Tyler pressed his back against the library’s cold wall, the diary clutched to his chest as his thoughts raced. The last vestiges of sunlight filtered through the warped glass, painting skeletal patterns on the floor. His heart thudded, loud enough that he half-expected the spirit itself to hear. It all made sense now: his mother’s haunted eyes, the way his sister’s laughter had faded to silence, his father’s desperate denial. Every footstep, every groan of the settling beams, every flicker of shadow suddenly felt weighted with purpose.
He forced himself to breathe, air shaky and sour in his mouth. The words Isabella had written twisted in his mind: a pact, a hunger, a ritual. The diary hadn’t revealed the precise nature of the bargain—only the terror that followed. Somewhere in these crumbling halls, the answer waited, hidden beneath centuries of sorrow and secrets.
A board creaked overhead. Tyler froze. The silence thickened, pressing in around him. He counted to ten, every number a prayer. The sound didn’t repeat. He risked a glance out the library door and saw only the dim corridor, the wallpaper mottled with age and gloom. But the cold remained, prickling the back of his neck.
He turned back to the diary, searching for clues between the lines. Isabella had mentioned a hidden room, a place she called the heart of the house. Her script grew erratic, looping wildly as she warned against venturing there, yet she hinted it held the key to either salvation or damnation. Tyler’s mind worked feverishly. The map of the manor his father had pored over—were there unused spaces, blocked-off corridors?
A sudden gust rattled the windows, and the air sharpened. Tyler looked up. The shadows in the west wing shifted, pooling at the edge of the corridor like spilled ink. He blinked, and for a heartbeat saw a figure—thin, long-limbed, almost translucent—standing at the threshold. Then it was gone, leaving only the echo of its silent gaze.
He swallowed hard. The entity was aware of him now. Perhaps it always had been. A cold resolve steeled his spine. If his family’s safety depended on breaking this curse, then he would have to risk everything to find the hidden heart of Blackwood Manor.
A muffled scream—his mother’s voice—ripped through the hush, distant and desperate, coming from somewhere deep within the manor. Tyler shot to his feet, pulse thundering. He had no time to hesitate.
He ran from the library, the diary still in hand, heart pounding as he hurtled into the shadowed corridor. The air was thick, each step heavier than the last. The scream faded abruptly, replaced by a suffocating silence. Ahead, the corridor split—left toward the west wing, where the shadows beckoned, or right toward the main staircase and his father’s study.
Before he could choose, the lights flickered and died, plunging him into darkness. The manor seemed to exhale, settling into a deeper, more ancient quiet. Something moved at the end of the corridor—a shape, beckoning, waiting. Tyler stood poised, every muscle taut.
This is it. The manor wants me to choose.