Chapter 3: The Echoes of the Past
The morning light was a dim, pale thing, struggling to break through the dense fog that clung to the manor like a shroud. Cassandra stood at the tall windows of her room, staring out at the vast estate that stretched before her, but the landscape was a blur. The fog blurred everything, turning the world outside into an indistinct sea of grey and shadow. For a brief moment, she wondered if this perpetual mist was just a reflection of her mind, as clouded and suffocating as her thoughts had become since her arrival.
The air was thick with a heaviness that she couldn’t quite name, and as the hours passed, the sense of being watched, of being pulled deeper into something unseen, became impossible to ignore. Every room she entered seemed to breathe with a life of its own. The faintest echo of footsteps would brush the corners of her mind, and shadows would stir in the periphery of her vision, only to vanish when she turned to look. At night, the whispering had only grown more persistent.
There was no denying it anymore. This house—Blackthorn Manor—was haunted. It wasn’t just the shadows that loomed over her; it was the very essence of the place itself. And despite the book she had found in the library, despite the creeping unease that gnawed at her, Cassandra had the unnerving sense that there was more to this house, more to her inheritance, than she could ever have imagined.
Her thoughts drifted back to the letter, to Gareth Alden’s cold, impersonal words. “The house has remained unchanged in all these years, and some things within may be unsettling.” That was an understatement. But why had he chosen to send her here? What was it that made her the sole heir to a family whose name had been forgotten by all but a few?
And the whispers. She could still hear them, even now, curling around her like tendrils of smoke, fading and returning. She could not tell if they were real or if her mind was simply playing tricks, but the sensation was too real to ignore. It was as if the house itself were alive, waiting for her to unlock its secrets. To succumb to its madness.
At the base of the stairs, the butler appeared once more, his expression as unreadable as ever.
“Miss Evans,” he said, his voice soft and measured, as if he had not left her room just hours before. “You are invited to join the others in the drawing room. There are matters that must be attended to.”
Cassandra blinked, confused. “Others?” she echoed, glancing at him, searching his face for some hint of emotion, some sign that he was aware of the strange unease that clung to the air. But his gaze remained fixed, distant.
He did not answer directly. Instead, he simply turned and led her down the hall. With each step, the silence deepened, the air growing heavier, as if the walls themselves were pressing in. Cassandra felt a knot tighten in her stomach, but she followed him, unable to do anything else. Something compelled her forward.
They passed the grand staircase, the echo of their footsteps reverberating through the vast hall, before entering a large, dimly lit room. The drawing room, with its high ceilings and dark wood paneling, seemed to stretch endlessly before her. The walls were adorned with faded tapestries, depicting scenes of lives long gone—hunting parties, gatherings, portraits of men and women in their finery, faces frozen in time. Their eyes seemed to follow her as she moved, their gazes piercing, heavy with the weight of history.
A fire burned softly in the hearth, the flickering flames casting long, wavering shadows across the room. But what struck Cassandra most was the people seated around the room—three individuals, dressed in somber black, their faces pale and drawn as though they had been waiting for a long time.
They were the ancestors, she realized, even before her mind could fully comprehend the connection. There were no words spoken as she entered; they simply stared at her, their eyes wide, almost expectant. One of them, an elderly woman with silver hair pulled tight against her skull, was the first to break the silence.
“You have come,” she said, her voice a thin rasp, almost too soft to hear.
Cassandra felt an icy chill creep up her spine. “Who… are you?” she whispered, her voice quivering despite her attempt at composure.
The woman smiled faintly, but there was something unnerving in the gesture, something sharp behind her eyes. “We are the last of the Blackthorn line. The keepers of this house.”
Cassandra swallowed hard, the lump in her throat growing thicker. “What do you want from me?”
“We want nothing,” the woman replied, her voice a whisper. “We have waited, and now you have come. The house calls to you, Miss Evans. It has always called to one of us. To you, it is a new beginning. But to us, it is an end.”
The words sent a shiver through Cassandra, the weight of them hanging in the air like smoke. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice growing steadier despite the fear creeping into her chest.
Another figure, a tall man with dark eyes and a grave expression, stood then, his presence imposing. “The house will never let you leave, Miss Evans. It holds us, just as it will hold you. The past, it never dies. It only waits.”
Cassandra felt her head spin, the room tilting as though she were caught in a whirlpool. “Why? Why am I here?”
The elderly woman’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “The Blackthorn curse. We are its victims. And now, you are its heir.”
The word hit Cassandra like a slap in the face. “A curse?”
“Yes,” the man said, his voice low, almost a growl. “The house was built on the blood of those who came before us. Their secrets, their sins, all trapped within these walls. And now, it is yours to bear.”
The air in the room thickened, as if the very walls were closing in on her, their faces distorting with centuries of sorrow. The whispers began again—faint, indistinct, yet growing louder, like a choir of forgotten voices, all crying out in torment.
Cassandra’s heart raced, her pulse pounding in her ears. She wanted to flee, to escape, but her legs felt rooted to the spot. The house was suffocating her, its grip tightening with every breath she took.
“You must accept it,” the elderly woman whispered. “Or it will consume you.”
Cassandra took a step back, her vision narrowing, her breath shallow and ragged. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to reach toward her, stretching like hands from the past, pulling her into the darkness.
The house had chosen her. And now, there would be no turning back.
