¡THE SHADOW AT BLACKTHORN MANOR|

 

It was a frigid October evening when Sarah arrived at Blackthorn Manor, an ancient, sprawling estate buried deep within the English countryside. The house had been uninhabited for decades, left to decay after its last owner vanished without a trace. Sarah, a historian obsessed with uncovering the truth about Blackthorn’s cursed past, had convinced the caretaker to grant her a weekend alone in the manor.

The moment she stepped inside, the air seemed heavier, colder. Dust hung in the air, disturbed only by the faint echo of her footsteps across the creaking wooden floors. The caretaker had mentioned that the manor had no electricity, so Sarah relied on the flickering glow of a lantern to explore its labyrinthine halls.

Her first night passed uneventfully—until just past midnight. As she sat in the study, poring over faded letters she’d found in a hidden drawer, a soft, almost imperceptible whisper slithered through the silence.

“…Sarah…”

She froze. The sound was faint, but unmistakable. Her name. It came from the hallway.

She dismissed it as her imagination and returned to her work. But then it came again—this time louder.

“…Sarah… why are you here…?”

The lantern's light dimmed, casting her shadow long and jagged against the walls. She grabbed the lantern and stepped into the hallway, her heart pounding.

“Who’s there?” she called out, her voice trembling.

No answer. Only the sound of the wind rattling the windows. She turned to head back, but the moment she did, a door at the far end of the hall slammed shut with a deafening bang.

Against every instinct, Sarah approached the door. She pushed it open slowly, the hinges groaning like a wounded animal. Inside was a nursery. The faint smell of decay hung in the air. A lone rocking chair sat in the center of the room, gently swaying though no one was there.

As Sarah stepped further inside, her lantern dimmed until the room was bathed in near darkness. Then, the whispers returned, louder and more insistent, overlapping voices this time.

“…You shouldn’t have come…”
“…It’s not safe here…”
“…She watches…”

The lantern flickered out completely, plunging Sarah into darkness. She fumbled for matches, her hands shaking uncontrollably. Just as she struck one, she saw it—a figure in the corner of the room.

It was a woman, her face pale and gaunt, eyes sunken and black as pits. Her hair hung in matted strands, and her mouth twisted into an unnatural grin that stretched too wide.

Before Sarah could scream, the woman lunged, and the match extinguished.

When she awoke, she was lying in the study, the lantern beside her. Morning light streamed weakly through the grime-covered windows. She tried to convince herself it was a nightmare, but the bruises on her wrists told another story.

On the final day of her stay, Sarah decided to leave. She packed her belongings hastily and headed for the door. As she glanced back one last time, she saw her reflection in the dusty mirror in the hallway.

But the reflection didn’t move as she did. It stared back at her, smiling that same unnatural grin.

The caretaker never heard from Sarah again.

Sergio Calle Llorens