Eleanor’s Room

Not the comfortable kind of quiet, but a suffocating stillness — as though every corner of Blackthorn Manor was holding its breath. Aarav followed Maya through the narrow eastern corridor, his footsteps echoing far too loudly. Even the candlelight seemed dimmer here, swallowed by the shadows that clung to the walls.

They stopped in front of a tall, arched door — its surface crawling with brittle vines, as if the house itself had tried to strangle it shut. Black burn marks scorched the wood like old scars.

Maya lowered her voice.

"This is it. Eleanor's room. Nobody's opened this door since 1899."

Aarav touched the iron handle and jerked his hand back. It felt like grabbing a piece of ice.

"Why was it sealed?"

Maya's gaze flickered, as if she wasn't sure she wanted to answer.

"Because time behaves strangely in there. They say if you enter alone… you never come out the same."

The rusted key screamed against the lock as Maya turned it. With a final click, the door opened.

A blast of icy wind rushed past them, extinguishing the candle. In the darkness, a faint whisper brushed Aarav's ear.

"Don't look at the mirror…"

Inside, the room was untouched by time — perfectly preserved, as if Eleanor Blackthorn had just stepped out.

A four-poster bed draped in delicate lace.

A wooden desk, an open diary resting on top.

A porcelain doll seated in a velvet chair, its glassy eyes staring lifelessly ahead.

And behind them all — towering over everything — stood a massive floor-length mirror. Its surface was fogged, yet faintly pulsing with a ghostly white glow.

Maya didn't step inside. She remained by the door, gripping her chalk as if it were a weapon.

"That's the third ritual mirror," she said softly. "The Seer's Mirror. It doesn't just show your reflection… it shows your bloodline. It shows what you don't want to see."

Aarav's heartbeat thudded like a drum in his chest. He stepped forward, drawn to the mirror as if by an invisible thread.

At first, he saw nothing unusual — just his reflection, pale and tense in the cold moonlight.

Then the image began to ripple.

A man appeared in the reflection — tall, draped in black robes, standing within a ritual circle. His face… it was Aarav's face. But older, sharper, and drenched in blood.

The cult leader, the one Maya had warned him about.

The vision shifted violently — Eleanor now filled the frame, crying, clutching a small pendant as if her life depended on it. Behind her, Ambrose — his face twisted with fury — shouted words Aarav couldn't hear.

Then Eleanor's gaze snapped to the mirror, to him.

Her lips moved. Her voice came through like a whisper carried on wind:

"Aarav… don't let them use you."

The air in the room turned electric. The mirror pulsed. And then — the room erupted with whispers, dozens of voices speaking at once, some begging, some warning, some laughing.

The candlelight died. Darkness swallowed everything.

A sharp crack echoed as the mirror split slightly down the center.

From the far side of the room, a pale figure drifted into view. Eleanor.

She looked heartbreakingly human — her nightgown fluttered as if in a breeze only she could feel, her long black hair cascading down her shoulders. But her eyes were swollen from eternal tears.

"They'll come through you," she whispered, her voice thin but echoing as if from all sides of the room. "You're the last gate."

Aarav's fists tightened.

"Then help me stop it."

Eleanor's face twisted, torn between sorrow and fear.

"I tried," she said, voice cracking. "But to close the gate… someone must bleed willingly."

Before Aarav could answer, her face shifted. Her eyes rolled black, and her body convulsed, bending at unnatural angles.

"If you refuse," she hissed, voice no longer her own, "the manor will burn… again."

She screamed — a piercing, inhuman wail — and the mirror exploded inward, shards hovering in the air like frozen rain.

Then, as suddenly as it shattered, the mirror pulled itself back together, the pieces sliding like liquid mercury into place. It now glowed with a soft golden light.

Letters appeared, etched in fire:

Eleanor Blackthorn

"The Seer."

Aarav staggered back, breath ragged. Something felt wrong. His mind was buzzing — no, crowded. He could still hear Eleanor's voice, whispering inside his skull, faint but constant, like an echo that wouldn't die.

Maya moved to his side, eyes wide.

"That's three mirrors. But something's changed… Aarav, you look…"

Her gaze dropped to his hands.

Black veins were snaking faintly beneath his skin, pulsing as though alive. The pendant around his neck burned with pale light.

Aarav stared at his trembling fingers.

"They're waking up," he whispered. "All of them."