BLOOD DOESN'T LIE

He was standing in the window when we arrived. I saw him before the van even stopped a figure on the third floor, still as stone, watching us through glass that hadn't been cleaned in decades. My heart slammed against my ribs. I blinked. He was gone. "Amelia? You coming?" My mother's voice pulled me back. The van doors were open. My family was already unloading boxes onto the cracked driveway, acting like we hadn't just driven into a nightmare. Ashwood Manor rose from the fog like something that had crawled out of the earth and never left. Three stories of black stone, dead vines, and windows that watched like eyes. The porch sagged. The roof twisted. The whole thing looked like it was breathing. And I was the only one who noticed. That's the thing about seeing spirits. You learn to keep your mouth shut. You learn that when you tell people there's a dead woman standing in the grocery store aisle, they don't thank you they send you to therapy. So I stopped telling. But I never stopped seeing. I grabbed my bag and stepped out of the van. The cold hit me instantly sharp, wrong, hungry. Summer had vanished somewhere between the trees. The air here tasted like ash and old grief. "Isn't it beautiful?" Dad said, grinning like a man who had made a terrible mistake and refused to see it. No one answered. Sarah, my older sister, stared at the house like it had personally offended her. "It's a dump." "It's a historic estate," Dad corrected. "And it was practically free." "Things are free for a reason," I muttered. He didn't hear me. Or he chose not to. My little brother Danny sprinted toward the front steps, oblivious to everything except the adventure in his head. "I call the biggest room!" "Danny, wait—" Mom started, but he was already gone, the front door groaning open beneath his hands. And then I felt it. A pulse. Not from the house. From inside the house. Something ancient and aware, stirring awake after a long, patient sleep. It knew we were here. It had been waiting. My feet moved before my brain caught up. I crossed the threshold and the temperature plummeted ten degrees, twenty, until my breath misted in front of my face. The foyer was massive. Dust-covered furniture. A chandelier hanging by a thread. A grand staircase spiraling up into darkness. And at the top of the stairs… Him. He stood in the shadows, barely visible but I saw him. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair. A face that might have been beautiful once, before rage carved it into something terrifying. His eyes locked onto mine. Black. Bottomless. Burning. I froze. I’d seen spirits before lost ones, confused ones, sad ones drifting like smoke. This was different. This one wasn't lost. He knew exactly where he was. And exactly what he wanted. Revenge. The word sliced into my mind not my thought, his. I gasped, stumbling back. His lips didn't move, but I heard him anyway. A voice like gravel and smoke, whispering directly into my skull. You shouldn't have come here. "Amelia?" I spun. My mother stood in the doorway, frowning. "Are you alright? You look pale." I turned back to the stairs. Empty. He was gone. But the cold remained wrapped around me like hands that refused to let go. "I'm fine," I lied. "Just… adjusting." She didn’t believe me, but she let it go the way she always did. We didn’t talk about what I saw. Easier for them. My room was on the second floor small, cold, wallpaper peeling like dead skin. The window overlooked a garden long surrendered to weeds and rot. I dropped my bag on the bed and stood very still Waiting. I didn't have to wait long. The temperature plummeted, burning my lungs. Frost crept across the window like skeletal fingers. My blanket slipped from my shaking hands. Darkness swallowed my room. Then footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Dragging. My breath hitched. A hand charred, blistered slammed against the wall beside me. And the room tore open. Suddenly I was standing in the old Ashwood yard. Night. Wind howling. Flames rising. Men held someone down. Gabriel. He struggled, wrists bleeding from the ropes. “Please don’t—” A fist cracked across his jaw. Another blow. He fell to his knees. A voice snarled, “Kill him, Gabriel everything he has will be ours!” A knife flashed. No narration. No explanation. Just: Steel plunging. Gabriel choking. Blood hitting the dirt. Men shouting. Boots kicking. Fire spreading. Gabriel crawling. Begging. Reaching. Burning. And her. The woman he loved Elena. White dress torn. Face twisted with satisfaction. Hands steady. Watching him die. She didn’t move to help. She didn’t care. She had betrayed him. Her smile sharper than any blade. She wanted everything he had and she would get it. Gabriel screamed raw, human, agonizing. “ELENA! PLEASE!” The heat slammed into me. I tried to run. My legs refused. The fire roared louder, louder Then a hand shot out of the flames. His hand. Blackened. Peeling. Trembling with rage. It grabbed my ankle. I screamed FULL VOICE my throat tearing. My bedroom snapped back into place. But he was in it. Half-burnt face. Hollow eyes. Breathing like death. He leaned close. Smoke curled from his mouth. “You carry their blood.” I jolted awake with another scream loud enough to shake the house. Seconds later, my parents burst into the room Dad in his boxers, chest heaving, looking around like he expected a murderer. Mom scrambled across the floor, to grab me terrified. They flicked the light on. Nothing was there. What happened?!” Dad barked. My lips trembled. My heart hammered. “…just a nightmare,” I whispered. The lie tasted like ashes. Dad ruffled my hair, forcing a reassuring grin. "That’s all, Amelia. Just a dream. Go back to sleep." Mom pressed a kiss to my temple. “It’s fine, baby. Nothing’s here.” They left. Footsteps faded. The door clicked shut. Alone, my chest heaved. My fingers clawed at the sheets. My legs felt weak, like they had forgotten how to hold me upright. The room was still. Silent. Safe. And yet… it wasn’t. I could still see him. Half-burnt, hollow eyes, smoke curling from his mouth. Gabriel, reaching from the fire, his hand brushing my ankle. Elena, smiling, unmoved as he screamed. I pressed my face to my pillow, willing the images away. My heartbeat pounded so loud it drowned the quiet. Every shadow became a movement, every creak a warning. I didn’t look at the window. I didn’t need to. I already knew the darkness was alive. Watching. Waiting. I lay there, shaking, silent tears burning my cheeks, wishing sleep would take me again or never leave me at all. Even with my eyes closed, the nightmare didn’t end. It had followed me here, into my room, into my skin, into my bones. And I knew truly knew that Ashwood Manor was hungry.