Chapter 2
1051 Words
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt it the presence in the room, thick as smoke.
She wasn’t being irrational. She knew what she had seen.
The figure. The shadow. The way the room had suddenly felt like a crypt, swallowing her in darkness.
It was just nerves, she told herself. Just the exhaustion of the past few weeks catching up with her. The wedding, the relocation, the overwhelming strangeness of marrying a man who treated her more like a tenant than a wife.
But deep inside, she knew.
This house held secrets. And whatever was lurking in its walls did not want her here.
By the time dawn crept through the high, arched windows, she had come to a decision.
She needed to know.
What was really going on in this house?
Why had every woman who married into the Blackwood family disappeared?
And more importantly…
What exactly was Damian hiding?
---
The hallway was eerily silent as she stepped out of her bedroom, wrapping a robe tightly around herself.
The walls loomed high, decorated with towering oil portraits. They were all of the Blackwood family—men in dark suits, their faces sharp and expressionless, women with lifeless eyes and painted pearls draped over their necks.
As she walked, she realized something unsettling.
None of the women in these portraits looked familiar.
No sign of Damian’s mother. His grandmother. No wives at all.
Just an endless line of Blackwood men.
She shivered, rubbing her arms as she continued down the hall.
Then—
She stopped.
One particular portrait stood out from the others.
Liana took a slow, measured step forward, her breath catching in her throat.
The man in the painting looked exactly like Damian.
Same piercing silver eyes. Same chiseled jawline. Same midnight-black hair that curled at the ends.
But this version of Damian was wearing an old-fashioned black coat, the kind worn in the 19th century. The artist had captured every detail perfectly—from the smoothness of his skin to the eerie intensity of his gaze.
Liana’s fingers trembled as she reached for the brass nameplate below the painting.
Damian Blackwood.
And beneath it, in elegant gold script:
Year: 1892.
Liana’s heart slammed against her ribs.
That—that wasn’t possible.
The date had to be a mistake. Maybe this was a great-great-grandfather who just happened to resemble him?
She forced herself to breathe.
And then—
A shadow flickered across the painting.
Liana froze.
The painted Damian was staring at her. His silver eyes, once locked straight ahead, were now looking directly into hers.
The air turned thick.
That’s not possible.
Her breath hitched, her pulse pounding in her ears.
And then—
A hand closed around her wrist.
She gasped, spinning around.
Damian stood behind her, his grip firm but not painful. His silver eyes burned into hers, unreadable.
"You shouldn’t wander," he said, his voice smooth. Controlled.
But beneath it, Liana could hear something else.
A warning.
She swallowed, her throat dry.
Her gaze flickered between him and the portrait.
He had no reaction to it. No flicker of recognition. No tension in his stance.
As if the painting—the proof—meant nothing to him.
But Liana wasn’t stupid.
“Who is he?” she whispered.
For the first time, something flickered across Damian’s face.
A shadow. A secret.
And then—just as quickly—it was gone.
“No one,” he said. “Stay away from this part of the house.”
He turned and walked away.
Leaving Liana standing there, breathless.
She turned back to the portrait one last time.
No one?
Then why did it feel like the man in the painting was still watching her?
---
Liana spent the rest of the morning pacing her room, her mind racing.
If Damian wouldn’t answer her questions, then she would find the truth herself.
She needed answers.
And there was only one place in this house that might have them.
The library.
---
It took her almost an hour to find it. The mansion was enormous, full of twisting hallways and locked doors. But eventually, she found herself standing in front of massive oak double doors, intricate carvings etched into the wood.
She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the handle.
Then—she pushed them open.
The room was massive.
Rows upon rows of bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with ancient, leather-bound tomes. Dust floated in the golden light streaming through the windows, illuminating a massive fireplace and a mahogany desk that looked untouched.
Liana stepped inside, heart pounding.
Where did she even begin?
She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, scanning the titles. Most of them were about history, business, and philosophy.
Then—
Something caught her eye.
A section of books, hidden in the farthest corner.
Unlike the others, these were old.
Very old.
She pulled one off the shelf, coughing as a cloud of dust rose into the air. The cover was worn leather, the title barely legible.
But as she flipped it open, she froze.
It wasn’t just a book.
It was a journal.
And the first page read:
Property of Eleanor Blackwood.
Liana’s breath caught in her throat.
She turned the page, eyes scanning the delicate handwriting.
“I should have never married him.”
“There is something wrong with this house.”
“I see them in my dreams. The women before me. They whisper in the dark.”
Liana’s hands trembled.
She flipped through the pages frantically, scanning Eleanor’s desperate words.
“He never grows older.”
“They disappear. One by one. And I know… I will be next.”
The words ended abruptly. The last page torn out.
Liana’s stomach twisted.
She slammed the journal shut, her pulse pounding in her ears.
A gust of wind swept through the library, flickering the candle flames.
And then—
A voice.
Soft. Whispering. Right behind her.
"Leave before it's too late."
Liana spun around.
There was no one there.
But the library door—
It was no longer open.
It had slammed shut.
Liana’s breath came fast and shallow.
She wasn’t alone in this house.
And if she didn’t find out the truth soon…
She might not live long enough to escape it.
- Writer
