On the outskirts of a quiet town, nestled between rolling green hills and a dark forest, stood Blackthorn Manor. For decades, it had been left to the mercy of time, ivy crawling up its once-grand walls, swallowing its ornate windows and balconies. Locals avoided the road that passed by, whispering tales of strange lights flickering in the upper windows and the sound of soft weeping that drifted through the night air.
Legend had it that the house once belonged to the Whitmore family, wealthy aristocrats who vanished overnight in 1897. Their disappearance remained a mystery, and no one dared to claim the mansion afterward. The few who entered never spoke of what they saw inside. Some said the house was alive, its walls breathing, its halls shifting. Others swore they saw shadowy figures standing at the windows, watching.
One evening, a traveler named Elias, skeptical of ghost stories, decided to explore the manor. He pushed open the rotting door, stepping into the grand foyer covered in dust and decay. The chandeliers still hung, their crystals coated in cobwebs. The air was thick with an old, musty scent—yet beneath it, there was something else, something… alive.
As he moved through the house, floorboards creaked under his weight. Faint whispers echoed down the halls, growing louder with each step. He reached the grand staircase when suddenly, the doors slammed shut behind him. The whispers turned into voices, calling his name. Panic set in as Elias realized he wasn’t alone.
The house had been waiting. And now, it had claimed another soul.
To this day, Blackthorn Manor remains abandoned—its windows forever watching, waiting for the next visitor who dares to enter.
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