The Silent Manor

The storm had rolled in earlier than expected, dark clouds swallowing the evening sun. For Camille Laurent, it was a night she wished she had stayed in her tiny apartment in the city, far away from the rural roads that seemed to twist endlessly through the forest.

Her rusted hatchback sputtered, its engine wheezing like an asthmatic smoker. Camille cursed under her breath as the car lurched to a halt. The storm's first drops spattered her windshield, thunder rumbling in the distance.

To her left, barely visible through the fog, was a winding gravel driveway. At its end stood a silhouette—a towering manor, its gothic turrets clawing at the sky. A faint light glimmered in one of the windows.

"Of course," she muttered, grabbing her umbrella. As much as she dreaded asking strangers for help, the thought of waiting in her dead car while a thunderstorm raged was far worse.

The Manor

The house loomed larger as she approached, its ivy-clad walls exuding an eerie charm. The door, heavy and carved with intricate floral designs, opened just as she raised her hand to knock.

A butler greeted her, his gaunt face pale against the warm glow of the hall’s chandelier. He was dressed impeccably in black and white, but his eyes seemed to bore into her soul.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice low and measured. “You must be seeking shelter from the storm.”

“Uh, yes,” Camille stammered. “My car broke down, and I was hoping—”

“Say no more.” He stepped aside, gesturing her in. “Welcome to Ashenwood Manor.”

The warmth of the interior did little to ease her unease. The hall was adorned with faded portraits whose painted eyes seemed to follow her. A grand staircase curved upward, disappearing into shadow.

“Master Galen will see you shortly,” the butler said, vanishing into another room.

Camille ran her fingers over a nearby table. The thick layer of dust suggested the house wasn’t as lived-in as it appeared. A sense of dread crept into her chest, but she told herself it was just nerves.

A Curious Gathering

As she waited, Camille noticed voices drifting from a nearby parlor. She peeked in to find a group of five people seated around an ornate table.

Their attire was strange, as though they had stepped out of a Victorian drama. A woman in a crimson dress locked eyes with Camille, her expression unreadable.

“Another guest?” she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

Before Camille could respond, the butler returned. “Master Galen will see you now.”

He led her into a study filled with shelves of leather-bound books and a roaring fireplace. Behind a desk sat a man in his sixties, his silver hair slicked back.

“Miss...?”

“Laurent,” she supplied.

“Camille Laurent,” he repeated, steepling his fingers. “Strange that you would arrive tonight, of all nights.”

“Strange?” she asked, frowning.

“We were just about to begin a... ceremony of sorts.”

The cryptic answer made her skin crawl. “I just need to call for a tow. I don’t mean to intrude.”

But Galen only smiled. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Not until the storm passes.”

The Locked Door

As the evening stretched on, Camille grew increasingly uneasy. The guests avoided her, murmuring in corners, casting glances her way. Something about their behavior was off.

Unable to shake the feeling of being watched, she decided to explore. Perhaps she could find a phone—or at least confirm that this wasn’t some bizarre cult gathering.

She wandered the halls, passing locked doors and dusty portraits. At the end of one corridor, she found a door slightly ajar. Inside was a small room dominated by a table, its surface covered with papers.

Among them were letters and maps, but one item stood out: a photograph. It was old, the edges frayed, but Camille recognized the face instantly.

It was her.

Her heart raced as she stared at the image. She didn’t own clothes like the ones she wore in the photograph, yet the resemblance was undeniable.

“What are you doing?”

She spun around to find the woman in crimson standing in the doorway, her face as cold as marble.

“I—” Camille stammered.

“You shouldn’t be here,” the woman hissed.

Before Camille could respond, the woman seized her arm, dragging her back toward the parlor.

The Ritual

The group was gathered now, their faces grim as they turned to her. Galen stood, holding a small, intricate box.

“You were brought here for a reason, Miss Laurent,” he said, opening the box to reveal an ornate key.

“What are you talking about?” Camille demanded.

“The storm, your car, even the photograph—it was all meant to lead you here,” he said. “You are the heir to Ashenwood. The manor’s secrets are your burden now.”

Shadows coiled in the corners, and a chilling whisper filled the air.

“What secrets?” Camille whispered.

Galen stepped closer, pressing the key into her hand. “Ashenwood is alive, Miss Laurent. And it does not forgive abandonment.”

The room seemed to ripple, the walls distorting as a wave of darkness swept through.

Epilogue

When Camille woke, the storm had passed. She was alone in the parlor, the house eerily silent.

The key rested in her palm, and the photograph was gone.

Outside, her car sat in perfect condition, as though it had never broken down.

But as she drove away, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the manor’s secrets weren’t done with her yet.