Story 1105: The Howling Manor

The villagers of Greymarrow spoke of it in hushed tones—Howling Manor, perched on a windblasted cliff above the woods, where the sea battered the rocks and the moon never rose without wailing from its windows.

Evelyn Blackmoor stood at the edge of the cliff trail, the Lantern of the Forgotten hanging from her belt. The wind pushed against her coat like fingers trying to shove her back, but she pressed forward, boots crunching over frostbitten earth.

The manor loomed ahead—its silhouette a jagged mass of chimneys and crumbling towers. Windows flickered with pale light, though no one had lived there in over sixty years.

They said the manor sang when the moon was high.

They said the last owner, Baron Virel, had vanished into the walls.

The great iron doors creaked open at her touch, revealing a once-grand hall now riddled with rot and silence. The air smelled of sea salt and old decay. Tattered tapestries fluttered without wind.

Then came the sound.

A low moan.