The Cursed Manor

The old Blackwood Manor had stood for centuries, a towering relic of a time long forgotten. Perched on the edge of Ravenshire, it was more than just an abandoned house—it was a warning. The villagers whispered tales of its cursed past, of those who dared enter and never returned. The few who did escape spoke of eerie whispers, moving shadows, and the feeling of unseen eyes watching from the darkness. Yet, despite the warnings, Richard Holloway, an ambitious paranormal investigator, decided to uncover the truth.

Richard arrived at the manor on a stormy evening, the wind howling through the dead trees that surrounded the decaying structure. The air smelled of damp wood and something else—something rotten. As he pushed open the heavy wooden doors, they groaned in protest, revealing a grand yet decayed foyer. Dust coated every surface, and the chandelier above hung crooked, its crystals barely clinging on. He switched on his flashlight, the beam cutting through the suffocating darkness.

He began recording his findings, documenting each eerie artifact scattered throughout the house. A grand piano, untouched but with fresh fingerprints on the keys. A mirror, cracked yet reflecting a shadow that wasn’t his. A portrait of a woman with hollow eyes, her painted lips curled into something that resembled a smirk. Every step he took echoed unnaturally, as if the house itself was breathing with him.

Then came the whispers. At first, they were barely audible, soft murmurs floating through the air like a distant conversation. But as Richard moved deeper into the manor, they grew louder, distinct. “Leave… before it’s too late.” His heart pounded, but he pressed on. He entered what seemed to be the master bedroom, where a large, antique bed stood at the center. The moment he stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind him.

Panic clawed at his throat as he spun around, yanking at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. His flashlight flickered, and for a moment, in the dim light, he saw them. Shadows standing in the corners, their hollow eyes staring at him. He turned back to the bed—and froze. The woman from the portrait was there, sitting upright, her pale hands resting on her lap. But her face… her face was wrong.

Her mouth stretched too wide, revealing rows of jagged, blackened teeth. Her eyes were pits of darkness, pulling him in like a vortex. Richard stumbled back, pressing against the door as the whispers turned into screams. The shadows moved, creeping toward him, their bodies twisting unnaturally. The woman’s mouth opened wider, a horrifying sound escaping her throat—a mix of laughter and agony.

Desperate, Richard grabbed his camera and aimed it at her. The flash went off, momentarily blinding him. When his vision cleared, the woman was gone. The shadows had vanished. The door creaked open on its own. Breathing heavily, Richard sprinted down the hall, his mind screaming at him to get out. But as he reached the staircase, the house trembled. The walls cracked. The whispers turned into wails of anger.

The floor beneath him gave way. Richard plunged into darkness, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. Pain shot through his leg, but he had no time to react. The shadows slithered down the walls, reaching for him with elongated fingers. He crawled, gasping, his hands scraping against something cold—bones. Human remains, scattered around him.

Realization crashed over him. The stories were true. The manor didn’t just claim souls—it devoured them. As he tried to rise, a cold hand clamped over his ankle. The last thing Richard saw was the woman's face, inches from his, her rotten breath filling his lungs.

By morning, Blackwood Manor stood silent once more. The wind carried faint whispers, but Richard was nowhere to be found. His camera lay at the entrance, its last photo capturing nothing but darkness.