Chapter One: The Arrival
The town of Ravenshade had always been a place of whispers. Hidden deep within the dense woodlands of northern England, it was a town that most had long forgotten. The kind of place where even the wind seemed to carry secrets, rustling through the trees as though murmuring words to those who were willing to listen. To anyone who had heard of it, Ravenshade was a relic—a forgotten speck of humanity buried under centuries of decay. The sort of place that lured only those who were too curious, too eager to unearth that which should remain untouched.
And then, there was Evelyn.
She had never intended to come to Ravenshade, not at first. But, much like the town itself, it had a way of finding people, drawing them in like a spider’s web. Evelyn, a writer of some modest success, had come in search of inspiration for her next novel. The world was too noisy, too chaotic for her to think clearly. She needed something quiet, a retreat from the distractions of the modern world—a place to reconnect with her thoughts, to delve into the darker corners of her mind.
Ravenshade promised just that.
It was an old manor she had found, nestled at the town’s edge, bordering the woods. The innkeeper had said it was called Ashford House, an ancient structure with walls thick enough to block out the noise of the outside world. He had warned her about the house’s history, its reputation of being haunted by the ghosts of long-dead ancestors. But Evelyn, ever the skeptic, had dismissed the notion as nothing more than small-town folklore.
“You’ll find it quiet,” the innkeeper had assured her, his eyes lingering a little too long on her. “But it’s not a place for everyone.”
She had smiled politely and nodded, thinking him little more than a superstitious man clinging to old stories. But as the carriage made its way through the winding path, with the sun sinking lower in the sky, Evelyn couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of unease.
The manor loomed ahead, rising from the ground like some forgotten monument to a bygone era. Its stone walls, once a brilliant shade of white, were now darkened with age and neglect. Ivy clung to the sides of the house, weaving through the windows as though trying to hold the structure together. A broken iron gate creaked in the wind, barely hanging on its hinges, and the surrounding grounds seemed to have been left to their own devices—wild, untamed, and overgrown.
Evelyn took a deep breath, trying to shake off the disquiet crawling at the back of her mind. She had come for solitude, not superstition. She would make it work.
The door was heavy, the wood groaning under her touch as she pushed it open. Inside, the house was still and silent, save for the faint rustle of the wind outside. The air smelled faintly of mildew, the scent of dust and old books hanging in the corners of the grand hall. A massive staircase spiraled upward, its banister worn from years of use, but still sturdy enough to hold a body. The floor beneath her feet creaked with each step, as though protesting her arrival.
She made her way to the sitting room, where a fire already crackled in the hearth. The warmth was a relief, but the flickering flames seemed to dance too eagerly, casting shadows that shifted unnaturally against the walls. A large, leather-bound book sat on the table by the window, its cover embossed with strange symbols Evelyn did not recognize.
She reached for it, brushing her fingers against the worn edges of the cover. There was something ancient about the book—something that stirred a flicker of unease in her chest. She hesitated but then opened it, her eyes scanning the pages of handwritten text. The language was unfamiliar, a strange mix of archaic dialects, but there was one word that seemed to jump out at her—repeated several times throughout the book.
“Hollow.”
Her fingers stilled on the page, a chill creeping up her spine. Hollow. It was the name of the forest surrounding Ravenshade, the thick woods that stretched for miles in every direction. But what did it have to do with this book? She furrowed her brow, her curiosity piqued.
She closed the book, pushing it back onto the table. But before she could rise, the wind outside began to howl, rattling the windows. The fire flickered, casting odd shapes on the walls, and Evelyn’s breath hitched as she heard something else—a sound, faint but unmistakable, like the soft whisper of a voice.
It was coming from upstairs.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she stood up, listening. There was nothing for a moment, only the sound of the wind. But then, faintly, a whisper again—soft and indistinct, like the sound of someone speaking just beyond the threshold of hearing.
Against her better judgment, Evelyn felt herself moving toward the stairs. She tried to shake off the feeling that had settled in her gut, but it was no use. Her steps were slow at first, hesitant, as if the house itself were drawing her in, unwilling to let her turn back.
The stairs creaked beneath her feet as she ascended, the air growing colder with each step. The second floor was dark, save for the dim light seeping through a few cracks in the old shutters. She moved down the hallway, toward a door at the far end.
As her hand reached for the handle, she felt it again—the whisper, this time clearer, closer, and unmistakably… urgent.
“Help me.”
The voice was soft but insistent. It sent a shiver down Evelyn’s spine, her breath catching in her throat. She opened the door slowly, her pulse quickening. The room inside was vast, its walls lined with old paintings, their eyes seeming to follow her every move. But it was the center of the room that caught her attention.
A large, ornate mirror stood against the far wall, its glass darkened with age. The reflection it offered was strange—distorted, as though it did not belong to the room. There was a figure standing before it, a woman draped in tattered clothing, her face obscured by shadow.
Evelyn stepped closer, heart racing. The woman in the mirror raised her head slowly, her eyes hollow and unblinking. The figure mouthed something, but Evelyn couldn’t hear it over the pounding of her own heartbeat.
Before she could react, the voice from the mirror whispered again—this time, directly into her ear.“Get out.”
