Prologue

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 The fog rolled in thick and heavy over Black Hollow, swallowing the moonlight and muffling the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. The house on the hill had stood for nearly two centuries, its stone walls weathered by time and its halls echoing with stories no one dared to tell. But on this night, something moved within its dark corridors. A whisper. A breath. A presence waiting to be remembered.  
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Chapter Four: The Locked Door

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 Determined to uncover the truth, Eleanor began searching the house. She found a door in the east wing that wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard she pushed. It was different from the others—heavier, colder. As she ran her fingers along the frame, a sharp pain sliced through her palm. She pulled back, gasping. A drop of blood hit the wood, and with a soft click, the door unlocked.  


Inside, the air was thick with dust and something else—something darker. The walls were lined with old portraits, each one depicting the same woman from the newspaper. But in every painting, her face seemed... wrong. Distorted. As if she had been screaming.  


A sudden gust of wind slammed the door shut behind her.  


And then, in the dim light, she saw her.  


Margaret Vale stood in the corner, her veil drifting as though caught in an unseen current. Her lips moved, forming words Eleanor could barely hear.  


"Find me."


The candlelight flickered. The shadows stretched.  


And the whispering began again.  

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Chapter Eight: The Escape

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 Eleanor’s heart races as she clutches the key, the presence behind her growing stronger. The attic feels alive with tension, as if the walls themselves are closing in. She can almost hear the low hum of something ancient and malevolent in the air, the feeling of being trapped not just in the house—but in time itself.   She shoves the papers and the key into her bag, her mind screaming to get out. The door to the attic rattles as if someone—or something—wants to keep her in. She bolts for the stairs, her footsteps heavy as she hurries down the narrow hall. But as she nears the front door, the whispers return, louder than ever:   "Leave. Or you’ll never leave."   The door won’t open. The handle turns, but the lock won’t budge. She pulls harder, her fingers slick with sweat. The air around her thickens, and she feels an invisible pressure on her chest, as if the house itself is trying to suffocate her.   With a scream, Eleanor stumbles backward...
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