The silver moon's curse

Langley manor

Eva's POV

The rain had stopped by the time I reached Langley Manor, but the fog hadn’t lifted. If anything, it grew thicker, curling around the iron gates like smoke from a dying fire. My cab driver who had been silent for most of the ride after Moonvale’s forest swallowed the car hesitated to open the trunk.

“You sure this is the place?” he asked, peering through the windshield. “Feels like something out of a horror movie.”

I almost laughed, but the truth was, I wasn’t so sure either. I had only seen Langley Manor in old photographs tucked inside my mother’s jewelry box dusty black-and-white images with frayed edges, and always the same house in the background: ivy-covered walls, tall gables, and windows like eyes. Now that I stood in front of it, it felt… larger. Older. And alive.

“I’m sure,” I replied, gripping the strap of my duffel bag.

I stepped out into the mist. The gates creaked open with a metallic groan, as if the house already knew I’d arrived. As I made my way up the gravel path, the fog swirled at my ankles like something breathing. The crunch of stones under my boots echoed in the stillness.

Langley Manor was massive up close looming, proud, and weathered by time. Ivy strangled the stone walls, and moss crawled up the pillars like green lace. The windows were tall and narrow, most of them shuttered, though I swore one of them blinked. I froze, squinting up at the second floor.

Nothing. Just shadows and glass.

Then the front door opened.

Grams.

She was smaller than I remembered from my childhood, a compact woman in a floor-length charcoal dress, her white hair coiled into a tight bun. Her eyes, however, were the same: stormy gray, sharp as a hawk’s, and heavy with unspoken rules.

“Eva,” she said.

Her voice was like the manor itself, elegant, cold, and impossible to ignore. I swallowed the knot in my throat and forced a step forward.

“Hi, Grams,” I said softly.

She didn’t move to hug me. I didn’t expect her to.

“Come inside,” she said instead. “It’s not safe to linger out here after dusk.”

Not safe? I wanted to ask what that meant, but the look in her eyes made it clear some questions were better left unspoken in Langley Manor.

The foyer was breathtaking in a way that made my skin crawl. The ceilings rose like a cathedral’s, held up by wooden beams carved with symbols I didn’t recognize. A massive chandelier dripped with crystal teardrops, its light dim and flickering. The floors gleamed beneath ancient rugs, and the air smelled of lavender, old books, and something faintly metallic.

“This house,” Grams began, walking slowly ahead of me, her steps echoing, “has been in our family for generations. It is alive. It listens. It remembers.”

I hesitated, wondering if I’d misheard her. “Did you say... alive?”

She turned, her eyes locking onto mine. “It will test you. And if it accepts you, it will protect you.”

The silence that followed made the air heavier. I stood there, clutching my bag, unsure whether to laugh or run. Protect me from what?

Grams continued down the hallway, and I had no choice but to follow.

As we walked, I noticed things. Portraits lining the walls pale faces with dark eyes, each one staring directly at me. One painting, of a woman in a violet dress, seemed to shift slightly as I passed. I stopped and turned.

She was still.

“Don’t stare too long,” Grams said, not looking back. “The house doesn’t like it.”

O-kay.

We reached a long corridor that twisted left and right like a maze. Grams led me to a heavy oak door at the end of the west wing.

“This will be your room,” she said, opening it.

I stepped inside and was instantly hit by a sense of familiarity I couldn’t explain. The room was spacious, with a four-poster bed, lace curtains, and an antique vanity. The window overlooked the backyard, where trees loomed like silent guards. A fireplace stood in the corner, unlit but clean. On the nightstand was a small candle already burning. I hadn’t lit it.

“Dinner is at seven sharp,” Grams said. “We do not tolerate lateness. The house doesn’t like disorder.”

“Right,” I said. “Rules.”

She turned to me then, her expression unreadable. “There are many. You will learn them in time. But tonight, remember these three: One, never go into the east wing. Two, never open your window after midnight. And three…” She paused, gaze tightening. “Never answer if the house calls your name.”

My skin prickled. “Why would the house call my name?”

She didn’t answer. She simply closed the door behind her.

I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, trying to shake off the chill in my bones. It wasn’t just the weather it was the feeling of being watched. The room itself felt like it was holding its breath.

I ran my hand over the blanket. The fabric was soft, velvet, but warm. The candle flickered once, twice. Then a breeze blew through the room.

The window was closed.

“Okay,” I whispered to myself. “This is fine. Normal. Old houses creak. Air shifts. It’s all explainable.”

Except none of it felt explainable. My mother never talked about her childhood here. All I knew was that she’d left Langley Manor at eighteen and never looked back. And now, after her and Dad’s accident, I was here. Alone. With the woman who raised her, and a house that apparently followed its own logic.

Dinner was served in the great hall, which looked like it belonged in some gothic castle. A long table stretched down the center, though only two places were set: mine and Grams’. Candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls. The food smelled amazing roast chicken, herb potatoes, fresh bread but I had no appetite.

Grams watched me from across the table.

“Did the room suit you?”

I nodded. “It’s beautiful.”

She sipped her tea. “The manor chooses the room it thinks you’ll need. Not always the one you want.”

I frowned. “How does a house choose anything?”

Grams set her cup down. “Langley Manor was built on ancient ground. It’s more than stone and wood, it's memory. Spirit. The land feeds it. Protect it. It listens to those who respect it, and punishes those who don’t.”

I stared at her. “So… you’re saying the house is like… sentient?”

“Not in the way you think.” She cut a slice of bread with a silver knife. “But it knows. It watches. It decides.”

My fork hovered above my plate. “That’s… not creepy at all.”

She allowed a small smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

Later that night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling beams. The candle on the nightstand had burned halfway down, its flame steady. Outside, the wind howled through the trees. Somewhere down the hall, floorboards creaked not the casual settling of an old home, but footsteps. Slow. Purposeful.

I sat up.

“Grams?” I called.

No answer.

The footsteps stopped.

I got up and tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear to it. Nothing.Then… Eva.

A whisper. So faint, I wasn’t sure I heard it at all. Eva...

My heart nearly stopped.

I spun, eyes darting to the window. Still closed. The candle flickered violently now, casting shadows that moved too quickly across the walls.

“Not funny,” I muttered, backing away from the door.

Eva. Come downstairs.

The voice was soft, almost gentle. Feminine. But it wasn’t Grams.Nope.

I climbed back into bed, yanked the covers up to my chin, and closed my eyes tight.

I did not answer.

Morning came with golden light slicing through the curtains. Birds chirped. The air was warmer. Almost like the house had exhaled.

I dressed quickly and went downstairs, the night’s events sitting heavily in my chest. Grams were already in the garden, snipping herbs with precise movements.

“You heard it, didn’t you?” she said without looking at me.

I froze. “The voice?”

She nodded once. “It always tries the first night. The house tests you.”

I swallowed. “What happens if someone answers?”

Grams clipped a stalk of rosemary and dropped it into her basket. “Then they won't sleep here again.”

She met my eyes, and the warning in her stare was crystal clear.

That evening, I found myself standing by the east wing. The hallway was roped off with velvet cord, the kind you see in museums. Dust coated the floor, but I could tell something had walked there recently. A line of faint footprints led into the darkn

ess beyond the corridor.

I didn’t cross the line.

Not yet.

But the house had noticed me.

And I had a feeling it wouldn’t stop there.