The Manor

Rudra Sen

Chapter 1: The Arrival

The moors stretched endlessly, cloaked in a veil of mist that clung low to the earth, as though the land itself held its breath. The carriage creaked along the gravel path, its wheels crunching through the frost-laced ground. Inside, Elena Blackwood sat with gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap, her gaze fixed out the window. Her reflection shimmered faintly on the glass, pale and ghostlike against the gray sky. Beside her, Arthur sat in silence, his expression unreadable.

“It’s just ahead,” he said quietly, as though afraid the wind might overhear.

As the path curved, Blackwood Manor came into view—a towering, ivy-choked structure with pointed gables and darkened windows that loomed like watching eyes. It rose from the earth like a slumbering beast, waiting. Elena drew a breath. This was to be her new home. A fresh beginning, as Arthur had promised.

But the house didn’t feel welcoming. It felt… ancient. Untouched, perhaps even resentful of their arrival. Crows scattered from the rooftop as the carriage came to a halt before the grand steps. A lone figure stood at the door—an elderly woman in a stiff gray dress. Mrs. Hargreaves, the housekeeper, Arthur had said.

Elena stepped down, her boots meeting the cold stone. She clutched Arthur’s arm as they approached the door, but her eyes drifted upward—to the highest window in the west tower. For a moment, she thought she saw movement—a flicker, as though someone had stepped away from the glass. But when she looked again, the window was empty.

“Mrs. Hargreaves,” Arthur greeted the housekeeper with a stiff nod. “This is my wife, Elena.”

The woman’s eyes rested on Elena for a moment too long. “Welcome to Blackwood Manor, madam,” she said. But her voice lacked warmth. Her lips barely moved.

Inside, the air was cold and dry, despite the roaring fireplace in the entrance hall. The ceilings soared above them, beams dark with age. Dust swirled in the dim candlelight, disturbed by their arrival. Portraits of long-dead Blackwoods lined the walls, their faces sallow and solemn, eyes following wherever one moved.

“This place hasn’t changed a bit,” Arthur murmured, more to himself than her.

“When was the last time you were here?” Elena asked, unbuttoning her coat.

Arthur hesitated. “Not since I was a boy. After my parents died, the estate was closed. I inherited it when I turned twenty-one, but… I never came back. Not until now.”

Elena nodded. He had always been private about his past. She never pressed. Their love had been swift and consuming. They’d met at a gallery in London, bonded over poetry and loneliness, and within months were married. She knew his silences as much as she knew his touch.

The staff, only a handful of servants, moved with the quiet precision of those long used to silence. Elena was shown to the master bedroom on the second floor. Heavy curtains lined the windows. The bed was massive and carved with clawed feet. Everything smelled faintly of mothballs and something older, muskier.

That evening, they dined alone in the cavernous dining room. Candlelight flickered against the high stone walls. The food was warm but flavorless, as if the house rejected nourishment.

“Do you regret coming back?” Elena asked, tracing her finger along the rim of her glass.

Arthur shook his head. “No. I want us to have a life here. Away from the noise of the city. We could restore the manor, breathe life into it.”

Elena smiled. She loved his dreams. But she couldn’t ignore the weight pressing down on her chest. She felt watched—by the house, by the portraits, by the cold itself. That night, they curled beneath thick blankets. But Elena couldn’t sleep.

Around midnight, she heard a creak. At first, she thought it was the old wood adjusting to the cold. But then came the soft sound of footsteps—slow, deliberate, just outside their room. She sat up, listening. Arthur slept deeply, undisturbed.

The footsteps stopped. Then, a whisper. Faint, female. She couldn’t make out the words.

She rose, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders, and moved to the door. The hallway was empty. Candle sconces along the walls flickered faintly. She peered down the corridor—but there was no one. No sound.

As she turned to go back inside, her gaze was drawn to the far end of the hallway. A corner she hadn’t noticed before, leading to a narrow passage, barely lit. She took a step toward it—drawn by something unseen—but the chill stopped her. It was too cold, as though the very air was resisting her presence.

She shut the bedroom door behind her and slipped into bed. Arthur stirred.

“Everything alright?” he mumbled.

“Just couldn’t sleep,” she whispered.

And yet, when her eyes finally closed, she dreamt—of a woman standing in the hallway, dressed in white, her face hidden by a veil. The woman turned, raised her hands, and opened her mouth wide. But no sound came out. Just a scream that never reached the air.

Chapter 2: The Locked Door

The next morning dawned pale and cold. The moorland fog had crept up to the doorstep, pressing against the windows like a silent warning. Elena stirred from uneasy sleep and turned toward Arthur, who was already buttoning his waistcoat, staring out at the frost-laced glass.

“You were murmuring again in your sleep,” he said quietly, not turning to her. “Something about a woman.”

Elena blinked. “I don’t remember.”

But she did.

The dream still clung to the edges of her thoughts—a faceless woman in white, standing by a door, mouthing words Elena couldn’t hear. The silence had been deafening, more frightening than any scream.

She dressed slowly and made her way through the manor alone. There was so much of it still unexplored. The hallways twisted and forked like the veins of a great, slumbering creature. As she passed through the central corridor on the second floor, she paused.

There. That corner again.

The one she had noticed the night before—only dimly lit and half-forgotten. She turned, the corridor narrowing as she walked. The air here was heavier, damp almost. Dust coated every surface. Faint cobwebs clung to the ceiling.

At the end of the hall stood a door—taller than the others, made of dark, aged oak, and banded with iron. The handle was ornate, carved into the shape of a serpent swallowing its own tail. Below it, a thick iron latch was bolted across, rusted and ancient.

Elena reached out to touch it, but a jolt of cold traveled up her fingers.

“Mrs. Blackwood,” came a voice behind her, making her start.

She turned to find Mrs. Hargreaves, the housekeeper, watching her with wide, unreadable eyes.

“You shouldn’t be down here,” the woman said, voice sharp but strained. “This wing is unsafe. Unstable wood. Mildew. Rats.”

Elena stepped back. “I didn’t know. I was just exploring.”

“Your husband must have warned you.” The woman’s tone softened. “Some doors are best left closed.”

Elena nodded slowly, offering a small smile before turning away. But as she walked back down the corridor, she could feel Mrs. Hargreaves’s gaze pressing against her spine like a needle.

At lunch, she mentioned the door to Arthur. His face paled slightly.

“That part of the manor hasn’t been used in decades. My great-grandmother’s wing. After her death, it was sealed.”

“Why?” Elena asked gently. “It doesn’t look damaged.”

Arthur placed his spoon down, staring into his bowl as though it might offer answers. “There were… stories. About her death. That she wasn’t… right in the head.”

“You mean mad?”

He hesitated. “Something like that.”

Elena wanted to press further but let it go. That evening, while Arthur read in the drawing room and the fire crackled warmly, she found herself drawn again to the second floor.

The corridor was darker this time. Only one wall sconce flickered with light. As she approached the locked door, the air around her grew colder. The candle she carried trembled. She stared at the latch. It was still sealed.

Then she heard it.

A faint knock. From the other side.

Three soft, rhythmic taps. Then silence.

She backed away quickly, her breath catching in her throat. But no sound followed. No movement. Only stillness so thick it pressed against her chest.

She rushed back to the bedroom and didn’t tell Arthur.

That night, the dreams returned.

The woman in white now stood closer. Her face—still obscured—turned toward Elena, and this time she raised her hands and touched her chest, pressing both palms against it as if showing her heart. And then her mouth opened again. Blood poured out. Not from her lips, but from her eyes.

Elena woke screaming.

Arthur grabbed her, holding her tightly, whispering her name. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat, and her hands trembled uncontrollably.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Just a dream.”

But Elena knew better. She had seen the woman’s hand. There was a ring on her finger—a black stone encased in silver. The same ring carved into the door handle of the sealed room.

The next day, she returned.

This time, the door was unlocked.

The latch—once rusted and sealed—hung loose. It had been lifted.

Elena stood frozen, her heart thudding violently. Slowly, she reached for the handle and turned it. The door creaked open with a long groan, the hinges crying out like something in pain.

The room beyond was not crumbling or moldy. It was preserved, as if trapped in time.

Velvet curtains hung heavy over the tall windows. Dust floated in the air like old secrets. A writing desk stood in the corner, beside a cold hearth. A dressing table with a cracked mirror reflected the door behind her.

And in the center of the room was a canopy bed, its sheets untouched, its pillows perfectly arranged. Upon the bed sat a single item—a music box, shaped like a rose.

Elena stepped inside.

She didn’t hear the door close behind her.

But she felt it.

Chapter 3: The Portrait

The air inside the room felt different—denser, like walking through water. Elena’s breath was shallow, each step slow and deliberate. The rose-shaped music box on the bed seemed to call to her with a strange magnetism, like it had waited for her. She hesitated before touching it, her fingers hovering.

Then, gently, she turned the tiny stem on its side.

The box clicked.

A soft melody poured out—haunting, beautiful, laced with sorrow. A lullaby she did not recognize, yet it struck a chord deep within her. She felt a chill crawl up her spine, not from cold, but from memory—one she could not place, but that clutched at her bones.

As the tune played, she turned slowly, her eyes drifting across the room. The furniture, though aged, was perfectly preserved. Velvet drapes, now faded, hung like sentinels over the windows. The walls were lined with delicate wallpaper, floral and intricate. A faint scent of roses and old paper lingered in the air.

And then she saw it.

At the far end of the chamber, half hidden behind a folding screen, stood a tall, dust-covered canvas. Elena approached, the tune from the music box winding down, note by lingering note. She wiped the canvas with a gloved hand, revealing a portrait beneath.

A woman.

Her posture was proud, regal. She wore a high-collared gown of deep burgundy, her hair swept into elegant waves. Her skin was pale, her lips blood-red. But it was the eyes—black, unblinking, alive—that stopped Elena cold.

Because they were her eyes.

The resemblance was undeniable. The cheekbones. The jawline. The tilt of the mouth. Elena stepped back, her chest tightening. It felt like looking into a mirror, and yet the woman in the painting seemed older, colder, carved in grief and fury.

Etched at the bottom of the frame was a brass plate:

Lilith Blackwood (1860–1890)

Her hands trembled as she touched the edge of the frame. How was it possible that she looked so much like Arthur’s great-grandmother?

“Who were you?” she whispered.

Behind her, the music box gave one final, sour note and clicked shut.

Startled, she turned—and caught sight of herself in the cracked dressing mirror. For a moment, she didn’t recognize the face staring back. Her own eyes looked darker, her lips thinner, her expression… different. She blinked, and her reflection snapped back into normalcy.

“Elena?”

She jumped. Arthur stood in the doorway, concern etched into his face. “What are you doing in here?”

“I—I found it open,” she stammered. “The latch was loose. I was curious.”

He walked past her, stopping before the portrait. His eyes locked on Lilith’s painted face. “I remember this,” he said, voice low. “It used to hang in the west hall. But my father had it moved here. Said it frightened guests.”

“She looks like me,” Elena said, her voice barely audible.

Arthur nodded slowly. “Yes. I’ve noticed.”

“Did your great-grandmother… was she like me in other ways?”

He paused. “She was… difficult. My grandfather rarely spoke of her. Just said she died young. Tragic accident. A fire. She was alone in this wing when it started.”

“But there’s no fire damage here.”

“No,” he said. “Which is strange, I admit. That’s why they sealed it. Rumors spread. That the fire wasn’t natural. That Lilith cursed the house.”

Elena glanced around. “Do you believe that?”

Arthur met her gaze. “I believe the manor remembers things. Echoes, perhaps. And some echoes never fade.”

That night, sleep refused to come. Elena lay beside Arthur, her thoughts circling like ravens. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the portrait’s eyes. Cold. Knowing. Waiting.

At midnight, the wind howled louder than usual. Trees scratched against the windows like fingers. She rose and walked toward the dressing table. The cracked mirror reflected her pale face. She reached out to adjust her shawl—and froze.

Her reflection did not move.

She blinked. Raised her right hand. Her reflection lifted the left.

No. No, it wasn’t a reflection at all.

It was Lilith.

Same face, but with something twisted behind the eyes—bitterness, desire, fury. The reflection smiled.

Elena stumbled back. The mirror shattered.

Arthur jolted awake at the sound. “Elena?”

She couldn’t speak.

The shards of glass lay at her feet, glinting in the candlelight. Her face—her many faces—stared up at her from a dozen broken angles.

“I think she’s inside the house,” she whispered. “Lilith.”

Arthur came to her, pulled her into his arms. “It’s just old wood, creaks and shadows. You’re tired.”

“No,” she said. “She’s not gone. She’s watching.”

She didn’t say what she feared most: that she was watching through Elena’s own eyes.

That night, as she finally drifted into restless sleep, she dreamt again—this time not of a woman standing still, but walking through corridors. Touching portraits. Lighting candles with a flick of her finger.

And laughing.

A low, bitter laugh that didn’t belong to Elena at all.

Chapter 4: The Possession

Elena woke with a start. The fire in the hearth had long gone out, and the room had grown icy. Arthur still slept beside her, his breaths even and unaware. Her hands trembled beneath the covers, but not from the cold. Something was wrong. Deeply, intimately wrong.

She could still hear the echo of that laugh. It wasn’t from her dreams—it lingered in her bones, like a memory stitched into her body. She pulled the blanket tighter and looked down at her arms.

Her right wrist bore faint, bruising lines. Thin, like fingerprints. She hadn’t gone outside. She hadn’t fallen. But it looked like someone had gripped her—tightly.

And she could still smell roses.

The scent drifted faintly in the air, sweet and cloying, the same perfume that hung in the old bedroom—the room where Lilith’s portrait watched in silence.

Over the next few days, Elena tried to return to normality. She joined Arthur for breakfast. She walked the gardens. She even tried to sketch, hoping the act would center her. But everything had changed. Her dreams were no longer simply dreams—they were memories. She knew the house now, its hidden stairwells, the way the wind moved through certain chimneys, the shift of sunlight on the eastern tower windows. She shouldn’t know these things.

And worse, the servants had begun avoiding her. Mrs. Hargreaves bowed more stiffly. The gardener refused to meet her gaze. One of the maids dropped a tray when Elena entered the room, muttering something about “eyes like the dead.”

She had seen herself in the mirror earlier. Her pupils were darker. Her lips paler. But more than that—it was the expression. Her reflection stared with a sharpness she didn’t recognize. Like a mask was cracking, piece by piece, revealing something ancient beneath.

Arthur noticed, too. He tried to be kind, but he had begun to keep his distance. He stayed longer in the study, took meals later, and avoided speaking about the west wing entirely.

One evening, alone in the library, Elena pulled down a stack of old journals and estate ledgers from a forgotten shelf. Among them, she found a thin leather-bound book—black, with a small red rose embossed on the front.

No title.

Inside, the pages were yellowed, the ink faded but legible. The handwriting was elegant, looping, and angry.

“He lied. He swore he loved me, and now he stares at that girl like she’s his moon and I am dust. He took vows—what of them now? He will regret his betrayal. The fire is not the end. I will not leave. My love, when denied, becomes eternal.”

Elena turned page after page, heart pounding. The entries grew increasingly erratic—rants about voices, about blood rituals and dark promises. About power earned through pain. About sacrifice.

The last page chilled her.

“He will burn. His descendants will pay. I will live again. I will take the body of another, and I will finish what I began.”

There was no signature. But there didn’t need to be.

It was Lilith’s journal.

The book slipped from her hand and fell open on the floor. From behind her, a gust of cold wind blew—though the windows were sealed. The candles in the room flickered. And in the crack of the book’s spine, she heard a voice.

“Elena…”

She whirled around. No one. Nothing. Just silence.

But she had heard it.

That night, she didn’t sleep at all. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the dark, feeling Lilith rise inside her like smoke. Her body felt foreign now—her arms moved too quickly, her breath deepened without thought. Her voice, when she whispered Arthur’s name, sounded like two women speaking at once.

The next morning, she found herself in the garden—barefoot, shivering, dirt beneath her nails. She didn’t remember leaving the room. She didn’t remember anything.

Arthur stood on the porch, watching her, horrified.

“Elena,” he said gently. “Come inside.”

She stared at him for a long moment before speaking.

“She still loves you,” she said in a voice not entirely her own. “You look like him. That’s why she chose me.”

Arthur’s face drained of color.

“Elena, please—”

“She wants what was taken. She wants revenge.”

He stepped forward and wrapped his coat around her. She didn’t resist.

Inside, by the fire, he poured her tea with trembling hands.

“Elena, you need rest. I’ll send for a doctor in the village.”

She didn’t answer. Her gaze drifted to the mirror above the fireplace. Her reflection was smiling. But her face… wasn’t.

Chapter 5: The Fire and the Past

The fire roared in the hearth, but the chill in the room remained unshaken. Arthur sat opposite Elena, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold. She hadn’t spoken in hours. Her gaze remained fixed on the flames, as though they whispered truths only she could hear.

“Tell me everything,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm.

Arthur looked up.

“About Lilith. About what really happened here.”

He sighed. His eyes were red-rimmed, and there was a deep weariness in his posture. “I was eight the last time I stepped foot in this house. My father hated it. He only brought me here once. My mother stayed away completely. She said it was cursed.”

Elena said nothing.

“She told me that Lilith—my great-grandmother—wasn’t just strange, she was dangerous. She was obsessed with rituals, obsessed with power. They said she was beautiful, magnetic. But when her husband—Jonathan Blackwood—fell in love with another woman, she went mad.”

Elena’s hands tightened on the arm of the chair.

“They say she set the west wing on fire the night Jonathan announced he was leaving her. The girl he loved—her body was never found. Lilith was discovered in the ashes, burned but intact enough to be identified. Except…” He paused, swallowing. “Except there were no remains of the other woman. And no one ever saw Lilith’s body. It was the housekeeper who identified her—based on a ring.”

“The same ring I saw in my dream,” Elena whispered.

Arthur nodded slowly. “There were always rumors. That she didn’t die. That she had done something dark. Bound her soul to the manor. My father never spoke of it directly, but I used to hear him praying—‘keep her locked, keep her sleeping.’”

“And now she’s awake.”

Arthur looked at her then. Truly looked. “You believe it too?”

Elena didn’t answer. She stood, walked to the fireplace, and stared into the dancing flames. “I don’t just believe it,” she said. “I feel her. In my bones. In my breath. She remembers everything—and now, so do I.”

There was silence. Arthur rose slowly and approached her.

“We need to leave,” he said. “We’ll go to London. See a doctor. We’ll burn the west wing if we have to. Sell the estate. Just—come back to me, Elena.”

But she didn’t turn.

“She’s not done,” she said softly. “She wants to finish what she started.”

That night, Arthur slept on the couch in the study. Elena didn’t sleep at all. Instead, she walked barefoot through the manor’s shadowed halls, guided by memory that wasn’t hers. She found herself back in the sealed room—Lilith’s room—where the music box sat, open now, its melody soft and slow.

On the dressing table lay a bundle of papers—ritual diagrams, faded incantations, a single lock of hair tied with a red ribbon.

And in the mirror, Lilith stood behind her.

Not reflected—present.

Elena spun around. No one. But the presence remained.

“Why me?” she whispered.

The wind outside howled in answer. The candles flickered and bent as though nodding.

Elena placed her hand against the cold glass of the mirror. For a moment, her reflection rippled—Lilith’s face emerged, whispering something that vibrated through the walls.

Suddenly, a blast of heat tore through the room.

The fireplace erupted into flames, though no match had been struck. The walls shimmered. Paint peeled. The bed covers fluttered like fabric caught in a storm. Elena backed away, heart thundering.

Footsteps echoed from the corridor. Arthur burst in.

“Elena!”

He stopped short at the threshold. The heat, the glow—it all died the moment he appeared. The room was normal again.

She looked at him with eyes not entirely her own. “She wants to be whole.”

“Who?” he whispered.

Elena stepped toward him. “Lilith. She’s not just inside this house. She’s inside me.”

He grabbed her shoulders. “Then we’ll cast her out. We’ll find a way. A priest, a ritual—”

“She doesn’t want to be cast out,” Elena said. “She wants to be loved again. She wants you.”

Arthur froze. “Me?”

“You look like him,” she said. “Jonathan. The same eyes. The same voice. She never let go. That’s why she chose me. Because through me, she could return. Be with you again.”

Arthur stepped back, trembling. “You’re my wife. You’re Elena.”

She touched his cheek. “Then save me. Because I don’t know how much longer I can hold her.”

That night, the manor was restless.

Doors slammed on their own. The piano in the drawing room played a broken waltz. A chandelier in the foyer fell—shattering, narrowly missing a servant. The house pulsed, alive with tension.

In the sealed wing, Lilith’s portrait wept. Real tears—thick and dark—ran down the canvas.

And in her old room, Elena stood in a circle of candles, her voice chanting words that were not hers.

Chapter 6: The Final Embrace

 

The manor breathed in silence before the storm.

Dawn had not broken, but the sky over the moors pulsed red, as if the sun hesitated to rise upon what waited below. Inside, the corridors of Blackwood Manor had grown darker, even with the candles lit—shadows crept along the walls, stretching farther than they should, slithering ahead of footsteps that never came.

Elena stood in Lilith’s chamber, surrounded by a circle of flickering candles. Her nightgown clung to her skin, soaked with sweat despite the cold air. She murmured ancient words, torn from Lilith’s diary, voice steady—too steady. The room trembled around her.

A mirror shattered. Curtains rose as if wind had surged through. But the windows were shut.

The candles pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat.

And outside the door, Arthur stood frozen, his hand hovering above the handle, listening.

He had watched his wife disappear inch by inch over the past week—her smiles faded, her silences deepened, her reflection began to twitch with a delay. He had heard her speak in voices—hers and another’s. And now, through the door, he heard her speak only in Lilith’s tongue. Low. Possessive.

He pushed the door open.

“Elena,” he said softly.

She turned. Her eyes—Elena’s eyes—glimmered, but not with recognition. Something darker lived there. A storm, just behind her irises. Her lips curved upward. “You came.”

“Stop this,” he pleaded. “This ritual—this madness—it will take you away from me.”

“She never left,” Elena said. “She was waiting to be remembered. To be desired again.”

The flames around the room flared high. The music box began playing again—its melody warped, notes bending unnaturally, rising and falling like a cry.

Arthur stepped forward. “Then let her speak to me. If she wants me—tell her to speak through you. I want to see her.”

Elena tilted her head.

And then, her eyes changed.

Her posture shifted.

The air around her rippled.

When she spoke next, it was Lilith’s voice. Smoky, regal, bitter.

“You betrayed me once,” Lilith said. “You chose another. Left me to rot in fire. And now, I’ve come back. Through her. To finish what you denied me.”

Arthur’s voice trembled. “That wasn’t me. I am not Jonathan.”

“But you carry his soul,” Lilith replied. “And I… carry yours. We were never finished.”

He stepped closer. “And what happens to Elena if you take her?”

“She is mine,” Lilith said. “She offered her grief. Her emptiness. I filled it.”

“No,” Arthur said. “She loved. She chose me.”

The flames died suddenly. Smoke filled the room. Elena collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath.

Arthur ran to her, held her tightly. “Come back to me. Please. Don’t let her win.”

Elena’s body trembled in his arms. Her fingers clawed at his back, one moment pulling him close, the next trying to push him away. She choked, coughed, screamed—and then, her voice broke in two.

“Arthur—” came Elena’s voice.

And then: “Don’t let go—” came Lilith’s.

The room began to collapse. Books flew from shelves. Glass shattered. The manor groaned.

Arthur pulled Elena to her feet. “We have to go.”

But Elena didn’t move.

“I can’t,” she said. “She’s still inside. She won’t let me leave.”

“You’re stronger than her,” he said. “You are real. This is your life. She only has your body if you give it.”

Tears filled Elena’s eyes. “But I feel her pain. Her rage. Her hunger for love. I understand her.”

He cupped her face. “Then forgive her. Set her free. Not with fire. Not with fear. With love.”

The candles flickered one last time.

And then silence.

Elena closed her eyes.

The wind stopped.

The mirror cleared.

And for the first time, it was only Elena’s reflection.

The house groaned. A final sigh.

The music box stopped mid-note.

And Lilith… was gone.

 

Later that morning, the sun broke through the fog. A rare warmth fell over Blackwood Manor.

The sealed wing remained untouched, though the aura had shifted. The shadows no longer lingered. The servants breathed easier.

In the west chamber, Lilith’s portrait still hung. But now, her expression had changed. Her lips curled—not in rage or hunger, but in rest. As if something unfinished had finally been laid to sleep.

Arthur and Elena stood hand in hand at the entrance of the manor, watching the horizon burn gold.

“Will she ever return?” Elena asked.

“I don’t think she needs to,” he replied.

And as they walked back inside together, the house no longer sighed, or moaned, or watched.

It simply stood.

Silent. Free.

Alive.