Dorian barely slept.
Feeling himself hoping this is only but a dream.
Yet still the weight of his encounter with Evelyn pressed against his chest like an iron brand. His mind raced to and fro, tangled in the impossible reality of her existence—a woman lost in time, tethered to the house by forces beyond comprehension.
And now, Rosewood Manor watches. It spoke, and It has threatened.
Dorian wasn't one to be frightened easily, but something about this place gnawed at the edges of his sanity. Every creak, every shifting shadow felt deliberate—as if the house was breathing beneath his feet, adjusting to his presence.
Still, he wasn't leaving.
Not yet.
He needed answers.
Morning arrived in muted shades of gray, the sun barely penetrating the thick fog curling around the estate. The damp air clung to the windows, streaking the glass like claw marks.
Dorian dressed quickly, ignoring the lingering sense of unease that chased his every movement. As he stepped into the corridor, his fingers skimmed the wall, feeling the pulse of the house.
Silence.
Then a distant whisper.
He stiffened. The same voice. Faint, fractured, curling through the air like mist.
"Dorian…"
The sound wasn't coming from the hallway.
It came from the east wing.
A part of the house he hadn't explored yet.
The voice called again, softer this time, barely audible.
He swallowed hard.
Then he followed it.
The east wing of Rosewood Manor was different.
The moment Dorian stepped inside, the temperature dropped. The walls loomed taller, the ceiling pressed lower, the air thicker as if time had folded into itself here, pooling like stagnant water.
Dust blanketed the floor in uneven patches, undisturbed save for faint indentations, footsteps, barely there, vanishing before his eyes.
Something lingered here.
The whisper returned. Closer.
"Help me."
Dorian turned sharply, scanning the dim hallway. The doors along the corridor remained shut, their frames lined with faded carvings patterns, they looked almost like seals bindings.
He approached the nearest one, hesitating just long enough for reason to tell him not to do this.
Then he turned the handle.
The door creaked open, revealing a study or what remained of it.
Bookshelves lined the walls, their wooden frames twisted from time and rot. An old desk stood at the center, papers scattered across its surface like discarded memories. The window was shattered, ivy spilling through the cracks like creeping fingers.
But it was the portrait that held him standing still.
Hanging above the fireplace was an oil painting, its surface faded and cracked but the figure was unmistakable.
Evelyn.
Dorian stepped closer, heart hammering. The likeness was uncanny, her dark eyes, her delicate frame, the way her hair cascaded like ink.
But her expression was different.
She wasn't serene, wasn't sorrowful.
She was afraid.
Behind her, barely visible in the painting's background stood the shadow.
An uncertain figure.
Watching.
Waiting.
Dorian inhaled sharply, pulse slamming against his ribs. His fingers brushed against the frame, tracing the edge of the canvas.
And then came the whispers again.
"Find me."
He turned abruptly, scanning the empty room.
No one was there.
Yet the voice had been real.
It was leading him, guiding him deeper.
His gaze shifted back to the desk, to the worn pages littering its surface. He moved toward them, counting his steps as he proceed, scanning the brittle paper for meaning.
One document stood out.
A letter.
His fingers trembled as he lifted it, the ink faded but legible.
Evelyn Hawthorne. 1873.
His breath hitched.
It was hers.
He read the words, the desperation bleeding through each line:
"I do not know how much longer I have before it finds me. Before it takes me the way it took the others. If this letter survives, if anyone finds this, it means I am lost. Trapped. Bound to this place against my will."
"It watches. It waits. It knows I am trying to escape."
"Please, if you find this, do not let the house consume you the way it consumed me. Do not trust the whispers. Do not trust the shadows, when you see it coming your way...run the other way."
"Whatever you do, do not let it know your name."
Dorian's blood ran cold.
The house had already spoken.
And it had called him by his name.