled deeply, his hands falling away from the keys like leaves descending in autumn. The cigarette slipped from his lips and landed in an ashtray already overflowing with butts. His eyes lingered on the final line he had just typed — a sentence that would mark the end of his manuscript.
"End of the book," he whispered to no one.
Fatigue clung to his body like wet cloth, but he didn't move from his chair. Not yet.
He leaned back, letting the chair creak under his weight as he stared at the ceiling. Then, as if shaken from a trance, he reached for the old rotary phone resting on the edge of the desk. The black cord tangled like a nest of vines, but he managed to lift the receiver and dial with familiar slowness.
After a few moments of ringing, a groggy voice answered.
"H-Hello…?"
"Jack," Benjamin said, rubbing his eyes. "It's me."
The man on the other end — Jack Morely, his longtime publisher — groaned softly. "Mr. Gray… Sir, it's past 3 a.m. You could've called in the morning."
Benjamin's voice carried a subtle intensity, like a storm waiting to break. "One night can change everything, Jack… You know that."
Jack mumbled something unintelligible, clearly trying to wipe the sleep from his brain. "Right… Okay. You finished it?"
Benjamin nodded to himself, smiling faintly. "Yes. The book is done. Finally."
"That's great, sir, really. But… wow. Are you sure it's done-done? I mean, you've rewritten the ending four times."
"I'm sure," Benjamin said. "This time it feels… finished. The readers are going to love it. They'll beg for the second part before the first one cools on shelves."
Jack chuckled. "Really? That good, huh? So… what's it about?"
Benjamin glanced toward the large mirror on the far wall. For a second, he swore he saw a flicker of something just over his shoulder — something pale and feminine, watching. But when he turned, there was nothing.
He forced his attention back to the conversation.
"It's about a cursed angel," he said simply.
There was a pause on the line.
"A what?"
Benjamin's fingers tapped lightly on the desk, tracing the corners of a folded page. "You know, Jack… we think Earth is all there is. But there are other places. Realms filled with creatures — fairies, angels, and monsters. Isabella is one of them. She came here long ago, fell from grace, and now… she's trapped. Cursed."
"Sounds intense," Jack said. "So how does she get out of it?"
Benjamin chuckled softly. "Now that would be spoiling it, wouldn't it?"
Jack laughed. "Okay, okay. I'll wait for the next book. Good marketing, sir."
Benjamin's voice dropped lower, more contemplative. "She's beautiful, Jack. Hauntingly so. But behind that beauty… there's a monster."
Then Jack asked the one question he shouldn't have.
"Sir… Have you ever seen Isabella?"
The silence stretched.
Then came the answer, slow and calm.
"I haven't seen Isabella," Benjamin whispered, turning slightly in his chair. "But now… she's with me."
The line crackled, and suddenly the call cut out — static flooding the speaker before the line went dead.
Benjamin blinked, pulling the receiver away and frowning at the base unit. "Jack?"
No signal. The phone went completely dark.
He tapped it. Once. Twice. Then sighed.
Standing slowly, he grabbed his cane, steadying himself as he rose from the chair. The movement sent a sharp pain shooting through his left leg — the old injury flaring up. But he ignored it, moving toward the tall window as the temperature dropped without warning.
Outside, clouds churned like ink in water. The wind had turned savage, rattling the windows and howling against the ancient walls of Asterhollow Manor. Books on the shelf trembled. A candle toppled. Pages from the typewriter scattered like frightened birds, dancing across the study floor.
Benjamin cursed under his breath and began gathering the papers, one hand gripping the cane while the other reached for the scattered sheets.
Suddenly — THUMP.
A heavy sound echoed from beneath the desk.
He froze.
The wind moaned louder, sending papers flying again. Then came another sound — more primal, more terrifying.
A dragging noise.
Benjamin straightened. His breath quickened. "Probably the storm…" he whispered, trying to convince himself.
Then — BANG!
The door to the study slammed shut on its own. Benjamin turned sharply, hobbling toward it, reaching for the knob.
Locked.
He twisted, rattled, banged — nothing.
Then came the gust.
A sudden, unnatural wind surged through the room, knocking over the lamp and shattering the inkwell. The cane clattered to the ground as Benjamin stumbled backward.
Something grabbed his leg.
From beneath the desk.
Benjamin screamed and fell, crawling backward across the wooden floor. He reached down, his fingers trembling as they traced the fabric of his pant leg — until he felt it.
A hand.
Cold. Thin. Fingernails long and sharp as glass.
Then — it was gone.
His breath came in shallow gasps. He pushed himself along the floor, desperate to get to the door. He reached for the handle again — still locked.
And then…
Silence.
Utter, complete silence.
The storm stopped. The wind ceased. Every paper that had once flown wildly now lay still.
Benjamin remained frozen, his chest heaving, his eyes wide.
Then — a sound.
Soft. Delicate.
The gentle chime of an anklet.
The unmistakable rhythm of footsteps, slow and deliberate, approaching from behind.
He didn't dare turn.
"W-Who… Who's there?" he whispered.
The voice that replied was smooth, feminine, and chillingly beautiful.
"Isabella," it said. "The last name you'll ever whisper."
The rest happened quickly.
A sharp inhale.
A shadow sweeping across the room.
And blood — thick and warm — painted across the study floor in a violent cascade. The final breath Benjamin drew escaped in a trembling exhale.
His manuscript lay soaked .
The door creaked open slowly.
And the storm outside resumed, as though nothing had ever happened.