Brett Eland

The moors stretched endlessly, gray and barren beneath a pewter sky, the mist swallowing what little light remained. The air was thick with damp, clinging to Eleanor’s skin like an unseen shroud.

The carriage rattled to a halt before Blackthorne Manor’s iron gates, which stood solemn and unyielding, their bars streaked with rust, their sharp points like the tips of spears guarding some long-forgotten secret. Beyond them, a long, winding drive of cracked cobblestones cut through a landscape of withered grass and skeletal trees, their twisted branches clawing at the sky like desperate hands, grasping for something they would never reach.

Climbing down from the carriage and standing among her belongings, Eleanor had only one thought: Had the house ever known sunlight? She doubted it—Blackthorne seemed built from shadow itself.

The manor loomed before her—a great, crumbling thing of stone and silence, its many windows dark and unwelcoming. Ivy clung to its walls, and the air carried the faint scent of decay. The roof sagged in places, its tiles discolored and broken, while a single tower, lopsided and leaning, stood defiantly against the encroaching ruin. Turrets jutted skyward, their spires stabbing at the heavens, while gargoyles hunched along the eaves, their weatherworn faces frozen in twisted expressions. The great oaken doors bore the weight of time, their iron knockers shaped like the heads of open-mouthed beasts. The stone steps leading up to the entrance were cracked and uneven, worn smooth by the passage of countless feet, though Eleanor suspected few had climbed them in many years. The very air around the manor felt heavy, pressing down on her as if warning her to turn back.

A man waited for her at the entrance, his frame stiff as a sentry’s. He was tall and severe, his face lined with age and disapproval. His deep-set eyes held a piercing quality, scrutinizing her every movement for the slightest fault. His hair, once dark, had thinned and silvered at the temples, lending him a spectral air. His black coat, buttoned up to the throat, was impeccably kept, though the fabric looked as if it had weathered many years. His gloved fingers flexed, tightening ever so slightly, as though grasping something unseen.

“Miss Vale?” His voice carried the clipped precision of someone accustomed to obedience.

“Yes,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She lifted her chin, willing herself not to shrink beneath his gaze. “I have come to take my position as governess.”

He nodded once. “I am Mr. Pritchard, the steward. You will follow me. I will send someone along for your bags.”

Inside, the house was no warmer than the air beyond. The entrance hall yawned before her, its high, arched ceilings casting deep shadows. A staircase wound upward in a slow, curling twist, vanishing into the dim recesses of the upper floors. Candles flickered weakly in their sconces, their light barely reaching the corners of the great hall. The walls bore tattered tapestries depicting hunting scenes, their colors long faded into dull browns and greens. A grand chandelier hung from the ceiling, its crystal pendants dulled with age, a few missing entirely. The floor was of polished marble, now dulled and cracked with time, its veins running like aged parchment.

Mr. Pritchard led her down a long corridor, their footsteps muffled by ancient carpets. The air grew heavier as they walked, thick with the scents of dust, old wood, and something faintly metallic. The corridor was lined with high-backed chairs draped in ghostly white sheets, their forms eerie in the dim light. Heavy drapes, thick with dust, covered the windows, allowing only thin slivers of wan daylight to pierce the gloom. The walls seemed to close in around her, and the deeper they went, the colder the air became.

Pritchard stopped before a heavy wooden door and pushed it open. “Your chambers,” he said. “You will find your necessary belongings within. Dinner is served at seven. You will meet Master Victor afterward.”

Before she could ask anything more, he turned and strode away, leaving her alone in the silence.

Eleanor exhaled, stepping inside. Sure enough, her bags were in the room, though she had not seen nor heard another soul during the short walk from the gates to the house.

The room was modest but adequate—a narrow bed, a wardrobe, a small writing desk positioned beside a window overlooking the barren moors. She pressed a hand against the cool glass and stared out.

Somewhere in the house, the wind howled through unseen cracks, producing a sound almost like a whisper. The house did not merely watch—it waited, its silence stretching like held breath.

---

A bell rang faintly through the manor, its chime distant and hollow, striking the hour seven times. Eleanor hesitated, then stepped out into the corridor, her footsteps hesitant against the ancient carpet. The hall stretched before her, dimly lit, the air thick with dust and something less tangible—a presence, unseen but undeniably felt.

As she descended the grand staircase, she noticed shadows stretching oddly against the walls, moving as though cast by an unseen fire. The flickering candlelight did little to dispel the gloom.

The dining hall was vast and cold, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadows, the stone walls lined with towering candelabras that sputtered weakly, their flames barely holding back the oppressive darkness. The long wooden table, scarred and heavy with age, stretched nearly the length of the room, its surface adorned with silverware that gleamed dully in the low light, as though untouched for years. A great fireplace dominated one wall, though no fire burned within, leaving the air damp and chilled. The scent of wax and aged wood permeated the room.

Mr. Pritchard stood near the head of the table, his posture rigid, an unmoving fixture in the somber space. Beside him sat a small boy, no older than eight, his pale hands resting lightly on the table. His skin was almost translucent in the dim candlelight, lending him an otherworldly air. His dark hair fell in untidy waves around a face that should have been cherubic but was instead eerily solemn. His lips were pressed together in a thin line, and his hollowed cheeks made him look slightly underfed. He wore a formal velvet suit, slightly too large for his frail frame, the high collar stiff and constraining. The most unsettling feature, however, were his eyes—a shade too dark for comfort, as though they swallowed the light rather than reflected it. He did not look up as Eleanor entered.

“Miss Vale,” Pritchard intoned. “This is Master Victor.”

Victor’s spoon trembled against his plate. He still didn’t meet her eyes. Finally, after a long silence, he whispered, “She doesn’t like when people sit there.”

A cold breath of air ghosted across Eleanor’s neck. The candles nearest to her flickered violently, though no draft could be felt. She forced a small, uneasy smile and cleared her throat. “Who doesn’t like it?” she asked, keeping her voice gentle.

Victor’s fingers tightened around his spoon. His eyes flickered toward the empty chair. “She watches,” he murmured, barely louder than before.

Eleanor glanced at Mr. Pritchard, hoping for an explanation, but the steward remained impassive, his expression unreadable. The silence in the room thickened, pressing against her like the cold air seeping from the stone walls. Eleanor tried to shake the unease creeping over her, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Victor, who is she?” she asked.

Before he could answer, the sound of soft footsteps echoed from the darkened hallway beyond the dining hall—measured, deliberate, as if someone unseen was approaching. The hairs on the back of Eleanor’s neck rose.

Mr. Pritchard suddenly stood, his face as impassive as ever, but there was something urgent in the way he moved. “That is enough for tonight,” he declared, his voice firm. “Miss Vale, you will retire to your chambers.”

Victor lowered his gaze, pushing his untouched plate away. Without another word, he slipped down from his chair and disappeared into the shadows beyond the candlelight.

Eleanor hesitated, her breath shallow, the cold presence still thick in the air. But she obeyed. As she stepped into the corridor, the whisper of fabric—like the faint rustling of a dress shifting in the chair beside hers—brushed against the silence, sending a shiver down her spine.

She walked briskly toward her chambers, her footsteps unnervingly loud in the stillness. The oppressive air of the manor seemed to grow heavier with every step, the shadows shifting in her peripheral vision as if stirred by unseen movement. As she reached her door, she glanced back. The corridor was empty. Yet, just before she closed the door behind her, she thought she heard a quiet sigh, as if someone had been standing just behind her, watching her retreat.

Inside her room, she hesitated before locking the door, her fingers lingering over the cold iron key. The chamber was silent except for the wind rattling against the windowpane, though she could not tell if the sound came from outside or from within the walls themselves. She changed into her nightdress quickly, her movements hurried, unsettled by the stillness pressing in around her.

Sliding beneath the heavy blankets, she tried to quiet her racing thoughts. The mattress was firm, the air in the room stale, carrying the faint scent of something long undisturbed. Just as her eyelids began to droop, a soft creak echoed through the room. Her breath hitched. The sound had come from the wardrobe. Her eyes remained fixed on the dark wooden doors, waiting, listening.

Then, ever so faintly, she heard it again—a hushed rustling, like fabric shifting within.

Eleanor woke to the pale gray light of dawn filtering through her window, the air inside her chamber still heavy with the remnants of uneasy dreams. The night had been restless; every creak of the old house had set her nerves on edge, and though exhaustion had eventually claimed her, she could not shake the feeling of unseen eyes lingering just beyond the edge of sleep.

She dressed quickly, the cold floor sending a chill up her legs as she moved toward the small washbasin. The water was icy against her skin, shocking her into full wakefulness. As she glanced at her reflection in the warped mirror above the basin, she hesitated. For the briefest moment, she could have sworn the shadows behind her deepened, stretching unnaturally before settling once more into their proper place.

A knock at her door broke the silence. She turned sharply, her heart lurching.

“Miss Vale?” came Mr. Pritchard’s voice, steady and firm as ever. “Breakfast is served in the main hall.”

She exhaled, steadying herself. “I’ll be down shortly.”

The corridor outside her chamber seemed different in the morning light—less suffocating, yet still carrying the weight of something unspoken. As she descended the stairs, she noted the quiet of the house. There was no sign of Victor, nor any other servants. The air held the same scent of aged wood and faint decay.

The dining hall was unchanged from the night before. The table had been reset, though Eleanor noticed that only two places were arranged: one for herself, and one at the head of the table, where Mr. Pritchard now stood. There was no sign that Victor had taken breakfast.

“Where is the boy?” she asked as she took her seat.

Pritchard’s expression remained unreadable. “Master Victor does not take his meals in the morning.”

Eleanor frowned, but before she could press further, the silence of the house was disturbed by a distant noise—a soft, rhythmic tapping, like fingers drumming against wood. It came from above, somewhere deep within the manor.

Pritchard did not react.

Eleanor set down her cup. “What is that sound?”

For the first time, something flickered across the steward’s face, a hesitation barely perceptible before he spoke. “The house has its way of speaking, Miss Vale. Best not to listen too closely.”

A chill ran through Eleanor. Outside, the tapping continued, slow and deliberate, like the measured beats of a metronome—steady, insistent, and unnatural in its precision. Then—silence. Just as her shoulders eased, a single, louder tap struck the wood, sharp as a knock. Whatever made the noise knew she was listening and wanted her to hear.

She finished her breakfast in uneasy silence, the sound echoing in her mind long after she set down her fork. Determined not to let the unsettling atmosphere get the better of her, she rose from the table. “I would like to check on Master Victor,” she said.

Pritchard’s lips pressed into a thin line. “He will be in the east wing, Miss Vale. Though I suggest you let him be. He prefers solitude.”

Eleanor nodded, though she had no intention of heeding the warning. As she made her way up the grand staircase, the tapping grew softer, as if retreating. She followed the sound through a corridor she had not yet explored, the air colder the farther she went. The floorboards groaned underfoot, the dust undisturbed as though no one had walked this way in years.

At the very end of the hall, she stopped before a door—tall, dark, and locked. The tapping had ceased the moment she touched the handle.

“Miss Vale,” Pritchard’s voice cut through the silence. Eleanor turned to find him standing several feet away, his face a mask of practiced neutrality, though there was something wary in his eyes. “You should not be here.”

Eleanor hesitated, her fingers still resting on the cold metal handle. “What is behind this door?”

Pritchard took a slow step forward, his voice even. “It is not for you to concern yourself with.” He gestured back toward the main corridor. “Come away.”

Eleanor let her hand fall to her side, but as she turned away, she could have sworn she heard something—a breath, faint and shuddering, from the other side of the door.

As she walked back down the corridor, she felt an unshakable sensation of being watched. The dim sconces along the walls flickered as though stirred by a breeze, though the air was deathly still. She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to find only shadows—but there, half-concealed within the darkness, stood Mr. Pritchard.

His posture was rigid, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze unreadable. He had not followed her footsteps, nor had he made a sound, yet he was there, watching. The candlelight flickered across his hollowed features, casting unnatural shadows beneath his eyes. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, with slow deliberation, he turned and walked away, vanishing into the gloom as if he had never been there at all.

That evening, following another cold and quiet supper, Eleanor heard the tapping again—closer this time, as if just outside her room. 

It was not the erratic noise of a loose shutter in the wind or the settling of an old house. It was the same deliberate, slow, patient rhythm against wood, like fingers methodically drumming on a table. It paused, then resumed, as if awaiting a response.

She tried to sleep but awoke to the sound of whispering voices, faint and indistinct, rising and falling like the murmur of distant conversations. Some voices wept, breathless and broken, while others hissed in urgent warning, their syllables unraveling just before meaning could take shape. They wove together in an eerie symphony, threading through the walls and floor, shifting direction as though circling her bed. The air in her chamber felt heavier, the darkness pressing in. Holding her breath, she strained to listen, but the whispers faded just as suddenly as they had begun.

Deciding she could no longer ignore the mystery, Eleanor resolved to search for another way into the locked room. Slipping from bed, she lit a candle and crept down the dimly lit corridors, her pulse hammering against her ribs. The flickering light cast long, shifting shadows along the walls, and with every step, she felt the weight of unseen eyes upon her. She glanced behind her more than once, half-expecting to see Pritchard standing motionless in the darkness, watching. In the study, she rifled through old drawers and cabinets, fingers trembling as she unearthed an iron key—ancient and cold to the touch.

Guided by memory and instinct, she returned to the forbidden door, the sensation of being observed growing stronger with each step. Somewhere behind her, in the depths of the house, a floorboard groaned—a slow, deliberate sound, as though someone had been following just out of sight. The key slid into the lock with an unsettling ease. Holding her breath, she turned it. The door creaked open, revealing a room frozen in time—dusty toys scattered across the floor, a child’s bed with an indentation as though someone had just been lying there, and a single rocking chair that moved ever so slightly, swaying in a slow, ghostly rhythm.

But she was not alone.

A breath of cold air slid past her cheek, carrying with it the faintest scent of lavender and something older, something stale with the weight of years. The rocking chair swayed more forcefully now, though the air in the room was deathly still.

Eleanor’s grip tightened around the candle holder. “Hello?” she whispered, though she already knew no living soul would answer.

The whispers began again, surrounding her, threading through the air like unseen fingers caressing the back of her neck. Words formed, half-heard, slipping in and out of understanding. You shouldn’t have come. She waits. Leave while you can.

The bed’s indentation deepened before her very eyes, as though unseen hands pressed into the mattress. The shadows at the far end of the room thickened, coalescing into the shape of a figure—tall, gaunt, its hollowed eyes locked onto hers. The candle’s flame flickered violently, casting grotesque shapes against the walls.

A sound behind her—a soft creak of floorboards. Eleanor spun around. Mr. Pritchard stood in the doorway, his face ashen, his mouth set in a grim line. “You should not have opened that door, Miss Vale.”

Before she could react, the door slammed shut, sealing them both inside. The whispers rose into a deafening chorus, the shadows rushing toward them, swallowing them whole. The candle sputtered out, plunging them into a darkness that moved.

By morning, there was no door at all—only an unbroken wall, smooth as if it had never known hinges. And when the next governess arrived, Mr. Pritchard greeted her at the gate with the same solemn words:

“Miss Vale?”

The young woman hesitated. Something in his tone—flat, rehearsed—made her shiver.

“Yes,” she said.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “This way.”

And as she stepped through the iron gates, the house seemed to exhale, as though it had been waiting for her all along.