Elsa's POV

The road narrows the closer I get. The trees hang lower here, their crooked limbs curling over the gravel path like they want to strangle it. Or maybe me.

I shouldn’t be here. That’s what they said in town. The shopkeeper wouldn't even take my money when I mentioned the name Oberoi Manor. He just gave me a weird look and muttered “the cursed place” under his breath.

They think I’m stupid for coming here. But it’s mine now. My mother’s family left it to me in her will, and I couldn’t stay away.

I shift in my seat, hands tightening around the steering wheel as Manor rises in the distance—tall, blackened by time, and smothered in a fog that clings too low to the ground.

No GPS signal. No neighbors. Just silence.

I should be scared.

But I’m not.

I feel something else. Not comfort. Not peace. Something deeper. Familiar. Like a name you almost remember on the tip of your tongue. Like déjà vu wrapped in a funeral shroud.

I park just outside the iron gates. They groan when I push them open, resisting me like the house itself doesn’t want me to come any closer. Or maybe it does—and it wants to watch me struggle.

Manor is huge. Gothic. The kind of house that shouldn't exist outside of horror movies or bad dreams. Black stone. Dozens of windows, all shut. All dark. Except one. The top-left window. I swear I saw a flicker—movement. A curtain twitching. My heart kicks in my chest, but I blink, and it's gone.

The wind howls as I unlock the front door. The key is old, brass, heavy in my hand. My fingers shake a little as I push the door open. It creaks, echoing into the dark hallway like the house is sighing awake.

The air inside smells like time. Dust, rotting wood, something metallic beneath it all. My boots thud against the floor, loud in the silence. Everything is still, but it doesn’t feel abandoned. It feels… paused. Like something was living here, breathing here—and only just stepped away when I arrived.

Paint peels from the walls like old scabs. The chandelier overhead is covered in cobwebs. Sheets hang over the furniture like corpses dressed in white. I tug one down from a nearby couch and dust explodes around me.

I cough, waving a hand in front of my face, and mutter, "Charming."

A soft creak behind me makes me freeze.

I spin around.

Nothing.

Just the staircase, winding up into darkness.

I swallow the lump in my throat and tell myself it’s just the house settling. Old wood. Old pipes. Nothing more.

But that’s a lie.

I can feel it.

There’s something here.

A weight in the air. Like eyes dragging over my skin. I rub my arms, suddenly cold, and step further into the hall. There are paintings on the walls—ancient ones, dust-dulled and cracked. Portraits of pale people with hollow eyes. They all look like they’re staring at me.

The hallway leads to a sitting room. I flick the light switch.

Nothing.

Of course. No electricity. Only Moonlight casting Glow.

I sigh, digging out my flashlight from my bag. The beam cuts through the darkness, catching something on the mantle—an old photograph. I pick it up carefully. The frame is silver, tarnished. In the photo, a woman stands in front of the manor, wearing a dark gown, her hands clasped in front of her. She looks like she’s smiling, She looks like...me, but the corners of her mouth are too sharp, too cold.

I shiver and put the photo down.

I wander through the rooms, getting the layout. Parlor. Dining hall. Kitchen. Everything is covered in dust and silence. But every few steps, I feel it again—that crawl down my spine, like I’m being watched.

I check over my shoulder. Nothing.

I take the staircase slowly, hand trailing along the old wooden rail. Each step creaks under my weight. The air grows colder as I climb. When I reach the landing, the hall stretches left and right. I pause, staring down the corridor. There it is—that window. The one I saw from outside. The curtain’s still.

I walk toward it, heartbeat thudding in my ears. The doors I pass are all closed. I stop in front of one—faded wood, cracked handle—and open it.

A bedroom. Huge. Empty. Moonlight spills across the floor in silver pools. The bed is still made. The sheets don’t even look dusty.

That’s not right.

No one’s been here in decades, and yet…

The wind outside rattles the windowpane. I walk to it, pull back the curtain. The glass is cold under my fingers. I look out, searching for something—anything—to shake this feeling.

I see the path I came in on. The trees swaying. My car parked outside the gate.

Nothing else.

And yet—I feel it again.

Breathing.

Not mine.

Behind me.

I freeze. My skin erupts in goosebumps. My heart slams against my ribs. I don’t turn around. I can’t.

Then, warm air brushes the back of my neck.

And a whisper—low, male, so close it touches something deep inside me:

"You finally came back."

To be continued.....