The iron gates groaned as they swung open, scraping against the gravel path. Crimson Hall loomed ahead, its stone façade stained dark by time and weather. The sky hung low, heavy with storm clouds, as the wind whispered through the overgrown hedges. Each gust carried the faint scent of decaying roses.
Clara Hastings gripped the steering wheel tighter, her heart quickening as she drove up the long, winding driveway. The manor had been in her family for generations, though she'd never set foot inside until now. When her great-aunt Eleanor died, the estate passed to her — a surprise inheritance she wasn't sure she wanted.
As her car rolled to a stop, Clara glanced up at the windows. For a moment, she swore she saw a shadow slip behind the tattered curtains of the third-floor window. She blinked, and it was gone.
"Just my imagination," she muttered, stepping out into the cold air.
The front door creaked open with a reluctant groan, revealing a grand foyer choked with dust and shadows. A massive chandelier hung overhead, its crystals dulled with age. Clara hesitated, feeling the weight of the house settle over her like a heavy cloak.
"Hello?" Her voice echoed through the empty halls. No answer.
She set her bags down and wandered deeper into the manor. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet, each step kicking up little clouds of dust. The walls were lined with faded wallpaper, the pattern barely visible beneath the grime. Family portraits hung at odd angles, their subjects' eyes following her as she passed.
Then she heard it — a soft whisper, faint and distant.
Clara froze. "Is someone there?"
The whisper faded, replaced by the rhythmic tick, tick, tick of a grandfather clock somewhere in the shadows. She followed the sound down a long corridor, the air growing colder with each step. The floor felt uneven, almost as if the house itself shifted beneath her.
At the end of the hallway stood a massive wooden door, slightly ajar. A cold draft whispered through the crack. Pushing it open, Clara stepped into what must have once been a sitting room. The fireplace was cold, its hearth choked with ash. An old piano sat in the corner, its keys yellowed with age.
She turned toward the window, catching her reflection in the cracked glass. But there was something else — a flicker of movement behind her. Spinning around, she found the room empty.
The whisper came again. Louder this time.
Clara…
Her heart leapt into her throat. "Who's there?"
The piano keys pressed down with a soft plink, though no one sat at the bench. The window rattled, and the curtains billowed despite the lack of wind.
Then she saw it — a faint shadow gliding across the far wall. It moved slowly, deliberately, its form barely distinguishable from the darkness. Clara stumbled backward, knocking over a chair. The noise echoed like a gunshot in the silence.
The shadow paused. For a long moment, the room was deathly still. Then the chandelier overhead swayed, its crystals tinkling softly. The grandfather clock in the hallway struck once, the deep chime vibrating through the floorboards.
And then she heard it — faint, distant, but unmistakable.
A child's laughter.
Clara bolted from the room, her heart hammering in her chest. She raced down the corridor, her footsteps echoing behind her. As she reached the foyer, the front door slammed shut on its own, sealing her inside.
She grabbed the handle and twisted, but it wouldn't budge. The whispers grew louder, swirling around her like a cold wind.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, the house fell silent.
Clara stood there, gasping for breath, her back pressed against the heavy oak door. The silence pressed in on her, thick and suffocating. And in the quiet, she heard it again.
A soft creak, like footsteps on the stairs.
Slowly, she turned her head.
There, at the top of the grand staircase, stood a figure. Pale and motionless, its eyes gleamed in the darkness. The shadows twisted around it, and as Clara's breath caught in her throat, the figure slowly raised a single, trembling finger — and pointed directly at her.
The candles in the chandelier flared to life, casting flickering shadows across the walls.
Clara stumbled backward, heart racing. Whatever was haunting Crimson Hall… it knew she was here.
And it was watching.