Not much solace came with morning. Alex was woken up by pale light seeping in through the windows and the quiet hum of traffic outside. Restless night over, his brain was abuzz with a feeling of urgency. He packed with speed, and his laptop fit snugly in its padded case. He should get moving-there was always a danger to staying in one place for too long.
As he left the guesthouse, the city felt different. The vibrant hullabaloo of the day seemed stifled, faces in the crowds shadowed by suspicion. Alex adjusted the strap of his bag and merged with the flow of people, his eyes scanning every nook and corner for anything suspicious.
He found himself in a small café, tucked between two towering buildings. He sat down in a corner seat and was greeted by the warm aroma of coffee. He opened his laptop, connected to the café's network through his VPN, and resumed his research.
The Crimson Seal was more than just an artifact-it was a keystone, a linchpin in a web of myths and historical intrigue. The Order of the Crimson Veil seemed to appear and vanish like ghosts, leaving behind fragments of their influence in obscure records and cryptic accounts.
Alex's fingers danced over the keyboard, piecing together scattered information. Maps, symbols, and ancient texts littered his screen. One name kept resurfacing in his searches: *Rothwell Manor*.
An abandoned estate on the outskirts of town, Rothwell Manor had once been home to a family of wealth with ties to the occult, rumors of which still lingered. The family had disappeared decades ago under mysterious circumstances, and the legacy left behind was steeped in mystery. The manor had long since fallen into disrepair, and its eerie reputation kept most people away.
It was just the kind of place Alex needed to investigate.
As he closed his laptop, a faint chill crept over him. He looked around the café. A man in a dark coat sat at the bar, sipping coffee and looking in Alex's direction. Their eyes met briefly before the man looked away, but Alex's instincts screamed that he was being watched.
Alex moved out of the café, going through the narrow streets to throw anyone that might be trailing him off track. He darted down alleys, made hard lefts, and peeked in windows, checking behind. The man in the coat had disappeared-or at least Alex assumed.
By midday, Alex was reaching the edges of the city. The urban sprawl gradually transitioned into a much quieter, rural atmosphere, heavy with the smell of damp earth and foliage. Rothwell Manor rose in the distance, its jagged silhouette silhouetted against the cloudy sky.
The track to the manor was bushy, bordered by trees with branches bare, grasping the air like skeletal fingers. Alex tightened his grip on the strap of his bag, with laptop and notes neatly tucked away. Every crunch of his boots in the gravel was amplified in the eerie silence.
Alex stopped at the manor's gates. The iron bars were rusted and warped, and the lock was broken. He pushed the gates open with a creak and stepped onto the grounds.
The manor itself was imposing; its once-grand facade now crumbled and weathered. Ivy climbed up its walls, and shattered windows stared back like hollow eyes. Alex hesitated for a moment before climbing the cracked stone steps to the front door.
The door creaked when he opened it, exposing an interior dim and cave-like. There was a dust which hung thickly in the air, a vague smell of dampness still lingered there. Alex clicked his flashlight; its beam carved through the dimness.
Inside, the manor was a maze of decay. Chandeliers dangled precariously, their crystals dulled by time. Torn wallpaper revealed glimpses of intricate murals beneath. Furniture lay in splinters, as though someone—or something—had ransacked the place.
Alex moved carefully, his flashlight casting shadows on the walls as he passed by faded portraits. The faces appeared to be watching him, their painted eyes following every movement. He could not help but feel that he was being watched, although the silence was absolute.
There appeared to be some study. Alex set down his bag and searched its drawers; within them he uncovered yellowed papers, ancient maps, and an aged, leather-bound journal.
He had taken out the journal belonged to some of the member in the family known as the Rothwell's with cryptic messages on ritual sacrifice and an item called Crimson Seal. In it, one particular last entry seemed to send chills down his spine:
"They've found us. The Order is coming. We've hidden the Seal where no one will dare search, but at what cost? If anyone reads this, heed my warning: some secrets are meant to stay buried."
And then suddenly, a thud echoed from deeper within the manor. It was soft, like the closing of a door. Alex's heart thudded in his chest. He stuffed the journal into his bag, grabbed his flashlight, and cut off its beam to avoid detection.
The thudding sound grew louder, closer, as if deliberate footsteps. Alex crouched behind the desk, his breath shallow as he listened.
Then, a voice called out—a deep, commanding tone that sent chills down his spine.
"Alex."
It wasn't a shout, nor a whisper. It was calm, deliberate, and terrifying.
Whoever—or whatever—had followed him wasn't just watching anymore. They were here.