The Mark Beneath the Floorboards

The night seemed endless. Aarav sat by the old fireplace, the silver pendant heavy and cold around his neck. The faint glow of the flames danced across the cracked walls of Blackthorn Manor. Every creak of the house felt like a whisper, a warning.

Maya sat opposite him, the diary of Eleanor Blackthorn trembling in her hands. Its leather cover was frayed, and many pages were water-damaged, but the words inside were still alive — like they had waited all these years for someone to read them.

Maya's eyes were wide as she finished the last entry. Her voice was a low whisper, almost trembling:

"They opened the gate," she said.

"But something came through that wasn't supposed to."

Aarav swallowed hard, the chill of her words sinking deep into his chest. The wind outside howled like a wolf circling its prey, and the entire manor seemed to groan in response, as if it remembered the terror Eleanor had written about.

Maya laid the diary open on the floor between them. One page stood out — stained a deep, rusted red. Aarav stared at it, unable to tell if it was ink or something far worse. The handwriting was shaky but still readable:

"To stop the Hollow Man, the mirrors must be sealed…

But Ambrose hid them.

He said one day, his blood would finish what he started."

Aarav's hand trembled. His throat felt tight, his breath uneven.

"His blood… that means me."

Maya's gaze met his, calm but grim.

"You're a descendant of Ambrose Blackthorn, Aarav. You're part of this — whether you like it or not."

The words hit him harder than the cold wind outside. He didn't want this. He had never asked to inherit this nightmare.

Suddenly, the floor beneath them groaned. Once. Then again. The sound was sharp, deliberate. It wasn't the random creak of an old house. It was something moving beneath them.

"There's something under the floorboards," Maya whispered. Her tone was tense, her knuckles pale as she gripped the diary. "Something… old."

Aarav grabbed a rusty iron poker from the fireplace and shoved the rug aside. The wooden planks beneath were rotting, blackened with age. He wedged the poker into a crack and pried the wood loose, one board at a time. The smell that rose from below was damp and metallic, like wet stone and rusted iron.

Beneath the floor, they found a stone compartment. It was small but sealed with corroded iron bands. Carved onto its surface was the Eye of Thorns — the same unsettling symbol etched into Aarav's pendant.

His hands hesitated over the latch. He didn't want to open it. Every instinct screamed at him to leave it buried. But curiosity — and fear — forced him on.

The lock broke with a sharp click. He lifted the stone lid.

Inside were three things:

A folded letter, brittle and yellow, signed by Ambrose Blackthorn himself. A shard of black glass, jagged and cold, faintly humming like it held some dark energy. A hand-drawn map of the manor, with seven X-marks drawn in what looked like dried blood.

Maya reached for the shard of glass. The moment her fingers touched it, the temperature in the room plummeted. The candles flickered violently, their flames bending as if in fear.

"This…" Maya whispered, staring at the shard, "this is a piece of one of the mirrors."

Before Aarav could respond, a voice spoke behind him. It was low, hoarse, and not human.

"He watches… still."

Aarav's blood turned to ice. He turned sharply toward the cracked mirror above the fireplace — and froze.

Inside the reflection stood a tall figure.

Its face was nothing but smooth, pale skin — faceless. Its long, black coat was torn, and its hands dripped with blood that fell soundlessly into the void of the mirror. Its presence was suffocating, like it wasn't just looking at him but into him.

Maya's breath caught in her throat.

"That's the Hollow Man," she said, her voice almost breaking.

Aarav's voice trembled.

"Who… what is he?"

"Not who," Maya said. "What. He's what's left when a soul is trapped behind the gate for too long. A guardian… or a hunter. Maybe both."

The mirror cracked again, a jagged line slicing through the figure's form — yet it did not vanish. Instead, it seemed to lean closer, pressing against the barrier between their worlds.

Aarav snatched Ambrose's letter and unfolded it quickly. On the back were seven words, each burned into the paper:

SEVEN TO OPEN.

ONE TO BLEED.

BLOOD MOON CALLS.

The meaning slammed into him like a cold wave. The seven X-marks on the map. The mirrors. The Hollow Man. It wasn't just a haunting. It was a countdown.

Maya's gaze drifted to the window. The moonlight spilling in through the cracked glass had a faint red tint, as if warning them. She swallowed hard.

"We have seven nights, Aarav," she said softly, yet every word felt like a hammer blow.

"After that, the gate opens. With or without us."

Aarav stared at the black shard in Maya's hand. The humming was louder now, like a pulse — a heartbeat. His heartbeat. He knew, deep inside, that the first night had already begun.