The cold wind howled through the treetops as if whispering secrets long forgotten. It was the kind of evening that made even brave hearts uneasy. A pale moon hung low over Hollow Pines, casting silvery shadows over the broken fences and creaking trees. Ivy grew wild over the crumbling stone gate, and the tall grass seemed to recoil from the old mansion that loomed beyond.
Lena Hart stood before the wrought iron gate, her suitcase in one hand and a key in the other. She had inherited the house from a grandmother she never knew—a woman her mother never spoke of. The letter from the lawyer arrived weeks ago, formal and cold: You are the sole beneficiary of Eleanor Whitmore's estate, located at 13 Hollow Pines Road.
Lena wasn't sure what she expected—perhaps a modern cottage in a forgotten countryside. But this... this was a gothic fortress straight out of a nightmare or a Victorian novel.
She pushed open the gate. It groaned in protest, as if warning her to turn back. But Lena was stubborn. She had no money, no job, and no home in the city anymore. This house, no matter how creepy, was her only option.
The gravel path was uneven, and the weight of her suitcase slowed her pace. With every step, she felt a growing tension in her chest. Not fear exactly—more like a presence. Watching. Waiting.
The front door was massive and carved with floral patterns that had faded over time. Lena inserted the antique key and twisted. The lock clicked. The door opened.
Inside, dust hung in the air like suspended time. The grand staircase curved upward like a serpent, and faded portraits lined the walls, their painted eyes following her silently. Furniture draped in white sheets gave the illusion of ghosts frozen mid-movement.
She stepped into the parlor. The fireplace was stone-cold, but an old oil lamp on the table flickered to life as if welcoming her. Startled, she approached it. No breeze, no flint, no match in sight.
Suddenly, a whisper.
"Welcome..."
Lena froze.
"Who's there?" she called, her voice shaky but firm.
No reply.
She spun around. No one. Just the sound of the wind outside and the creaking of the old house settling.
She shook it off. "You're tired, that's all," she muttered. "Just nerves."
Lena climbed the stairs to the second floor. The room at the end of the hallway had her name on it—literally. A brass plaque on the door read L. Hart.
She blinked. Was it coincidence? Or had someone been expecting her?
Inside was a well-kept bedroom, unlike the rest of the dusty house. Clean linens on the bed. A vase of fresh lilies—though how they hadn't wilted was a mystery. Everything in this room whispered safety, calm... and yet, Lena couldn't shake the feeling that she was not alone.
That night, sleep did not come easily. The mattress was comfortable, but every creak and moan of the house kept her on edge.
At midnight, the temperature dropped sharply.
Her eyes flew open.
A figure stood at the foot of her bed.
Not a shadow, not a hallucination—a man. Pale, tall, dressed in old-fashioned clothes, and glowing faintly in the moonlight.
She gasped. "Who... what...?"
He said nothing. Just watched her. There was sadness in his eyes, longing.
Then, slowly, he faded.
Gone.
Lena sat upright, heart pounding. She wasn't dreaming. She wasn't crazy.
There was a ghost in her house.
And he had been watching her with a kind of tenderness no living man had ever shown her.