The Haunting of Blackwood Manor

**The Haunting of Blackwood Manor**

Blackwood Manor had stood abandoned for decades, a looming shadow against the moonlit sky. Local legends spoke of its dark past, a history marred by tragedy and unspeakable horrors. Those who dared to step inside never returned, or if they did, they were never the same.

James Carter, a seasoned journalist, had always dismissed such tales as mere superstition. Determined to uncover the truth, he decided to spend a night in the manor, documenting every detail. Armed with a flashlight, a camera, and a notebook, he pushed open the heavy oak doors, which creaked in protest as if warning him to turn back.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and decay. The grand chandelier hung precariously, its crystals dulled with age. The wooden floor groaned under his footsteps, and the shadows seemed to stretch and twist in unnatural ways. James felt a chill creep up his spine, but he shook it off and pressed forward.

He set up his recording equipment in the main hall, whispering notes into his microphone. "The house appears structurally sound, albeit severely neglected. I feel... watched. But it’s probably just my mind playing tricks on me."

As he explored deeper, he found old portraits lining the walls, their eyes seemingly following his every move. One in particular caught his attention—a woman with hollow eyes and a sinister smile. The nameplate read "Eleanor Blackwood." According to town records, she had been the last resident of the manor before vanishing without a trace.

A sudden bang echoed through the hallway. James whipped around, his flashlight flickering. "Hello?" he called out, his voice betraying his fear. Silence answered him, but the oppressive air grew heavier.

Summoning his courage, he ascended the grand staircase, the ornate railing covered in cobwebs. He reached the master bedroom, its door slightly ajar. Pushing it open, he gasped. A dusty four-poster bed stood in the center, its sheets strangely unwrinkled, as if someone had just risen from it.

Then, the whispering began. Soft, unintelligible murmurs surrounded him. He spun in circles, his flashlight darting across the room. "Who's there?" he demanded.

The temperature plummeted. His breath came out in visible puffs, and suddenly, the mirror on the dresser fogged up. Slowly, letters began to form on the glass: **GET OUT.**

James stumbled back, heart pounding. His instincts screamed at him to run, but a force held him in place. The door slammed shut, and the whispering escalated into tortured screams. He covered his ears, his mind reeling.

Then, the laughter started. A cold, hollow chuckle that sent ice through his veins. The portrait of Eleanor Blackwood glowed faintly, her sinister smile widening.

With a surge of adrenaline, James lunged for the door, struggling against an unseen force. Finally, it gave way, sending him sprawling into the hallway. He didn’t look back. Racing down the stairs, he burst through the front doors and into the night, gasping for breath.

The next morning, he returned with the local authorities, determined to prove what he had witnessed. But when they entered the manor, everything was different. The dust was undisturbed, the portraits were missing, and the master bedroom was completely empty.

The only thing left behind was his notebook, lying open on the ground with a single message scrawled across the page: **"You should have listened."**