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 pressed on, determined to uncover the truth. The grand hallway stretched before her, lined with portraits whose eyes seemed to follow her every move.
A sudden chill swept past her. The temperature dropped sharply, her breath visible in the dim light. From the corner of her eye, she saw movement—a fleeting shadow that vanished as soon as she looked directly at it. Heart hammering, Cassandra followed the sound of faint whispers.
“They… are here,” the voices hissed. “You shouldn’t have come.”
The words sent a shiver down her spine. She spun around, but the hallway was empty. The whispers grew louder, circling her, as if invisible entities moved with her. Every door she passed seemed to sigh, groan, or even whisper back. Her flashlight flickered again, plunging her into darkness for a brief, terrifying moment.
She stumbled into the library, a room of dust and cobwebs, lined with towering shelves. On a desk lay an old journal, its cover cracked and worn. Instinctively, she opened it. The pages were filled with frantic handwriting, recounting the life of a man named Edmund Wraithwood, the last known owner of the manor. He had become obsessed with immortality, performing dark rituals in the manor’s basement, seeking to escape death.
As Cassandra read, a low moan echoed from below. The basement—the heart of the manor’s evil. Drawn by a mixture of dread and curiosity, she descended the narrow staircase. The air grew thick with the stench of damp soil and decay. At the bottom, the walls were etched with strange symbols, and the floor was littered with broken mirrors and candle stubs.
Then she saw him. Or rather, something—an outline of a man hovering, distorted, barely human. His eyes glowed a sickly yellow, and his mouth twisted into a grin that made her stomach churn. Edmund Wraithwood—or what he had become—stretched out a hand toward her, beckoning her into the shadows.
“Join us… forever,” the whispers urged, now louder, more insistent.
Cassandra’s instincts screamed at her to run, but her feet felt rooted to the spot. She could hear the walls breathing, the floor shifting beneath her. And then the shadows began to move—slithering across the floor, climbing the walls, surrounding her in a writhing mass of darkness.
Desperate, she grabbed a candle from the floor and lit it. The flickering flame revealed the room’s true horror: the shadows were bodies—figures trapped between life and death, twisted in agony, their hollow eyes fixed on her. They were the lost souls of the manor, condemned by Edmund’s dark rituals.
With a scream, Cassandra turned and ran, the shadows reaching out, clawing at her heels. She stumbled up the stairs, bursting into the library, but the exit was gone. The manor had changed—the doors replaced by solid walls, windows swallowed by darkness. She realized with terror that she had become part of Wraithwood Manor.
Hours—or was it days?—passed in a haze of fear. Cassandra’s flashlight died, leaving her in suffocating blackness. Then, a single whisper, clearer than all the others, spoke directly into her mind:
old
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