The salt-laced wind whipped at Eleanor's face as she wrestled the ancient wrought iron gate open. It groaned in protest, a sound that seemed to echo the unease settling in her stomach. Havenwood. Even the name felt heavy, laden with unspoken stories. She'd chosen the town for its isolation, its promise of quietude, a place to escape the suffocating memories that clung to her like shadows. Her family… the accident… it was a wound that refused to heal, a constant ache in her heart. She hoped Havenwood, with its rugged coastline and whispering pines, could offer some respite, a chance to breathe again.
The cottage, perched on a bluff overlooking the churning grey sea, was even more dilapidated than the estate agent's photos had suggested. Paint peeled from the weathered clapboard, and the garden was a tangle of overgrown weeds, a testament to years of neglect. But Eleanor didn't care. The isolation was what she craved. She pushed the gate closed, the clang echoing in the stillness, and dragged her suitcase up the overgrown path.
The front door, a heavy oak affair, was slightly ajar. Hesitantly, she pushed it open and stepped inside. Dust motes danced in the slivers of sunlight filtering through the grimy windows, illuminating a scene of faded grandeur. The air inside was thick with the scent of damp earth and something else… something indefinable, almost metallic. A shiver ran down her spine.
The living room was sparsely furnished with antique pieces draped in dust sheets. A large fireplace dominated one wall, its hearth cold and empty. Eleanor ran a hand over the mantelpiece, a layer of grime coating her fingers. This place had been empty for a long time.
As she explored the rest of the cottage, a growing sense of unease settled over her. The kitchen, with its chipped porcelain sink and rusting stove, felt particularly oppressive. The wallpaper was peeling, revealing glimpses of a darker, floral pattern beneath. A cold draft seemed to emanate from the corners of the room, despite the closed windows.
Upstairs, the bedrooms were equally neglected. The master bedroom, overlooking the sea, was the largest, but the view was obscured by a thick layer of fog that had rolled in from the ocean. Eleanor opened a window, and the damp, salty air flooded the room. She took a deep breath, trying to dispel the feeling of claustrophobia that was beginning to creep in.
As dusk began to fall, the wind picked up, howling around the corners of the cottage like a banshee. The fog outside thickened, obscuring everything beyond the windows. Eleanor lit a fire in the living room fireplace, the crackling flames offering a small measure of comfort. She made herself a simple meal and sat by the fire, trying to lose herself in a book.
But the silence of the cottage was unsettling. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the wind outside, seemed amplified in the stillness. She kept imagining she could hear whispers, faint and indistinct, carried on the wind. She dismissed it as her imagination, the product of her grief and exhaustion.
Later, as she lay in bed, the whispers seemed to grow louder, closer. She strained to hear them, but they were just beyond the edge of comprehension, like words spoken in a language she didn't understand. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through her weariness. She pulled the covers over her head, trying to block out the sounds, but they seemed to penetrate the very walls of the cottage.
Suddenly, a loud bang from downstairs made her jump. Her heart pounded in her chest. She held her breath, listening. Silence. Then, another bang, followed by the distinct sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor.
Eleanor's breath hitched. She knew she should stay in her room, safe under the covers. But a strange compulsion, a morbid curiosity, drew her out of bed. She grabbed the heavy poker from beside the fireplace and crept downstairs, her bare feet silent on the cold wooden floor.
The living room was shrouded in darkness, the only light coming from the dying embers in the fireplace. The dragging sound had stopped. Eleanor held the poker tightly, her knuckles white. She scanned the room, her eyes straining to pierce the gloom.
Then, she saw it. A shadow, moving in the corner of the room. It was tall and indistinct, shifting and swaying like a phantom. Eleanor's breath caught in her throat. She took a step forward, the poker raised.
"Who's there?" she whispered, her voice trembling.
The shadow stopped moving. For a moment, everything was still, silent. Then, a whisper, close to her ear, sent a shiver down her spine.
"Welcome to Havenwood, Eleanor."