The carriage wheels crunched over gravel as Elara leaned toward the fogged window, her breath leaving delicate ghosts on the glass.
Blackthorne Hall rose from the mist like something time had chosen to forget. Its towers loomed against the gray sky, ivy creeping along the stone like veins in ancient skin. There were no torches lit. No inviting warmth glowing from its windows. Only silence. Only shadow.
As the carriage slowed, a servant stepped forward and opened the door without a word. He wore dark livery; his face was pale, drawn tight as if he had forgotten how to smile. When Elara stepped down, her gloved hand brushed his for a moment — he flinched.
Not from her touch, but as if something cold trailed behind her, seeping into his bones.
She turned toward the Duke. Alaric stepped out from the second carriage, his boots heavy on the gravel. He did not glance at her. He did not offer his arm.
Instead, he turned away slowly, as though he carried an invisible corpse upon his shoulders.
The heavy doors groaned open, releasing a stagnant breath of damp stone and old secrets. Inside, the hall stretched vast and dim, lined with portraits of long-dead Blackthornes — men with cold eyes, women with lips pressed so tightly they looked as if they'd never spoken.
A staircase curved upward like a pale spine, its banister gleaming under the flickering candlelight.
The butler emerged from the gloom. "Her Grace's chambers are prepared," he said softly.
Elara looked at Alaric, but he was already moving into the shadows, swallowed by the house. No goodnight. No acknowledgment.
A maid stepped forward, her hands trembling slightly. "This way, Your Grace," she whispered.
They walked through corridor after corridor, each one colder than the last. Some doors stood open, revealing abandoned salons and sitting rooms, while others remained firmly shut — without handles, as if they were never meant to be opened.
Her chamber lay at the far end of the east wing.
The maid lit a few candles. "Someone will bring your dinner shortly," she said, pausing at the door. Then, after a heartbeat too long:
"If you hear… the western door creaking tonight… close your eyes until it stops. This house… carries its voices differently."
Before Elara could respond, the girl bowed and hurried away, the echo of her steps swallowed by the hall.
Alone, Elara took in the room: velvet drapes heavy as funeral shrouds, a carved wooden bed that seemed to watch her, a dressing table crowned by an oval mirror — covered with a black cloth, as if hiding a face that should not be seen.
The room was beautiful the way a tomb can be beautiful — all cold elegance and silenced stories.
On the pillow lay a folded note. There was no name, only five words in slanted ink, a smudged fingerprint of dried blood at the corner:
"Don't open the third door."
She turned slowly.
Three doors.
One to the hallway.
One to the dressing chamber.
And the third… plain, wooden, in the far corner. Closed. Watching.
She approached the mirror, hesitating. In that brief moment before she turned away, she thought she saw — no, felt — the faint shape of a woman's silhouette behind her, vanishing as quickly as it came.
On the vanity, beside a silver brush, lay a brittle page — an old fragment, edges eaten by time:
"The eastern room… where dreams begin to scream."
Elara's breath trembled. She glanced back at the third door.
Then, without removing her gloves or her gown, she blew out the candles and climbed into bed, pulling the covers to her chin.
Outside, the wind howled like a creature searching for its lost name.
Inside, something scratched.
And when she dared to look once more, she thought — for just a heartbeat — that the third door was open… ever so slightly.
"Which door would you dare to open first? Tell me in the comments… and step deeper into Blackthorne's secrets."
***
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See you in the shadows…
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