The wind howled as Evelyn approached Blackwood Manor, its towering silhouette looming against the night sky like a dark sentinel. The year was 1934, and Evelyn, desperate for work, had accepted the position of housekeeper at the notorious estate. She’d heard whispers in the nearby village—rumors of disappearances, of a presence that lingered in the shadows. But she needed the money, and what harm could an old house truly do?
The manor was a sprawling relic of another era, its once-grand facade now weathered and cracked. The ivy that clung to its walls seemed to writhe in the wind, as though trying to claw its way inside. The front door creaked open with a sound like a dying breath, and Evelyn stepped inside.
She was greeted by Mr. Havers, the butler, whose gaunt face and hollow eyes matched the manor’s decaying grandeur. He guided her through the dimly lit corridors, the flickering candles casting grotesque shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of dust and decay, and Evelyn shivered despite herself.
“There are rules, Miss Evelyn,” Mr. Havers murmured, his voice barely audible over the creaking floorboards. “You are to keep to your duties, avoid the east wing, and never, under any circumstances, enter the attic.”
The warning hung in the air like a death sentence. Evelyn nodded, her curiosity piqued but her instincts screaming at her to heed his words. Something about the way he spoke of the attic sent a chill down her spine, but she pushed the thought aside.
Her days at the manor were uneventful, filled with the mundane tasks of cleaning and dusting, but the nights were another matter. As soon as darkness fell, the manor seemed to come alive. The walls groaned, and the floorboards creaked under the weight of unseen feet. Whispers echoed through the halls, just out of earshot, their origins impossible to trace.
Evelyn’s unease grew with each passing night. She often felt the weight of unseen eyes on her, and the shadows seemed to shift and pulse with a life of their own. The servants spoke in hushed tones, their faces drawn and pale, as if they carried a terrible burden they dared not share.
One night, unable to sleep, Evelyn wandered the manor’s labyrinthine corridors, the oppressive silence pressing in on her. Her footsteps echoed through the empty halls, but beneath the sound, she thought she could hear something else—a faint, rhythmic thudding, like a heartbeat.
She found herself standing before the door to the east wing, the forbidden area Mr. Havers had warned her about. Her heart pounded in her chest as she reached out, her hand trembling as it closed around the cold brass handle. The door opened with a reluctant groan, revealing a long, dark hallway that seemed to stretch on forever.
The air was colder here, thick with the smell of damp and rot. As she ventured deeper, the sound grew louder, more insistent, until it reverberated through her bones. It led her to a large, ornate door at the end of the hall, its wood darkened with age and etched with strange, twisted symbols.
Evelyn hesitated, every instinct screaming at her to turn back. But something stronger—a dark, irresistible compulsion—urged her forward. She pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The room was vast and empty, save for a single object at its center—a large, ancient mirror. Its surface was tarnished and cracked, yet it exuded a malevolent energy that made the hairs on the back of Evelyn’s neck stand on end. She approached it slowly, her reflection distorted and fragmented by the cracks.
As she stood before the mirror, the door slammed shut behind her, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. The temperature plummeted, and the air grew so cold that her breath came out in white puffs.
Then, the whispering began.
It started as a soft murmur, growing louder and more insistent until the voices seemed to come from all around her. She couldn’t understand the words, but the tone was clear—accusatory, angry, desperate. She tried to move, to flee, but her feet were rooted to the spot, as if the floor had turned to ice.
In the mirror, her reflection began to change. The image warped and twisted, the face staring back at her no longer her own. It was a woman—pale, hollow-eyed, her lips twisted into a grotesque grin. Her hands, long and bony, reached out from the glass as if trying to claw their way into the room.
Evelyn’s breath hitched in her throat as the reflection’s eyes locked onto hers, filled with a hatred so intense it made her blood run cold. The woman in the mirror spoke, her voice a low, guttural hiss that seemed to bypass Evelyn’s ears and speak directly to her mind.
“Welcome, child,” the voice rasped. “You’ve come to take my place.”
The mirror cracked further, the sound like bones snapping, and the room began to tremble. The whispers grew into a cacophony, the voices rising in a terrible, discordant chorus. Evelyn could feel something pulling at her, a force stronger than gravity, dragging her toward the mirror.
“No!” Evelyn screamed, her voice lost in the din. She struggled, but the force was relentless, yanking her closer, until she could feel the cold glass against her skin.
The reflection’s grin widened, revealing rows of sharp, broken teeth. “You will stay here, as I have, for eternity. The manor demands it.”
Evelyn’s vision blurred as the reflection reached out, its hands passing through the glass like smoke. The icy fingers closed around her throat, squeezing with a strength that belied their frail appearance. Her breath came in ragged gasps as the room spun around her, the voices and the thudding heartbeat merging into a single, deafening roar.
As darkness closed in, the last thing Evelyn saw was her own face, twisted and grotesque, staring back at her from the other side of the mirror.
The next morning, the servants found the door to the east wing ajar. Mr. Havers approached cautiously, peering inside the vast, empty room. The mirror stood silently at the center, its surface once again pristine and whole.
But if one looked closely, they might see a faint outline in the glass—an echo of a woman, her eyes wide with terror, trapped behind the surface.
Blackwood Manor was silent once more, but its hunger was never sated. It waited, as it always had, for the next soul to fall into its grasp.
