The gravel driveway stretched endlessly before them, winding through a dense forest of skeletal trees. Their bare branches intertwined overhead, casting claw-like shadows on the car as it crept forward. The overcast sky loomed heavy, the kind of gray that made the world feel muted and somber.
Alex tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles white against the worn leather. Every crunch of the tires on the gravel sounded unnaturally loud, as if the forest were amplifying the noise.
"This place is straight out of a horror movie," Taylor muttered, breaking the silence.
"More like a gothic novel," Emma said, her voice soft but tinged with unease. She hugged her knees to her chest, her gaze flicking nervously toward the trees.
Jordan, sitting in the middle of the back seat, crossed her arms. "It's just a driveway. Let's not freak ourselves out before we even get there."
Chris, ever the realist, leaned forward from the passenger seat, squinting at the GPS on his phone. "We're almost there. About two hundred feet."
"Great," Taylor said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Let's go meet the spooky lawyer and his even spookier stories."
Alex didn't respond. His focus was split between the narrow road ahead and the weight of Tobias's journal and the letter in his bag. The closer they got to Anderson's residence, the heavier the items seemed to feel, as if the secrets they held were fighting to remain buried.
When the driveway finally opened up, the house came into view. It was a stately red-brick structure, old but meticulously maintained. Ivy crawled up the walls in perfect symmetry, and tall, arched windows glinted faintly in the weak light. The house exuded a quiet dignity, but there was something about it that made Alex's stomach twist.
"Cozy," Taylor said, though his tone lacked conviction.
"Cozy?" Emma shot him a glare. "It's terrifying."
"It's... imposing," Jordan said, her brow furrowed as she studied the house. "It's just our nerves".
Alex pulled the car to a stop in front of the wide stone steps leading to the front door. The silence that followed was thick and oppressive, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.
"Let's get this over with," Alex said, his voice steady despite the unease gnawing at him.
Before Alex could even reach the door, it swung open with a creak, revealing a younger man with sandy blond hair and an easygoing smile. He leaned casually against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets.
"You're early," the man said, his tone light and conversational.
Alex hesitated, exchanging a glance with Chris. "Uh... we're here to see Mr. Anderson."
"You found him," the man said, his grin widening. "Well, sort of. I'm Theo Anderson, his son. Dad's waiting for you inside."
"You're the one who helped him prank us, aren't you?" Jordan asked, crossing her arms.
Theo chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, that was me. The old man's got a flair for theatrics, but he doesn't move as fast as he used to, so I pitched in. Sorry if we scared you too much."
"Scared us?" Taylor scoffed. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."
Theo's smile didn't falter. "That's kind of the point. Besides, you're too young." He smiled. "Come on, he's in the study."
As they followed Theo inside, Alex couldn't help but notice the subtle differences between the son and his father. Where Theo was relaxed and approachable, his father had been sharp-edged and guarded. But there was something about Theo's demeanor that felt... calculated, as if the easy charm was a carefully crafted mask.
The interior of the house was every bit as imposing as its exterior. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the floors polished to a mirror-like sheen. Paintings of stern-faced men and women hung in heavy frames, their eyes seeming to follow the group as they walked past.
Theo led them down a hallway lined with bookshelves, their spines a mix of leather-bound volumes and modern texts. The faint scent of old paper and wood polish lingered in the air.
"Here we are," Theo said, pushing open a set of double doors.
The study was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the rest of the house. A fire crackled in the hearth, its light casting flickering shadows across the walls. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the room, and in the center sat Mr. Anderson in a leather armchair, his sharp eyes fixed on the group.
"Took you long enough," he said, his voice dry but not unkind.
"Sorry," Alex said, stepping forward. "The driveway's... long."
Anderson smirked faintly, gesturing to the chairs arranged around a low table. "Sit. Let's see what you've brought me."
Alex placed Tobias's journal and the letter on the table, the weight of the items seeming to press into the wood. Anderson's gaze lingered on the journal, his expression unreadable.
"This is Tobias's, isn't it?" he asked softly.
Alex nodded. "You recognize it?"
Anderson leaned back, his fingers crossed. "My family has been connected to yours for generations. Keeping records is a tradition for both our families. I'd recognize that journal anywhere."
"What about the letter?" Jordan asked, her voice steady but pointed. "It's in Tobias's handwriting."
Anderson picked up the letter, his brow furrowing as he scanned it. "Interesting," he murmured.
"Interesting?" Alex repeated, his frustration bubbling to the surface. "How is it possible? Tobias has been dead for years."
Anderson set the letter down, his gaze shifting to Alex. "Tell me what you know first. Then I'll tell you what I can."
Alex hesitated, the weight of Anderson's expectant gaze pressing down on him. He glanced at his friends, each of them watching him with varying degrees of unease, before finally speaking.
"My grandmother told me a story," he began. "About Blackwood House. She said it was cursed. That Nathaniel Reardon, my ancestor, wanted the land for its power, and he destroyed the Hawthorne family to get it."
Anderson's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes, something sharp and knowing.
"She also said that strange things happened there," Alex continued. "Shadows, whispers, people disappearing. And that everyone who's lived there has… died."
Anderson leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest. "Your grandmother is an intelligent woman," he said after a moment. "She wasn't wrong."
The room fell silent, the weight of his words settling over them like a thick fog.
Anderson crossed his fingers again, his gaze shifting to the fire. "Nathaniel Reardon was a man who believed in control; control over people, over land, over fate itself. He wasn't content to simply own property or amass wealth. He wanted dominion, and he saw the Hawthorne land as the key to achieving it."
"Why?" Jordan asked.
Anderson's lips thinned. "Because he believed the land was alive. Or, more accurately, that it held… something. Something old and powerful."
"What kind of something?" Chris asked, his voice skeptical.
Anderson's gaze sharpened. "Do you really want to know?"
Chris hesitated, and Anderson smirked faintly.
"The Hawthornes believed the land was sacred," Anderson continued. "They treated it with reverence, believing it was a gift to be respected and protected. Nathaniel saw their reverence as weakness. He thought their stories of spirits and guardians were superstition, until he started seeing things himself."
"Like what?" Alex asked, his voice quiet.
Anderson turned to him, his expression grim. "Shadows that moved when there was no light. Whispers that came from nowhere. Objects that vanished, only to reappear in places they couldn't possibly be."
"Despite the warnings," Anderson continued, "Nathaniel built Blackwood House. He poured his wealth into it, sparing no expense. He believed that by imposing his will on the land, he could tame whatever forces were at work there. But the house didn't tame the land. It amplified it."
The group exchanged uneasy glances, the tension in the room growing thicker.
"What do you mean, 'amplified'?" Emma asked.
"I mean the house became a focal point," Anderson said. "A magnet for everything dark and unexplainable. The shadows grew darker, the whispers louder. People started seeing things; things that weren't supposed to exist. And then the deaths began."
Anderson leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Nathaniel's son was the first. He'd been in the house less than a year when it happened. Other family members followed soon after until it came to Nathaniel's turn. You know the story. There was no visible cause of death, no physical wounds. But the look on his face… it wasn't natural."
Emma shuddered, her arms wrapped tightly around herself.
"That's… horrifying," Taylor said, though he tried to mask his unease with a weak laugh. "But it doesn't mean the house is cursed."
Anderson's gaze turned cold. "Doesn't it?"
Taylor opened his mouth to respond, but Anderson didn't give him the chance.
"Do you think it's a coincidence that every Reardon who's lived there has met a similar end? Tobias lasted longer than most, but even he couldn't escape it. The house takes what it wants, and it doesn't care how much you believe in it."
"You've seen the letter," Anderson said, his eyes locking onto Alex. "You've read Tobias's journal. You know better than anyone that there's something unnatural about Blackwood House."
Alex shifted uncomfortably. "That's why we're here. To understand it."
"You think you can understand it?" Anderson asked, his voice sharp. "You think you can waltz into that house and figure out what generations of your family couldn't?"
Alex's jaw tightened. "I have to try."
Anderson leaned closer, his voice low and dangerous. "You don't understand what you're dealing with. That house isn't just cursed, it's alive. It remembers. It feeds off the fear, the pain, the blood of everyone who's ever stepped foot inside it. And if you go there, it will consume you too."
The words hung in the air, heavy and oppressive.
Jordan broke the silence, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. "Then explain the letter. If Tobias died years ago, how did Alex get a letter in his handwriting?"
Anderson's gaze flicked to the letter on the table. For the first time, he looked… uncertain.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But if Tobias sent that letter, it means he knew something. Something he wanted you to find."
"Or it means someone's messing with us," Chris muttered.
"And why would they do that?" Jordan countered.
Chris didn't have an answer.
Alex stood abruptly, his hands clenched into fists. "You're telling us all of this, but you're not giving us anything we can use. You're just trying to scare us out of it."
Anderson leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. "Maybe you should be scared."
"Well, we're not," Jordan said, standing beside Alex. Her voice was firm, her eyes locked on Anderson's. "We're going to the house. Whether you think it's a good idea or not."
Anderson sighed, shaking his head. "Stubborn. Just like Tobias."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and surveying them through the smoke.
"If you survive, come find me," he said. "But don't expect me to save you."
Alex slowly stood up, his fingers trembling slightly. "Thanks," he said, his voice tight.
Anderson didn't respond, his gaze was fixed on the fire.