The Arrival

The rain fell in soft sheets over the sleepy town of Ravendale, painting the cobbled streets in shades of grey. Streetlights flickered in the mist, their yellow glow barely piercing through the thick fog that clung to the hills like a ghost unwilling to let go. A single black car rolled up the narrow, winding road, its headlights slicing the darkness like twin blades.

Inside, Aarav Mehta, 27, tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He wasn't easily frightened, but something about this place felt heavy — like an old memory pressing down on him. His GPS crackled once again:

"You have arrived at your destination."

He slowed to a stop, the engine humming softly before falling silent. Rain tapped against the windshield like skeletal fingers. Aarav stepped out, the cold mist brushing against his face, and there it was — Blackthorn Manor.

The mansion loomed like a dark sentinel atop the hill, its once-grand structure swallowed by ivy and time. Cracked windows stared down at him like hollow eyes, and the twisted iron gate behind him groaned as the wind pushed it shut with a metallic clang.

Aarav exhaled slowly.

"Looks like we're going to be spending some quality time together," he muttered, forcing a smirk, though his heart was thumping louder than the rain.

As a historian and writer, Aarav had visited countless British-era buildings across India and Europe, but Blackthorn Manor was different. It wasn't just history that lingered here — it was something colder, something that watched him from the shadows.

He pushed open the main door, which creaked like a long-forgotten secret, and stepped into the foyer. The smell of damp wood and age filled his lungs. The air inside was heavier, colder, as if the walls themselves were breathing. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floorboards, each creak sounding like a warning.

The first thing he saw was the grand staircase, sweeping upward like a skeletal ribcage. Chandeliers, once majestic, now hung low with cobwebs, their crystals dulled with dust. Faded portraits of long-dead Blackthorn family members lined the walls, their eyes painted so sharply it almost felt like they were following him.

He dropped his bags near the entrance and flicked the nearest light switch.

Nothing.

"Figures," he whispered under his breath.

Pulling out his phone, he turned on the flashlight and walked deeper into the house. The beam revealed the drawing room — a massive space with faded wallpaper peeling off like old skin, furniture draped in dusty white sheets, and a grand piano coated in a blanket of grey. On the far wall hung a portrait: a man in Victorian clothes, with razor-sharp eyes and a cruel smile. The nameplate read:

Lord Ambrose Blackthorn.

Aarav stared at the portrait longer than he intended. There was something unsettling about Lord Blackthorn's eyes — they almost seemed… alive. Then he heard it — a faint whisper. It was so soft that at first, he thought it was the wind. But the whisper came again, curling through the empty room like a hiss.

Aarav spun around.

No one was there.

"Probably the wind," he muttered, but even he didn't believe his own words.

Taking a deep breath, he climbed the grand staircase. Each step groaned under his weight, the sound echoing in the empty hallway above. His phone's flashlight illuminated cracked walls and broken picture frames scattered on the floor. Somewhere, a door creaked open slowly on its own, though there was no breeze.

As he passed a large, cracked mirror, he paused.

His reflection blinked — a fraction of a second too late.

A chill ran down his spine.

"Nope," he whispered, stepping back, but something made him glance again.

This time, the mirror wasn't empty.

Behind his reflection stood a faint, ghostly figure — a girl in a white dress, her hair falling over her face. She didn't move. She just stood there, head slightly tilted, like she was listening to his heartbeat.

Aarav's breath caught. He spun around, phone trembling in his hand.

The hallway was empty. Silent.

When he looked back at the mirror, the girl was gone.

The phone slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a loud thud. He scrambled to pick it up, his hands shaking.

"Okay. Tired. Jet lag. Overactive imagination. Yeah, that's it," he muttered to himself, though his voice cracked.

He found a bedroom at the far end of the hallway. It was surprisingly well-kept, with an old bookshelf, a wardrobe, and a fireplace that hadn't seen a flame in decades. On the mantle sat a small, locked wooden box, etched with strange symbols that looked like they belonged to no known language.

Aarav reached out to touch it, but a sudden cold breeze swept through the room, flickering his candle flame. He stepped back, frowning.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, deciding not to mess with it tonight.

He lit a single candle he found on the nightstand and sat on the bed. Outside, the wind howled like a warning. He tried to convince himself he was imagining things. But just as he was about to lie down — three knocks came from inside the wall.

He froze.

The sound was deliberate, steady, and far too close.

Aarav grabbed the candle and pressed his ear to the wall. Nothing. He stepped back.

Then it came again — three knocks. Slow. Measured.

His heart pounded.

"If this is some kind of welcome, it's not working," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He turned toward the door, ready to leave the room, when a sudden crack echoed through the hallway. The mirror outside the bedroom — the same one where he had seen the girl — split down the center as though struck from the inside.

The sound rang through the silent manor like a scream.

Aarav's candle flickered violently. His shadow twisted on the walls. For the first time in years, a raw, primal fear gripped him.

And somewhere, faintly, a girl's laughter drifted through the hall.