I’ve been told that everyone has a breaking point. Some people lose themselves slowly, piece by piece, like the edges of a fraying rope. Others shatter all at once—one moment whole, the next in shards. I suppose I’m a bit of both.

It wasn’t one event that brought me here, standing at the iron gates of Blackwood Manor, staring up at the sprawling, decaying estate that seems to stretch into the grey sky. No, my descent into this strange place was gradual—a lifetime of choices, of missteps, of broken promises. But it was also sudden, the kind of sudden that leaves you gasping for breath, wondering when exactly everything had gone so terribly wrong.

I’m not from this world of crumbling mansions and men with too many secrets. My life used to be simple, even charmed. I was born into luxury, raised in silk sheets and grand ballrooms, where the scent of expensive perfume masked the rot underneath. My parents were society darlings, their fortune built on the backs of people they’d long forgotten how to care about. But none of that mattered to me, not back then. I was the golden child—perfect grades, perfect clothes, the perfect future mapped out for me. We were… happy, I think. Or at least, we pretended to be. That’s the thing about people with money; they hide their cracks better than most.

The fall came swiftly. My father’s business empire collapsed in the span of a month, drowned in scandal and debts we couldn’t pay. People stopped smiling at me. Invitations stopped coming. We were shunned, left to fend for ourselves in a world that had always cushioned us. I remember the look in my father’s eyes the night he died—somewhere between sorrow and shame as he drank his whiskey alone in his office, never to wake again.

That was the first time I felt truly alone. But it wouldn’t be the last.

My mother, frail as she was, didn’t last much longer after him. Grief consumed her like a slow poison, and I found myself burying both of them within the same year. That’s when I began to disappear, too. Not in the literal sense, but in ways that matter more. The person I used to be—the privileged girl who believed love and stability were eternal—faded away, leaving behind a shell. A body that breathed, but a soul that wandered.

And now… I’m here.

It was desperation that brought me to Blackwood Manor. A strange letter, unsigned, offering employment in this place that time had clearly forgotten. “Caretaker,” it had said. “Room and board included.” I’d laughed when I first read it, thinking it was a joke. But then I looked around at the emptiness of my life, the bills piling up, the emptiness of my soul, and realized I had nothing left to lose. What’s the worst that could happen? I’d thought.

Now, standing at these gates, the wind howling through the trees like whispered warnings, I’m beginning to wonder if I should have been more careful with that question.

I step through the gates and hear them creak behind me as they close with an ominous clang, sealing me inside. My suitcase is small, almost pitiful. A handful of clothes, a few books I couldn’t bear to part with. The weight of my entire life reduced to this single, battered bag.

The gravel crunches beneath my feet as I make my way up the long drive, the manor looming larger with every step. It’s like something out of a Gothic novel, dark stone walls covered in ivy, windows that glint like cold, dead eyes. It feels alive, in a way—a living, breathing entity waiting for me to step inside its heart.

And what a dark heart it must have.

I pause at the heavy wooden door, my hand hovering over the ancient brass knocker shaped like a raven, its wings spread wide. For a moment, I hesitate. I could still turn back, I tell myself. I could walk away, find some other way to scrape by. But then I remember the silence of my tiny apartment, the way my skin prickles with the feeling that something’s missing. I don’t want to go back to that. I can’t.

I knock.

The sound echoes through the door, a deep, resonating boom that sends a shiver down my spine. Moments later, it opens, and I find myself face to face with him.

Dorian Blackwood.

I’d heard rumors about him before—everyone in town had. Some said he was mad, others said he was brilliant, a recluse hiding from the world. The truth, I suspect, is somewhere in between.

He stands in the doorway, tall, shadowed by the dim light behind him. His face is sharp, angular, like it was carved from stone. His eyes, though—they’re what hold me in place. Dark and unreadable, like twin abysses that draw you in, whether you want them to or not.

“You must be Evangeline,” he says, his voice low and smooth, but there’s something unsettling in it, like a serpent coiled beneath the surface.

“I prefer Eva,” I say, my own voice betraying none of the fear or curiosity swirling inside me.

“Eva, then.” He steps aside, motioning for me to enter. “Welcome to Blackwood Manor.”

There’s something in his eyes when he says it, a flicker of something too fleeting to name, but it chills me. Welcome. It feels more like a warning than a greeting.

I step inside, crossing the threshold into a world I can’t fully understand yet. But already, I know one thing for certain:

Whatever darkness lurks in this place, I’m not afraid of it.

I’ve lived in darkness all my life.

As I step inside the manor, the air changes. It feels heavier, thicker—like every breath I take has to push through centuries of history, of secrets whispered through the walls. The door closes behind me with a dull thud, and I can’t help but flinch at the sound. It feels final, like I’ve just locked myself into something I’m not entirely sure I want to understand.

Dorian Blackwood watches me closely, his eyes never leaving my face. There’s an intensity to him, a quiet but undeniable power. I can feel it in the way he moves, the way his presence fills the room without effort. He doesn’t have to say anything for me to know that this is his domain. Every inch of this place is under his control.

But I’m no stranger to control. I’ve lived under the weight of others’ expectations for so long that it feels almost natural. Maybe that’s why I’m not afraid of him—not yet.

“I’ll show you to your room,” he says, turning away from me as if he’s already decided I belong here. His voice is deep and calm, but it carries with it an authority that leaves no room for argument.

I follow him through the grand entrance hall, taking in the vastness of the space. High ceilings stretch above us, adorned with dark wooden beams and a massive chandelier, its crystals dulled with age. The walls are lined with paintings—portraits, mostly. Some of them are of people, their eyes following us as we pass. Others are landscapes, gloomy and bleak, as if sunlight never touched them. I can almost feel the weight of the eyes in the portraits, their silent judgment sinking into me.

Dorian walks with purpose, his long strides confident, barely acknowledging the ancient decor that surrounds us. It’s clear that he’s used to the grandeur, to the silence of this place. I wonder if he ever feels it—the loneliness that clings to these walls. Or maybe he prefers it. Maybe, like me, he’s learned to live with the isolation.

“You’ll find Blackwood Manor has its own rules,” he says without looking back at me. “Certain areas are off-limits. You’ll be told where your duties begin and end.”

“Off-limits?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

Dorian pauses at the base of a grand staircase, his hand resting lightly on the banister. He turns to face me, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those dark, depthless eyes—fix on mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

“Some doors are better left closed, Miss Evangeline.”

There’s no mistaking the warning in his tone. A chill runs down my spine, but I don’t flinch. Not in front of him. Whatever secrets this place holds, I’ll find them out. I’ve lived through enough darkness to know when someone’s hiding something. And Dorian Blackwood… he’s hiding *everything*.

He continues up the staircase, and I follow, my footsteps barely making a sound against the polished wood. The corridors we pass through are dimly lit, shadows creeping along the walls as if the darkness itself is alive, watching, waiting. My room is at the far end of one such hallway, the door thick and made of heavy wood, just like everything else in this mansion.

Dorian opens it and steps aside, gesturing for me to enter. I do, feeling his gaze on the back of my neck as I cross the threshold. The room is surprisingly spacious, with high windows draped in heavy velvet curtains. A large bed sits in the center, its posts carved with intricate designs that seem almost alive in the dim light. There’s an old fireplace against one wall, cold and empty, and a small writing desk tucked into the corner.

It’s not luxurious, but it’s not as cold as I expected, either. Still, there’s something unsettling about it, like the room is holding its breath, waiting for something.

“I’ll have Mrs. Wright bring your meals,” Dorian says from the doorway. “She’s the housekeeper. You’ll meet her tomorrow. For now, rest. You’ll need your strength.”

“For what?”

His eyes darken, and for a moment, I swear I see a flicker of something dangerous in them—something primal.

“This house,” he says quietly, “has a way of testing those who stay within its walls.”

I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

For a few moments, I just stand there, letting the silence of the room settle around me. The wind howls faintly outside, rattling the windows, but it’s nothing compared to the storm brewing inside me. A test? What did he mean by that? And why does it feel like I’ve walked straight into something I won’t be able to walk away from?

I wander to the window and push the curtains aside, peering out into the night. The grounds of the manor stretch out before me, dark and foreboding, the trees swaying violently in the wind. Beyond them, the black silhouette of the mountains looms, like jagged teeth against the sky. It’s beautiful, in a haunting sort of way.

My fingers tremble slightly as I pull my hand away from the window. I never thought I’d end up in a place like this—so isolated, so far from the life I once knew. But then again, maybe this is exactly where I was meant to be. There’s a part of me that feels strangely at home in this darkness, as if it’s been waiting for me all along.

I turn from the window and sit on the edge of the bed, the soft mattress dipping under my weight. I think of Dorian—his sharp features, his cold demeanor, the way his eyes seemed to pierce right through me. He’s dangerous. I can feel it. But there’s something else there too, something that pulls at me despite every warning bell going off in my head.

He said some doors were better left closed, but I’ve always been the kind of person to push them open.

I lie back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, my mind racing with questions. What is Dorian hiding? What did he mean about the house testing people? And why does it feel like I’ve already become part of something much larger than myself?

The darkness settles in, wrapping around me like a cloak. And as I close my eyes, I can’t help but think:

Maybe I’m not just running from my past anymore.

Maybe I’m running straight into something far worse.

I don’t know how long I lie there, staring at the ceiling, but sleep doesn’t come easily. My mind keeps circling back to Dorian—his cryptic warnings, the unsettling way his presence lingers in the room long after he’s gone. And then there’s the manor itself. It feels alive, as though the walls are breathing, shifting in the silence, watching me. I’ve never been one to believe in haunted places, but this house… this house feels like it remembers.

I finally drift into an uneasy sleep, only to be jarred awake by a sound I can’t quite place.

At first, I think it’s part of a dream—a low, distant whisper, almost like the wind had slipped through the cracks in the windows. But then I hear it again. It’s soft, so faint I can barely make it out, but it’s there. A voice. A woman’s voice.

I sit up in bed, heart pounding, straining to listen. The whispering continues, just outside my door. It’s unintelligible, like someone murmuring secrets just beyond my reach. A chill runs through me, and I hesitate, my hand hovering near the lamp on the bedside table.

It’s nothing, I tell myself. It’s just this place—old, creaky, probably full of drafts. My imagination is running wild, that’s all.

But even as I think it, the whispering grows louder. Closer.

Curiosity overcomes fear, as it always does with me. Throwing back the blankets, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and slip my feet into my shoes. The floorboards creak under my weight as I cross the room to the door. I pause, hand on the knob, my heart racing. Something in me screams to leave it alone, to get back into bed and forget I ever heard anything. But I’ve never been one to ignore the darkness.

I turn the knob slowly and open the door just enough to peer out into the hallway. It’s empty. Dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight spilling in through the high windows at the far end. The whispering, though… it’s still there, distant now, but drifting through the hall like a faint breeze. I step out, the cold air immediately biting at my skin. I wrap my arms around myself, taking one careful step after another, following the sound.

The hallways seem longer than they had when I’d arrived, stretching out like shadows that twist and bend. As I walk, the whispers grow fainter, pulling me further down the corridor until I’m standing in front of a door.

It’s one of the doors Dorian had warned me about.

The heavy wooden surface is darker than the others, its brass handle worn from time and use. There’s something about it—something foreboding, like the door itself is holding its breath. I reach for the handle, my fingertips brushing the cold metal, and a jolt of fear shoots through me.

This is wrong. I know it. Every instinct screams at me to stop, but something else—something deeper, more dangerous—urges me on.

Just as my hand grips the handle, I hear footsteps behind me.

“Miss Evangeline.”

I freeze. Dorian’s voice is like a sharp cut through the silence, low and commanding. I don’t turn to face him right away. Instead, I let my hand fall to my side, pulse hammering in my throat.

“I thought I told you,” he says softly, his footsteps drawing closer, “some doors are meant to remain closed.”

I swallow hard and finally turn to look at him. He’s standing in the shadows at the end of the hall, his expression unreadable. His eyes, however, burn with something cold and fierce—something that makes my blood run cold.

“I—” My voice catches in my throat, but I force myself to speak. “I heard something. A voice.”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. His silence is oppressive, heavy. “There are many sounds in Blackwood Manor,” he says, each word measured, “but none of them are meant for you.”

I can feel the weight of his gaze pressing down on me, and for the first time since arriving here, a sense of true danger creeps under my skin. He isn’t just warning me anymore. This is a command.

“What’s behind this door?” I ask, surprised by the steadiness of my own voice.

His jaw tightens ever so slightly, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer me. But then he steps closer, the shadows parting just enough for the moonlight to catch his face. He looks different now—colder, harder. The man I’d met at the gate had been distant, maybe even a little guarded. This version of Dorian is something else entirely.

“This is not a house for questions, Eva,” he says, his voice almost a growl. “If you want to survive here, you’ll follow the rules.”

Something shifts in the air between us, the tension thickening. His presence seems to fill the space, leaving no room for escape. For a brief second, I wonder if I’ve made a terrible mistake coming here.

But I hold his gaze, refusing to back down. “Survive?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. “What exactly am I surviving, Dorian?”

He exhales slowly, his eyes narrowing. For the first time, I see something flicker in his expression—something close to regret. But it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared.

“You don’t want to know,” he says, stepping forward until he’s mere inches from me. His proximity sends a shiver down my spine, and the heat of his breath against my skin feels both threatening and intoxicating. “Stay out of the shadows, Miss Evangeline. They don’t belong to you.”

Before I can respond, he reaches past me, his hand brushing against my arm as he grasps the door handle. I take a step back, watching him as he locks the door with a smooth, practiced motion. The whispering is gone, silenced the moment the lock clicks into place.

He turns to face me again, his eyes colder than before. “Go back to your room. Now.”

There’s no softness in his voice, no warmth. This is an order, and I know better than to question it any further. Without another word, I turn and make my way back down the hall, the sound of his footsteps fading behind me. Every nerve in my body is on edge, but I force myself to keep walking, to keep breathing.

When I reach my room, I shut the door behind me, pressing my back against it as I try to steady my racing heart. My mind is spinning with questions, with fear. What the hell was that? What could be so dangerous in this house that it needs to be locked away?

I glance toward the window, the night outside darker than before, as though the stars themselves have hidden from whatever lurks in this place.

Whatever I thought I was running from, whatever I thought I could leave behind—it pales in comparison to what I’ve walked into.

Blackwood Manor isn’t just haunted by ghosts of the past.

It’s haunted by something far more alive.