DARK CRAVINGS

CHAPTER THREE:STRANGE PORTRAIT

The sun never seemed to rise fully over the Monroe Estate.

Even when morning came, it arrived in muted greys and weary golds that clung to the landscape like fog. Aurelia stood by the window of her childhood room, arms wrapped around herself, staring out at the wild garden that separated the manor from the forest beyond.

The roses had overgrown the hedges. Vines crept along the statues of forgotten angels. And beyond it all, the forest loomed—tall, dense, and hungry.

A red crescent moon had hung in the sky last night. She had seen it from her bed, flickering behind branches, blood-colored and low. It hadn’t looked like an omen.

It had looked like a promise.

Her phone had no signal. The estate’s Wi-Fi was “under repair,” and the only clock that worked in her room was the old cuckoo on the wall, which chirped an eerie call at the top of every hour.

She dressed slowly, choosing a simple black sweater and dark jeans. Practical. Safe. No heels. No makeup. The kind of outfit that helped her feel invisible.

There was to be a dinner tonight. A formal one. Her father had already left a dress for her, laid out like an offering on the bed in a white box. She hadn’t dared open it yet.

Downstairs, the mansion was quieter than the grave.

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The dining room was empty.

So was the study, the drawing room, the library.

The silence wasn’t peaceful—it was deliberate. Heavy. Like someone was holding their breath just out of sight.

The staff avoided eye contact. Some wouldn’t even speak when she addressed them. Aurelia tried to ask about her father, but was met only with rehearsed lines and nervous glances.

The only person who looked at her directly was the head housekeeper, an older woman named Mrs. Whitlow. Her face was lined, her eyes sharp with wisdom and worry.

“You shouldn’t be here alone, Miss Monroe,” she said as she passed Aurelia in the hallway.

Aurelia turned. “Then why hasn’t anyone else stayed?”

Mrs. Whitlow hesitated. “Some places… remember things, even after the people are gone.”

“What kind of things?”

She didn’t answer. Just walked away, her footsteps vanishing into the hush of the hall.

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That afternoon, Aurelia found herself in the west wing.

It was forbidden as a child—sealed behind a pair of heavy black doors with ornate carvings. Her father had always kept it locked. But today, when she touched the brass handle, it turned easily.

The air inside was colder.

Dust floated in sunbeams like falling ash. The carpet had long since faded, and most of the furniture was covered in white sheets. It smelled of age, damp paper, and something else beneath—something metallic.

The walls were lined with portraits—faces she didn’t recognize. Some human. Some… less so.

One painting stood out.

It was massive—framed in black wood, mounted above the fireplace. It showed a man seated in a throne of obsidian. His face was in profile, shrouded partially in shadow. His features were striking—strong jawline, high cheekbones, a mouth set in a cruel smirk.

He didn’t look like her father. But he looked powerful.

At the base of the portrait, carved into the gold plate, was a single word:

“Domitius.”

She didn’t know what it meant. But it made her stomach twist.

As she stared, a chill swept over her like breath against her neck.

She spun, heart racing—but the room was empty.

She wasn’t sure she believed that.

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