“Whispers of the Forgotten”

The rain pounded relentlessly against the old, cracked windows of Wraithwood Manor, as if the storm itself was warning those who dared enter. The locals whispered tales of the manor—how its previous occupants vanished without a trace, leaving behind only echoes of desperate cries and fleeting shadows. Few dared approach it, yet for Cassandra, a curious journalist chasing the next big story, the manor was irresistible. Cassandra stepped onto the creaking porch, the rotten wood groaning under her weight. The air was thick with dampness, and the scent of decayed wood and mildew clawed at her senses. Her flashlight flickered, casting erratic shadows on the peeling walls. She could feel it—the manor watching her, as though it had a pulse of its own. “Just old stories… just old stories,” she whispered to herself, though her voice trembled. As she entered, the heavy doors slammed shut behind her, the sound echoing like a gunshot through the empty halls. Panic gnawed at her chest, but she ...