The Locked Box

The morning light that seeped through the torn curtains was dull and gray, like the sky itself had forgotten how to shine. Aarav woke up with a start, his breath shallow, his mind replaying the events of last night — the knocks inside the wall, the cracking mirror, and that ghostly girl in white whose silent presence still clung to his thoughts like frost.

For a moment, he sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temples.

"Did I dream all of that?" he muttered.

But when his eyes drifted to the hallway outside the bedroom, the mirror stood there, cracked and jagged, as if someone had punched it from within.

No dream. No imagination.

Aarav forced himself to get up. The air in the house was damp and cold, the kind of cold that crept into your bones. In the kitchen, he found an old, rusty kettle, its handle worn smooth. After rinsing it and filling it with water, he placed it on the old stove. The flame hissed to life with difficulty, as though the house disapproved of this sudden burst of warmth.

As the coffee brewed, Aarav listened. The house was never truly silent. It groaned with every gust of wind, and now and then, a faint creak came from somewhere upstairs — like someone was walking slowly, deliberately. He told himself it was just the old wood contracting, but the sound was too precise, too intentional.

He took a sip of his coffee and tried to steady his thoughts. There was one thing he couldn't stop thinking about — the locked wooden box.

It was still sitting on the fireplace mantle, waiting for him like a puzzle he wasn't sure he wanted to solve. The symbols carved into its surface were unlike anything he had ever seen. They weren't just decorative. They looked ancient, geometric, almost alive. In the pale daylight, he noticed something new — a faint smear on the corner. He bent closer. It was a bloodstain. Dried. Old.

"You're hiding something," Aarav murmured under his breath, his voice low, almost respectful — like he was addressing the box itself.

He tried picking the lock first. A paperclip, a knife — nothing worked. The lock didn't feel mechanical; it felt… wrong, as though it wasn't meant to be opened by normal means. He remembered the dusty study room downstairs. Maybe there was something there — a key, a clue, anything.

The study was like stepping into a memory frozen in time. Shelves of decaying books leaned under the weight of dust, and old furniture crouched under white sheets like sleeping ghosts. The smell of mildew and age hung heavy in the air. He tugged at one of the drawers in the massive oak desk. It didn't budge. Neither did the second one. Cobwebs tore across his fingers as he forced them open.

Finally, the third drawer gave way with a sudden jerk, sending a puff of dust into his face. Inside lay a rusted key. Its shape was odd — long, with sharp, thorn-like ridges along the shaft. It felt unnaturally cold, even in his warm hand.

As he held the key, the window behind him rattled, though the air was still.

"Of course that happens," he whispered nervously, glancing over his shoulder.

Back at the fireplace, Aarav placed the key near the box. For a second, he swore the symbols on the wood seemed to shimmer, almost pulse, like veins under skin. His breath quickened. He inserted the key. It clicked — not loudly, but with a strange finality, like a lock that had waited decades for this very moment.

The lid opened with a reluctant creak. Inside, wrapped in yellowed fabric, lay a folded letter. Its paper was fragile, its edges frayed. A wax seal bore a symbol — an eye surrounded by thorn-like vines. Aarav felt the hairs on his arms rise.

He unfolded the letter, his hands trembling.

"To the one who returns,

You are the key. The house remembers. The curse endures until the ritual is completed. Beware the girl in white."

— A.B.

Aarav's throat went dry.

A.B. — Ambrose Blackthorn? The man in the portrait?

He dug deeper inside the box and found a small silver pendant, shaped like an eye. As his fingers brushed against it, the candle on the table flared to life on its own.

Aarav froze.

"That's… not creepy at all," he muttered, though his voice was a whisper now.

Then he heard it.

A soft voice. Cold. Right behind him.

"You shouldn't have opened it…"

Aarav spun around, heart pounding. The room was empty. The door stood ajar, the hallway beyond still and silent. Yet the air felt different — heavier. Charged.

Then came the footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Upstairs.

Aarav gripped the pendant like a weapon and followed the sound. Each step on the staircase seemed louder, echoing through the empty house. The trail led him to the attic door — locked. He turned to go back… and then he saw her.

She stood at the far end of the hallway, half-hidden in shadow. Her dress was torn, stained at the hem, and her long black hair hung like a curtain over her face. For a long, terrible moment, she didn't move. Then she raised her hand, pointing directly at him.

The hallway behind him seemed to stretch, lengthening, the shadows deepening.

Aarav couldn't breathe.

And then — she vanished.

The silence that followed was worse than the sound.

That night, Aarav didn't dare sleep. He placed the box, the letter, and the pendant on the desk beside him, as though keeping them in sight would stop the nightmares. He lit three candles around him, their flames trembling against the drafts that crept through the cracks in the windows.

Opening his laptop, he started typing. His fingers moved slowly, but he needed to put it all into words. If he was losing his mind, he wanted proof.

He wrote the first line of his journal:

"Day 1 — Blackthorn Manor is not empty. I'm not alone."