Toxic Love

It began with a scream—but not the kind you'd run from. It was the kind that pulled you in, like velvet darkness.

They said the Bellamy Manor had been abandoned since the 1800s, after a tragic love story turned sour. Locals avoided the place, claiming the air around it reeked of lavender and decay—too sweet, too wrong.

But for Clara Monroe, a 29-year-old photographer from Seattle with a taste for the eerie and unusual, the manor was a dream. She specialized in shooting forgotten spaces, haunted histories, decaying beauty. And Bellamy Manor was perfect.

She arrived on a rainy October afternoon. The storm clouds curled like fists in the sky, the wind whispering secrets through broken windows. Yet, despite the ruin, the house held a strange elegance—ivy crawling up stone like veins, a grand staircase still intact, and mirrors that hadn’t shattered despite centuries.

As she clicked photos, she felt eyes on her. It wasn’t paranoia. It was... presence.

Then she heard it. A low hum—familiar, mournful.

She turned.

He stood at the end of the hallway.

Dark hair, sunken cheekbones, dressed in antique black. His eyes were colorless—like smoke. And yet, he was beautiful.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. His voice didn’t echo. It bled into the room.

Clara didn’t run. Something in her couldn’t.

"I’m here to capture history," she said.

He smiled, tragic and soft. “Then you’ve already captured me.”

His name was Adrian Bellamy. Or at least, it had been. In life, he was the heir to the estate and the scandal that destroyed it. He fell in love with a woman named Elise, a painter with wild eyes and a darker past. They were passionate, inseparable—until Elise grew obsessed with the idea that Adrian would leave her. She poisoned him with oleander wine, kissed him as he died, then drowned herself in the manor's pond.

They found their bodies entwined in death.

Only, Adrian never truly left.

Clara found herself returning to the manor every evening. The world outside blurred. Time didn’t feel real when she was with him. She knew she was slipping—friends stopped hearing from her, work emails piled up—but she didn’t care.

They talked, laughed, even danced in the rotting ballroom under a chandelier that flickered with ghost light. She felt alive with him. More alive than she ever had among the living.

But something was changing.

Adrian became possessive. Jealous of any mention of her life outside the manor. He whispered of love that never dies. Of souls entwined forever.

One night, she woke up in her apartment with a bruised wrist and no memory of how she got home. Her camera lay on the floor, photos deleted. Only one remained: a shot of Adrian’s face—screaming in silence, eyes wild, mouth open too wide.

Clara should have stayed away.

But love—toxic love—isn't so easy to leave.

Halloween night, she returned to the manor, rain soaking her to the bone. The house welcomed her like a lover with open arms.

In the grand hall, Adrian stood waiting, a black rose in hand.

"You came back," he whispered.

"I had to," she said. "I love you."

He touched her face. Cold. Gentle. Final.

"I can’t be alone anymore, Clara. I won’t."

She felt her limbs go numb.

The wine glass was already in her hand.

Lavender. Oleander. Poison.

He kissed her as the world dimmed.

They found Clara weeks later. No signs of trauma. Just a smile on her face and wilted black roses beside her.

Bellamy Manor remains abandoned.

But if you ever step inside, you might hear soft laughter. Music playing with no source. A woman’s voice, distant yet close, whispering:

"Love me forever... or not at all."