ch2
**Chapter 2: The House on the Hill**
The morning air was damp with the lingering mist of Ravenshade, and a faint chill clung to the wind as Claire Westwood stepped outside *The Hollow Oak*. The village was eerily quiet, as if it had yet to wake from some long-forgotten dream.
She had barely slept. The letter, the innkeeper's warning, the hushed whispers about Blackwood Manor—it all swirled in her mind like smoke, curling and shifting but never quite taking shape.
Claire adjusted the strap of her bag, stuffed with her notebook, voice recorder, and camera, and began her walk toward the manor.
The path was overgrown, branches arching overhead like skeletal fingers, blocking out what little morning light filtered through the thick clouds. The deeper she went, the more isolated she felt. As if she were stepping out of time itself.
A sense of unease crawled up her spine.
Blackwood Manor was not just any abandoned house. It was a place where a woman had vanished without a trace.
And Claire was walking straight into its shadow.
---
She first saw the manor through the mist—looming at the top of the hill, its blackened stone façade standing against the gray sky like a monument to something long dead.
The iron gates were rusted but still intact, twisted in places like gnarled roots. A heavy chain looped through them, locked with an old but sturdy padlock.
Claire ran her fingers along the metal, slick with morning dew. If the manor had been abandoned for decades, 'why was it still locked?"
" Someone didn't want people inside?'
A cold gust of wind rushed through the trees, sending a shiver through her. She stepped back and circled along the outer stone wall, searching for another way in.
That's when she saw the side entrance.
Half-hidden beneath layers of ivy, the wooden servant's door was warped from years of neglect. The lock had long since rusted away. She pressed against the wood, and with a reluctant groan, the door swung open.
Darkness yawned before her.
Claire hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside.
---
The air inside the manor was stale, thick with dust and decay. The smell of damp wood and something faintly metallic clung to the walls.
She flicked on her flashlight, sweeping the beam across the room.
It was the old kitchen.
Pots and pans still hung from rusted hooks above the stone counter, their surfaces tarnished with age. A long dining table stood in the center, coated in dust. Dishes remained in place, as if the household had once been interrupted mid-meal.
Something about it felt… wrong.
Like the house had been waiting.but for what?
Claire snapped a few photos, then moved forward, her boots creaking against the warped floorboards.
She stepped into the grand hallway and was immediately struck by the sheer size of the manor. The ceiling stretched high, adorned with a chandelier thick with cobwebs. An elegant staircase curved upward into the gloom. Portraits lined the walls, their eyes watching, the subjects frozen in time.
Her flashlight illuminated the plaque beneath one.
"Eleanor Blackwood, 1972-?" noise echoed through the hallway
The woman in the portrait was young, strikingly beautiful, with high cheekbones, dark waves of hair, and eyes that seemed unnervingly alive. The artist had captured something haunting in her expression—a quiet sadness, an unspoken fear.
Claire traced the name with her fingers.
"What happened to you?"* she whispered.
A noise echoed through the hallway.
A soft creak, like a footstep.
Claire spun, her flashlight darting across the corridor.
Nothing. Just the empty hallway stretching into darkness.
But she knew she had heard something.
The silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating.
For the first time, she wondered if she really was alone in Blackwood Manor.
---
Claire continued through the house, keeping her senses sharp. The main study was filled with crumbling bookshelves, leather-bound volumes disintegrating into dust. The once-grand ballroom was now a hollowed-out shell, moonlight spilling through shattered windows.
She took notes, cataloging every detail.
Then, in one of the smaller rooms, she found something strange.
A writing desk.
Unlike the rest of the house, this one wasn't covered in dust. The chair had been moved recently. Papers were scattered across the surface.
Someone had been here.
Her pulse quickened as she stepped closer.
The papers were old letters, the ink faded but still readable. She picked one up carefully.
**"My dearest Eleanor,**
**You must leave before it's too late. He knows.**
**Meet me by the chapel at midnight. Please.**
**-S"**
Claire's mind raced.
" Who was *S*? And who was *he*?"
She reached for another letter when—
*Thud*
A sharp *thud* echoed from upstairs.
She froze.
It was no illusion. No creaking of an old house settling.
It was deliberate.
Someone was there.
---
Claire killed her flashlight, plunging the room into darkness. She listened, heart pounding.
Another sound."Creak"
Closer this time.
A slow, measured *creak*, like someone stepping carefully across the floor above.
She reached into her bag, pulling out her small pocket knife—hardly a weapon, but better than nothing.
She moved cautiously, her breath shallow. The grand staircase loomed ahead, curling into the darkness above. Every instinct told her to leave.
But Claire Westwood never walked away from a story.
She climbed the stairs.
At the top, a long hallway stretched before her. The doors to the old bedrooms stood open, their insides swallowed in shadow.
She took a step forward—
And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement.
A figure.
Just for a second, standing at the far end of the hallway.
Then—gone.
A chill ran through her.
"Hello?" she called, forcing her voice to remain steady. "Is someone there?"
Silence.
Claire took another step—
*Slam*
A door *slammed* behind her.
She spun, heart hammering. The air felt electric, charged with something unseen.
She was not alone.
She turned back toward the end of the hallway, where the figure had stood.
One last door remained closed.
The master bedroom.
She reached for the handle, her fingers trembling slightly.
She pushed it open.
Inside, the room was almost untouched. Unlike the rest of the house, there was no decay, no dust. The grand four-poster bed was still made, the furniture intact.
On the far wall, a large mirror reflected the dim light of her flashlight.
And in the center of the mirror—
A message.
Scrawled in what looked like old, dried blood.
*"LEAVE WHILE YOU CAN."*
Claire took a step back, her breath catching.
A gust of wind rattled the windows.
And then, behind her—
A whisper.
Low. Almost unintelligible.
*"Help me."*
Claire spun, but there was no one there.
The room was empty.
But she had heard it.
Clear as day.
And suddenly, she knew—
The past wasn't done with Blackwood Manor.
And neither was she.
---
To be continued…
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A/N:Next chapter tommaro. save this book pls.