The Abandoned Manor

I never should have gone back to the manor. It stood as a specter of my youth, a decaying structure perched atop the hill, its gothic spires clawing at the sky. Time had worn its façade, and yet the air around it seemed untouched, as though the world dared not encroach too closely. I hadn’t thought about that place in years, not until the letter arrived—a single sheet of parchment bearing no return address, only the words: “The truth awaits you in the manor.”

Curiosity is a dangerous thing. It drags you into the shadows, into places better left forgotten. The manor, once belonging to my estranged great-uncle, had always been a source of whispered rumors in the town. They spoke of murders, disappearances, and secrets buried in its walls. Children swore they saw lights flickering in its windows at night, though the place had been abandoned for decades. Others claimed the manor was cursed, haunted by things that weren’t meant to be seen.

I arrived at dusk, the sky ablaze in hues of crimson and amber. The air grew colder as I approached, my breath fogging in the encroaching gloom. The iron gate screeched in protest as I pushed it open, its rust flaking off like dry skin. The garden, once meticulously tended, was now a jungle of withered vines and skeletal trees, their twisted branches reaching out like claws.

The door was unlocked, as if it had been expecting me. Inside, the silence was oppressive. My footsteps echoed against the dusty parquet floors, the air thick with the scent of mildew and something metallic—like old blood. The grand chandelier hung above me, its crystals coated in grime, its light long extinguished.

It was then that I saw the first sign of something wrong. A mirror in the hall caught my reflection, but it wasn’t me staring back. The figure wore my face, but its eyes were hollow, black voids that seemed to pull at my soul. I turned away quickly, heart hammering, but I could feel its gaze lingering long after.

The letter had been vague, offering no instructions or clues. Yet, I felt a strange pull, as though the house itself were guiding me. It led me to the library, its shelves sagging under the weight of forgotten tomes. A single book lay open on the desk, its pages blank except for one phrase scrawled in crimson ink: “What was hidden must be revealed.”

The temperature dropped sharply, and the room seemed to darken. A low whisper began to rise, incomprehensible yet insistent. I turned, but no one was there—only the shifting shadows that danced in the corners of my vision. The whispers grew louder, more frantic, until I realized they were coming from behind the bookshelf.

I pushed it aside with trembling hands, revealing a narrow passageway. The air here was suffocating, heavy with the scent of decay. I followed the corridor, its walls damp and pulsing as if alive. At the end, I found a locked door. A key hung nearby, coated in cobwebs and rust.

The room beyond was small, its walls lined with photographs and documents. At the center was a table, and on it lay a journal. I opened it, my hands shaking. The entries spoke of experiments—unholy, abhorrent acts performed in the name of science and greed. My great-uncle had not been a reclusive scholar as we’d been told. He had been a murderer, luring vagrants and travelers to the manor under the guise of charity. He had tortured them, searching for what he called the secret of eternal life.

The final entry sent a chill down my spine: “I’ve done it. The serum works. They speak to me now, guiding me. They cannot die. They cannot leave.”

As I read, the room began to vibrate. The photographs on the walls shifted, their subjects turning to face me. Their hollow eyes burned with an unnatural light, and their mouths stretched into silent screams. The whispers returned, louder this time, a cacophony of voices demanding retribution.

I stumbled back, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The shadows in the room coalesced into a figure—a man in tattered clothing, his face gaunt and pale. It was my great-uncle, or what remained of him. He opened his mouth, but no words came out, only a guttural moan that made my blood run cold.

I ran. The manor seemed to shift around me, its corridors elongating and twisting, trapping me in its labyrinthine embrace. The whispers followed, accusing, condemning. I burst through the front door, collapsing onto the cold earth outside.

When I looked back, the manor stood as it always had—silent, foreboding. But in its windows, I saw them: the faces of the lost, watching, waiting.

I don’t know why I was summoned there or how I managed to escape. But the manor’s secrets cling to me, seeping into my dreams, whispering in the quiet moments. I’ve tried to forget, to convince myself it was all a hallucination brought on by stress and grief.

But some nights, when the wind is just right, I hear them calling my name.