A Love Most Cursed

Black Hollow whispered secrets of the house on the hill, with windows that never knew the light of day, and a thorny garden left to grow wild. Within, Eleanor's fingers danced above the grand piano, playing music only she could hear.

Every evening, when the last light disappeared from the horizon, the air inside the house grew thick, and a shadow spread on the parlor floor. She knew he was back.

"You always come back to me," she whispered, her words tortured with longing and despair.

From the shadows, a figure stepped, his face buried in sorrow. "I never left," he breathed. His voice was the rustle of wind across dry leaves—cold, distant, and yet home.

Many years before, Nathaniel had been flesh and blood, a man of love and poetry, with a smile that could thaw even the coldest winter. He had loved Eleanor as intensely as the sun, but the universe had played a cruel trick.

They had promised to elope and escape the stranglehold of Eleanor's father, Lord Whitmore, who had other plans for her—plans that had to do with money and standing, not love. The night they were supposed to make their escape, Nathaniel had been at the docks with a ring in his pocket and hope in his heart. He never got a glimpse of the dagger.

Eleanor had found his body at dawn, bobbing in the harbor, his blood turning the sea to wine. She had screamed his name until she had no voice left, but death had stolen his voice from him. Grief consumed her and warped her soul into something that was not normal. She was standing in front of a mirror that evening, her hands shaking as she used words that she did not fully understand. She had summoned him back.

And he had answered.

His coming was a plague, a jest of destiny. He could not touch her, could not hold her like he once did. They were doomed forever to this endless craving, tied together in love and sorrow.

"Go with me," he begged, his spectral hand hovering a few inches above her flesh. "Get lost.".

She closed her eyes, feeling the cold breath of the afterlife consume her soul. How often had she wanted to go after him? How many nights had she stood on the cliffs, staring down at the shattered rocks below? But something had always held her back. A glint of fear. A whisper of doubt.

"I cannot," she breathed, tears carving lines on her pale cheeks.

Nathaniel's expression turned black. "You will never be free of me," he vowed. "Not this life. Not the next."

Months went by, and the town continued to gossip about the reclusive woman in the haunted house. The few courageous individuals who ventured near reported hearing music drifting through the corridors—a peculiar melody that sent shivers down their spines.

One evening, when winter was at its chilliest, a suitor had visited the house. Lord Whitmore, determined as ever to marry off his daughter, had sent a young lord, Thomas Greaves, to woo her. He brought roses to hand over to her and a self-assured smile on his lips.

Eleanor hardly noticed him.

Thomas was not discouraged, however, and in time his sweetness broke down her guard. He spoke of love, of second chances, of a life free of sorrow. Slowly, against all reason, Eleanor found herself drawn to him.

Nathaniel knew.

The house grew chill, the walls cried, and the air stank of decay. Eleanor woke to whispers at night, the scrape of nails along her bedroom door. When she finally confronted the mirror, she saw him standing behind her, his blank eyes burning with something that looked like hatred.

"You would forget me?" he spat.

She trembled. "I could never."

"You love another."

"I wish to live."

The anger that had taken him shook the house to its foundations. That evening, Thomas Greaves was found in his carriage, his face set in a look of horror, his body untouched but dead.

Eleanor knew.

She stood at the cliffs, the wind raging around her, Nathaniel's presence choking her like a storm.

"You are mine," he whispered.

She turned to him, her eyes vacant, her heart shattered. "Then take me."

And so she moved forward.

Black Hollow town still whispers of the house on the hill, where the windows never see the sun, and the piano plays itself at dusk.