Threshold of Shadows

The mansion loomed ahead, its silhouette jagged against the storm-lit sky. Clara hesitated at the edge of the tree line, the wind whipping her hair into her eyes. The house was a relic of another era—a sprawling Gothic structure with shattered windows like empty sockets and ivy clawing up its stone walls. Thunder growled, closer now, and the first fat raindrops struck the earth like warnings.

"We'll die out here if we don't go in," Sarid said, already striding toward the wrought-iron gate. It screeched open under his hands, the sound slicing through the air. Clara followed, her boots crunching over dead leaves and broken glass.

The front door was ajar, swaying faintly on its hinges. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of mildew and something sharper, metallic. Sarid flicked on his flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom to reveal a grand foyer. Faded tapestries hung in tatters from the walls, their threads unraveling into spectral wisps. A staircase spiraled upward, its banister splintered, and above them, a chandelier dangled precariously, crystals glinting like teeth.

"Temporary shelter," Sarid said, more to himself than Clara. "Just until the storm passes."

Clara's gaze snagged on a portrait above the fireplace. The painting depicted a severe-looking man in a high-collared coat, his eyes dark and penetrating. The artist had captured something unsettling in his expression—a twist of cruelty at the corner of his lips, a possessive grip on the chair he sat in. But it was his eyes that held her. Even in the dim light, they seemed to gleam with a wet, living malice.

"Sarid," she whispered. "Do you see—"

A deafening crash cut her off. They spun to find the front door now fully closed, as if slammed by an invisible hand. Sarid lunged for the handle, rattling it. "It's… stuck."

"Stuck? Or locked?" Clara's voice wavered.

He threw his weight against the door, but it didn't budge. "It's just the wind. Old wood swells in storms." His tone was steady, but she noticed the tremor in his hands as he stepped back.

The flashlight flickered.

"Let's find another way out," Clara said, edging toward a hallway. Her pulse throbbed in her throat. The floorboards groaned underfoot, and dust motes swirled in the erratic beam of light. They passed a parlor filled with moth-eaten furniture, a dining room where plates lay shattered on a long table, and a study with books strewn like carcasses across the floor.

In every room, Clara felt it—the weight of eyes. Not just the portrait's. Something else.

Sarid paused at a cracked mirror, wiping grime from its surface. "We'll wait it out. Explore in the morning. Maybe there's a cellar or—"

A low, guttural moan reverberated through the walls.

They froze.

"The wind," Sarid said quickly, but his face had paled.

Clara turned back toward the foyer, drawn again to the portrait. The man's eyes—had they moved? She stepped closer. The flashlight trembled in her grip, casting jagged shadows across the painting.

"Clara, don't—"

The man's pupils dilated.

She gasped, stumbling backward. "Did you see that? His eyes—"

Sarid grabbed her arm, pulling her away. "It's a trick of the light. Stress. We're both exhausted."

But as they retreated down the hall, Clara glanced back one last time.

The portrait's head had turned to follow her.