The manor loomed in the distance as Cormac Darragh approached on horseback, the fog shrouding him like a ghostly blanket ascending in from the sea. The darkened sky above seemed to press down upon him, heavy with secrets and history. He had always hated this feeling, this oppressive weight that clung to the air like an unwelcome guest. The estate had belonged to his family for generations, with the Darragh influence woven deeply into the fabric of the town. The manor stood as a monument to that enduring legacy, a place steeped in tradition and, for Cormac, an inescapable sense of duty.
Brannagh’s hooves struck the gravel drive with rhythmic precision, the sound carrying through the still evening air. The grounds were pristine, the careful handiwork of their devoted groundskeeper evident in the neatly trimmed hedges lining the path and the perfectly maintained stonework of the courtyard. Even in the dimming light, the manor exuded a stately, well-kept elegance that belied its age.
As Cormac approached the manor, he noted Finnrian waiting at the front steps, the teenager’s dark hair falling into his eyes as he craned his neck to see through the thickening fog. Dressed in a simple work shirt and trousers that emphasized his lean frame, Finnrian stood awkwardly, one hand clutching the reins of another horse—a dappled mare tethered to the stone hitching post near the entrance..
“Welcome back, Da,” Finnrian called, his voice warm and clear. The two horses immediately began snorting and nickering as soon as they were next to each other. Finnrian gently rubbed Caorán's neck while his free hand rested protectively on Brannagh’s bridle.
Cormac smiled, a rare lightness easing the tension in his shoulders.
“Evening, boy. You should be inside,” Cormac replied, his tone softer than the words suggested. He handed the reins of his own horse—a sleek black gelding named Brannagh—to him. The horse nickered softly, bobbing it's head, its breath a warm mist in the cool evening air.
Finnrian shrugged, but there was a glint of pride in his eyes. “Mrs. Byrne said you’d be back by sundown. Thought I’d make sure everything was ready for you, Sir.”
Cormac dismounted with practiced ease, his boots landing on the cobbled stones with a firm thud. Brannagh nickered softly, nudging Cormac’s shoulder as if to demand acknowledgment.
“Brannagh always expects the royal treatment,” Cormac said, rubbing the horse’s neck fondly. He passed the reins to Finnrian with a nod. “Get them both settled, boy. Make sure Brannagh gets his rubdown. He deserves it after today.”
“Yes, Sir,” Finnrian replied, his gaze lifting briefly to meet Cormac’s before darting away in shy respect. He turned toward the stables, leading both horses with steady hands. His quiet diligence warmed Cormac more than he cared to admit.
With Finnrian gone, the full weight of the manor’s presence settled over him. Its high, arched windows glinted faintly in the fading light, dark and watchful. For a fleeting moment, Cormac thought he caught a quick movement in one of the upper windows, but he dismissed it as a trick of the gathering dusk.
The heavy oak door creaked as he pushed it open, the familiar scent of aged wood and saltwater hit him. It was a strange mix of nostalgia and unease, and Cormac had never quite gotten used to it. He tossed his gloves onto the marble entry table and ran a hand through his dark auburn hair, already feeling the magnitude of his family’s legacy pressing down on him.
Mary, stepped forward with practiced ease, a warm, welcoming smile softening the formality of her uniform.
“Ard Tiarna,” she greeted him, her tone respectful but familiar. She held out her hands for his gloves and jacket, her movements precise and efficient.
“Thank you, Mary,” Cormac said, his voice steady but kind. He met her gaze briefly, his appreciation genuine.
“Of course, Ard Tiarna,” she replied, giving a small bow before retreating toward the coatroom.
For a moment, Cormac stood alone in the entry hall. The polished stone floor seemed to absorb the faint echoes of his boots as he moved further in, the weight of the house settling over him once again. The manor’s presence was all-encompassing, its quiet demands woven into every creak of the floorboards and every flicker of the candlelight.
“Maeve?” Cormac called, his voice resonating through the high ceilings and long corridors of the manor. It echoed faintly, as though the house itself were considering his presence before answering.
A moment later, his younger sister appeared at the top of the grand staircase, her silhouette framed by the soft, fading light streaming through the tall windows behind her. Maeve’s fiery auburn hair was unbound, tumbling around her shoulders like a curtain of sunlight caught at twilight. She wore a flowing dress of deep ocean blue, the kind of shade that mirrored the turbulent waves of Cuan na Gealaí, its fabric rippling gently with her every step. The neckline and cuffs were trimmed with delicate silver embroidery, subtle yet elegant, like the glint of starlight on water.
Her usual smile played on her lips, a knowing glint in her emerald-green eyes that made it clear she had sensed his arrival long before he called out to her.
"Still not much for small talk, are you?" Maeve teased, her voice carrying easily down to him, light and melodic against the manor’s heavy silence.
Cormac sighed, raking a hand through his disheveled hair. “Just come down here, Maeve. I don’t need your teasing today.”
Her bare feet made no sound on the polished wood as she descended, each step graceful and unhurried, as if she had all the time in the world. There was something timeless about Maeve, something that made her seem as though she belonged more to the history of the house than to the present. The hem of her dress swished softly around her ankles as she reached the bottom step, her presence immediately filling the space with a strange mixture of warmth and mischief.
“You’re looking more and more like a ghost every day,” she commented lightly, her gaze drifting to the tall, arched windows that framed the darkening sky.
“Funny,” Cormac muttered, his tone dry. “I feel like one.”
Maeve tilted her head, studying him with an intensity that belied her teasing demeanor. “That’s no way for an Ard Tiarna to carry himself. You’ll scare away our visitors with that dreary face.”
Her words carried a touch of humor, but there was also a thread of something more serious beneath them—an unspoken acknowledgment of the burdens he carried.
Cormac looked away, his eyes finding the darkened windows. Outside, the first stars were beginning to emerge, faint pinpricks of light against the encroaching night. The manor loomed around them, silent and watchful, as though waiting for whatever came next.
Maeve seemed to float toward the hearth. The fire crackled softly as she knelt, her elegant dress pooling around her. She added another log with practiced ease, her movements graceful, almost ritualistic. The fresh wood caught quickly, sending up a burst of golden sparks that danced into the chimney. The flames undulating higher, their glow casting moving shadows that stretched and twisted along the carved stone walls, imbuing the room with a sense of life.
The scene should have been comforting—a familiar warmth on a cool evening, a sibling’s quiet presence—but for Cormac, it only served to deepen the ache of the past. The room felt crowded, though they were the only two there, as if the ghosts of their ancestors lingered just out of sight, watching, waiting. Rúndiamhair Shíoraí Manor had always been full of memories, of whispers that refused to fade. And no matter how hard he tried, Cormac could never escape them.
“You know,” Maeve began, her voice quieter now, almost reverent, “it’s been a long time since we’ve had anyone new stay here.”
Her words lingered in the air, drawing Cormac’s gaze from the shadows of the room to her. She remained by the hearth, silhouetted against the light of the flames, her face softened by their glow. For all her mischief and levity, Maeve carried the same burdens he did—though she wore it more lightly, like a familiar garment.
“I’m well aware,” Cormac said, his voice measured but distant. His eyes glanced briefly toward the heavy oak door at the far end of the hall, his thoughts wandering back to the man he had met earlier that day—the enigmatic Caleb.
Maeve perched on the arm of a nearby chair, her expression unreadable. “Just that the manor likes its peace. But now that it’s letting someone in…” She let the sentence hang, a small, knowing smile curling her lips.
“What are you getting at, Maeve?”
She shrugged, though her eyes glinted with something playful. “The manor doesn’t test just anyone, you know. It chooses carefully.”
The quiet murmur of waves from Cuan na Gealaí carried through the open terrace doors, a gentle reminder of the manor’s solitude. Unable to sit still, Cormac moved toward the terrace, his boots gently scraping along the stone floor. The cool night air greeted him as he stepped outside, its sharpness cutting through the lingering warmth of the day. He rested his hands on the weathered stone railing, his fingers brushing over its rough surface as he leaned forward.
The estate sprawled out before him, its rolling hills bathed in the fading light of the August sun. The golden hues clung to the landscape, painting the ivy-covered manor walls in shades of amber and green. The ivy swayed lightly in the breeze, catching the sun’s final rays as if reluctant to let go of the day. Beyond the hills, the dark line of the sea stretched out to the horizon, its surface reflecting the first stars of the encroaching night.
Cormac traced the cold, familiar stone of the railing, letting its solidity anchor him. The beauty of the land had always felt bittersweet to him—a reminder of both the legacy he was bound to uphold and the isolation that came with it. The air was thick with humidity, yet the encroaching night brought a coolness that hinted at change. There was a charge in the atmosphere, an unspoken anticipation that prickled at the edge of his senses.
Behind him, Maeve’s voice broke the stillness, soft but steady. “Do you think he’ll stay?”
Cormac didn’t turn, his gaze fixed on the shadowed hills. “I don’t know. Something tells me the choice might not be entirely his.”
The horizon darkened slowly as the sun dipped lower, and the full moon, just days away, cast its silent presence over the land. The long shadows stretching across the grounds seemed to grow darker, deeper, as if they were reaching for him, pulling him closer to something he couldn't name. His green eyes shifted toward the edge of the estate, where the land rolled into the distance. The sense of something watching, something old and eternal, lingered just out of reach, and Cormac couldn’t shake the feeling that the earth itself was remembering something from long ago—something he was meant to know, but couldn't yet grasp.
His thoughts were interrupted by a teasing voice from behind him, reaching through the veil of his thoughts and pulling him back to the present.
"Are you going to stand there all night, or are you going to help me prepare for our guest?”
Maeve stood in the open doorway. Her slight frame and radiant face, a contrast to the more severe appearance of the manor. Her sharp blue eyes sparkled with mischief, a playful glint that Cormac had come to rely on over the years.
He chuckled softly, turning toward her. "You know, Maeve, sometimes I think the manor itself is the only guest that ever truly stays."
Maeve’s lips curved into a smirk. "Don’t let it hear you say that. You wouldn’t want to anger the spirit now, would you?"
She stepped aside, ushering him into the heart of the manor. Cormac followed her through the grand archway, into the common room—a space that had witnessed countless stories over the years, each more mundane than the last, each with a piece of history attached to it. But today, the room felt different. There was a thickness to the air, an undercurrent of something not quite right, as if the manor itself were holding its breath.
The soft light of the Grain Moon, the Gealach an Ghránaigh, filtered through the high windows, casting long shadows across the stone floors. The fire in the hearth crackled, its warm glow a stark contrast to the chill that seemed to seep from the very walls of the manor. Every corner, every nook, seemed to hold a secret. Cormac had grown up here, but it still unnerved him—this feeling that something unseen was watching. It wasn’t the kind of paranoia that people spoke of in jest. It was a palpable presence, something ancient and unknowable.
"What’s so special about this guest?" Cormac asked, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity but also a trace of weariness. He had learned long ago that the world outside the manor was unpredictable, and it often brought with it chaos and change—things he wasn’t sure he was ready for. The manor, though old and full of secrets, was a place of stability, of permanence, and Cormac had always preferred it that way.
Maeve’s grin widened, her steps quickening as she led him toward a group of travelers seated by the hearth. "Not just any guest," she said, her voice lowered to an almost conspiratorial whisper. "This one’s special. Caleb."
Caleb.
The name lingered in the air like an unfamiliar melody, one that Cormac wasn’t sure if he recognized, yet it felt oddly like the beginning of a story—a story that had somehow already started before either of them could understand it.
There was a strange certainty in Maeve’s voice that Cormac couldn’t ignore. She was never one to indulge in the fantastical, but her words about the manor’s "tests" made something cold flutter in his chest.
Before he had the chance to respond, the faint but firm voice of Mrs. Byrne reached them from the doorway.
"Master Cormac, Mistress Maeve, the gentleman you were expecting has arrived. Mr. Caleb Harrison."
Cormac’s chest tightened involuntarily. He wasn’t entirely sure why. Both heads turned as Caleb stepped into the room, his presence commanding attention despite his casual demeanor. He carried himself with a quiet confidence, his grey eyes sharp and searching as they scanned the space, lingering briefly on the fire before settling on Cormac. His shoulder-length wavy hair, died red like the sky before a storm, reflected the firelight, his scruffy beard framed a jawline that looked as though it could have been carved from stone. Tattoos peeked out from under the rolled sleeves of his well-worn leather jacket, the dark ink trailing along his forearms like whispers of a life lived outside the rules..
He wasn’t particularly tall, but there was something about the way he moved—fluid, precise—that gave the impression of someone accustomed to navigating unfamiliar territory. His restless energy was palpable, a coiled spring ready to snap, and it clashed with the stately calm of the room. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes, giving him an air of intrigue that was hard to ignore.
“Thank you, Mam.” Cormac’s gaze lingered on Caleb, assessing. He couldn’t quite place it, but something about the man unsettled him. There was a sharpness to his eyes, a restlessness that hinted at secrets buried too deep to uncover. Caleb seemed like a man who carried the weight of his own story, one he wasn’t ready to share.
Caleb’s eyes moved to Maeve, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “You must be Maeve. It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Maeve replied, though there was a glint of something playful in her eyes as she met Caleb’s gaze. “Welcome to Rúndiamhair Shíoraí,” Maeve grinned, slipping off the arm of the chair to greet their guest. “You’ve already passed the first test—making it up the road in one piece. Not everyone does.”
Caleb's gaze shifted toward the portraits of the Darragh ancestors hanging above the fireplace. The large, dark frames stretched up to the high ceiling, their painted eyes following every subtle movement he made, their stern faces frozen in time. Something about the way the dim light speckled the portraits made them appear... alive. Caleb couldn’t tear his eyes away from them, something drawing him in.
His voice, when he spoke, was different—thinner, almost reverent, as though the words didn’t entirely belong to him. "There’s something about this place, though, isn’t there?”
The change in his tone was subtle, but it was there. His usual grounded, skeptical edge was gone, replaced by something ethereal. His shoulders tensed, his posture shifting into something stiffer, more rigid, as if he was physically aligning with the stillness of the paintings. His eyes glazed over, not quite seeing the room around him, but something deeper—something beyond.
Maeve’s hand went still, and a coldness crept up her spine. Cormac was quick to react, but not fast enough. As the last of Caleb’s words hung in the air, the flames danced erratically in the hearth. It felt as if the very air in the room thickened, suffocating them. Caleb turned away from the portraits, his usual demeanor slipping back into place as swiftly as it had vanished.
Maeve exchanged a glance with Cormac, her eyes wide with unspoken understanding. The brief but unmistakable look between them told a story of concern, a shared recognition that something had just occurred—something they couldn’t yet explain.
"I..." Caleb trailed off, clearly unaware of what had just transpired. He adjusted the collar of his shirt, clearly trying to brush off the lingering unease that seemed to have crept over him.
"Just..." Cormac began, his voice tight with restrained emotion, but he didn’t finish. Instead, he looked at Maeve again, and for the first time since Caleb had entered the room, Maeve’s playful demeanor faltered. She stood taller, her eyes narrowed slightly as she watched Caleb, then glanced at Cormac again.
"Never mind," Cormac finally said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "It’s nothing."
But Caleb didn’t miss the look exchanged between them, nor the subtle change in their demeanor. His mind raced, but before he could ask what was going on, the atmosphere seemed to settle, the flickering of the fire calming, as if the house itself had let out a breath.
Unaware of the ripple he’d caused, Caleb walked toward the window, as though trying to shake off the odd moment. The manor, however, seemed to stir behind him, and the shadows cast by the fire seemed to linger a little longer than they should have.
Maeve stepped in. “Don’t mind him, Caleb. He’s always like this.”
“I don’t mind.” Caleb’s tone was soft, but there was a certain weight to his words. He was the kind of man who never said more than he needed to, but when he did speak, it carried meaning.
As Cormac’s gaze fell upon the man standing by the windows, he found himself pausing. There was something about him, something that unsettled him, and it wasn’t that he just became a messenger for the ancestors. Caleb had a rugged, disheveled appearance—untamed dark hair and a scruff that suggested days of travel rather than a well-kept man. His features were sharp, his expression hidden in the shadows of the hearth’s glow. Cormac’s first instinct was to say something—anything to break the uncomfortable silence that had suddenly stretched between them—but the words caught in his throat.
"Caleb." Cormac repeated, his voice low, almost as if he were testing the name.
Caleb’s dark eyes met Cormac’s with an unsettling intensity, and in that moment, a spark of something ancient seemed to pass between them. Caleb didn’t smile; instead, he studied Cormac, as if trying to see past the façade the younger man had carefully cultivated for years. Cormac shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, feeling exposed despite his position of authority in the manor.
"Can I get you a drink?" Cormac asked, his voice warm but carrying a hint of distance that seemed to instinctively rise between them. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but something about Caleb—about the way his eyes pierced into Cormac’s soul—made him instinctively keep his guard up.
Caleb gave a small nod, his gaze never leaving Cormac’s. "Whiskey. If you have it."
Maeve rolled her eyes dramatically. "What else?"
Cormac made his way toward the bar, his thoughts swirling. As he poured the whiskey, he couldn’t shake the nagging sense that he was missing something—something crucial about this man sitting by the fire, with those unsettling eyes that seemed to see too much.
The manor had always had its quirks, its ghosts, its strange happenings that defied explanation, but this felt different. It was like a shift had occurred, like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for something. Or someone.
He handed the drink to Caleb, their fingers brushing briefly as they exchanged the glass. For a fleeting moment, Cormac felt a spark—electric, almost imperceptible. But it was there.
He shook it off quickly, returning to the warmth of the hearth. "Maeve tells me you’re a musician," Cormac said, trying to fill the silence with some semblance of normalcy. He didn’t like the tension in the room, and he certainly didn’t like the way his pulse had quickened when their hands had touched.
Caleb took a long drink from the glass, the amber liquid swirling in the low light. "Used to be," he said with a shrug, as if the past no longer held much meaning. "Now I just get by."
"With your odd jobs, I assume?" Cormac ventured, raising an eyebrow.
"Something like that," Caleb replied, his lips twitching into a faint, unreadable smile. His eyes shifted toward Maeve, and there was something in his gaze that made Cormac’s stomach tighten. "I’m always looking for something."
Caleb swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his gaze steady. “Looking for something,” he replied simply.
“What kind of something?” Maeve pressed, her curiosity evident.
Caleb’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll know it when I find it.”
There was a long silence, and for the first time in years, Cormac allowed himself to relax—if only a little. The manor’s haunting presence, its legacy of spirits and forgotten voices, was something he had grown up with. It was part of the fabric of the place.
"The spirit here has been a part of the family for centuries," Cormac said, his voice taking on a more serious tone. "It looks out for us... and for the manor."
Caleb raised an eyebrow, intrigued but skeptical. "So, you actually believe in ghosts?"
Cormac’s eyes twinkled with a mix of mischief and solemnity. "I don’t know if I believe in ghosts in the traditional sense, Caleb. But I do know that this place holds something… sacred. Something worth preserving. And if the spirit helps with that, then I’ll take all the help I can get."
Caleb studied him for a long moment, as though weighing Cormac’s words, before leaning back in his chair with a half-shrug. "Well, I guess we’ll see what this place has in store for me."
As the night wore on, the manor seemed to settle around them like an old, familiar blanket. The crackling of the fire, the soft shuffle of footsteps in the halls, the distant calls of the seabirds—all of it felt like a moment frozen in time. But beneath it all, Cormac couldn’t shake the feeling that something was stirring in the shadows.
Something that had been waiting for Caleb’s arrival.
He only hoped he wasn’t too late to stop it.
The once vibrant conversations between the three began to die down, and the oppressive quiet of the manor seemed to swell in the spaces between their words. The fire crackled in the hearth, but even its warmth could not dispel the chill that was creeping in from the shadows of the room. There was a weight in the air, something palpable that made every footstep seem louder than it should be.
Cormac tried to shake off the uneasy feeling that had begun to settle in his chest. It was not uncommon for the manor to stir after dark; there were old stories, passed down through generations, about things that moved in the corners of the house when no one was looking. Cormac had never paid them much attention—until now.
He stood and paced to the large window that overlooked the garden. The moonlight bathed the landscape in a pale, ethereal light, casting long shadows across the manicured lawns and into the wild thicket beyond the fence. It was beautiful, but also desolate. The garden, like the manor, seemed stuck in time—a place where life and death mingled, where seasons passed but never seemed to change.
"Beautiful night, isn’t it?" Maeve’s voice broke the silence, though she stood several feet away, leaning casually against the stone pillar that separated the common room from the grand staircase.
Cormac turned toward her. "Yes. But I can’t help but feel like the place is alive tonight."
Maeve raised an eyebrow. "Alive, you say? Are we speaking of the manor, or something else?"
He didn’t answer immediately. The manor had always had a strange pull on him. A connection that felt like it ran deeper than mere bloodlines. The Darragh family had always been guardians of the land, protectors of its history. The manor was part of that history, as much a part of him as his own heart. But it wasn’t just history that clung to this place. It was the present too, in ways he didn’t quite understand.
"You know what I mean," he said, finally breaking the silence. "There’s something... different about tonight."
Maeve’s expression softened for a moment before she took a step forward, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor. "The land has a way of revealing itself to us," she said, her voice quieter now, almost reverential. "But it doesn’t do so easily. The manor’s always been full of secrets. Some are buried deep, some are right under our noses. But all of them come out eventually."
Cormac studied her for a moment, noting the weight in her words. Maeve had never been one to indulge in superstitions or the fanciful talk of ghosts that seemed to drift through the air whenever the manor's name was mentioned. But the way she spoke now felt different—more like someone who had seen the things they only dared to whisper about in the dark.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked, his voice low.
She met his gaze with a long, lingering look before answering. "Because I think the time is coming when we can no longer ignore what’s happening here. The manor is calling, Cormac. It always does. And when it does, you’d better be ready."
Before he could respond, the sudden sound of a door creaking open drew their attention. Caleb had risen from his seat near the fire, his glass now empty, and was moving toward the back of the room with a purpose that struck Cormac as both deliberate and curious. It was strange, though, that he hadn’t made any noise as he moved—no scraping of his boots on the floor, no shifting of his weight. It was as if he had melted into the shadows.
"Where are you going?" Cormac called out, his voice a bit sharper than he intended.
Caleb paused for a brief moment before turning around. His dark eyes glinted in the half-light, his gaze direct. "To see what the manor has for me."
The words sent a chill down Cormac’s spine. There was an unspoken challenge in Caleb’s tone, something defiant, as though he had already decided that whatever lay hidden within the manor, he would uncover it—no matter the cost.
"Stay out of the north wing," Cormac warned, his voice firm.
Caleb raised an eyebrow, but didn’t speak. Instead, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning back toward the hallway that led deeper into the heart of the house. Cormac watched him leave, the faintest tremor of unease rising in his chest. There was something dangerous in Caleb’s pursuit of whatever lay hidden here. He could feel it, like an unseen force pulling the man deeper into the manor’s secrets.
"Don’t let him go alone," Maeve muttered under her breath, her eyes narrowing as Caleb disappeared into the shadows. "The manor doesn’t take kindly to intruders. And Caleb..." She trailed off, as though unsure whether to continue or not.
Cormac swallowed hard, unsure of what exactly he feared. Was it Caleb’s presence, or something far older that had been waiting in the dark? His instincts screamed for him to go after the man—to stop him from uncovering whatever was hidden in the north wing—but something told him that this was a path they were all meant to walk, whether they wanted to or not.
Before he could act on his thoughts, the soft sound of footsteps returned—this time, not from Caleb, but from further down the hall. It was a slow, deliberate step, the unmistakable rhythm of someone who had made this walk before. Cormac turned sharply, his hand gripping the edge of the mantle.
Maeve’s hand rested on his shoulder. "You hear it too, don’t you?"
He nodded, his throat dry. "It’s not just the wind tonight."
"No," Maeve agreed quietly. "It’s never just the wind here. The manor’s always trying to tell us something. We just have to listen."
But listening was something Cormac had never been good at—not when it came to the manor’s secrets. He had been raised with them, taught to guard them, to protect the family legacy. But now, with Caleb in the house and the weight of Maeve’s words pressing on him, Cormac felt that something was about to be set in motion that they couldn’t undo.
A sudden gust of wind rattled the window, and the door at the far end of the room creaked open. The dim light flickered, casting odd, distorted shadows along the stone walls. There was something unnerving about the way the shadows stretched, bending toward the center of the room, as if they were alive, aware.
"I need to find him," Cormac said, his voice tense. "Before it’s too late."
Maeve hesitated for a moment, then nodded, her expression unreadable. "We’ll go together. Whatever’s out there, we face it as a family."
The words lingered in the air, and for a brief moment, Cormac felt the bond between them grow stronger. He had always known that the manor would call on him—on them—all in time. But now, with Caleb at the heart of it, Cormac felt a stirring in the air, a chill that settled deep within his bones.
And he knew then, as they moved toward the darkened hallway, that whatever waited in the north wing would change everything.
As the evening wore on, Cormac couldn’t shake the feeling that Caleb was meant to be here, that his arrival was no mere coincidence. There was something in the air, something that crackled beneath the surface, waiting to be unearthed. The manor had always had a way of revealing its secrets in time. But now, with Caleb in their midst, it felt as though the past was starting to stir, ready to claim what was owed.
The evening turned into night, and manor seemed to take on a life of its own. The firelight cast mysterious shapes on the walls, their movements almost deliberate, as though the shadows themselves were curious about the visitors. The wind outside began to pick up, howling faintly against the old stone walls, carrying with it a distant scent of salt and heather.
Cormac sat back in his chair, his gaze shifting to Caleb, who appeared completely at ease despite the growing tension in the room. Caleb leaned forward, running a finger along the rim of his empty glass, his expression unreadable. It wasn’t just the man’s presence that unnerved Cormac; it was the way Caleb seemed to absorb the room, as if he belonged here in a way that defied reason.
“So,” Caleb said suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Do you think the spirit here is protective… or possessive?”
Cormac frowned, caught off guard by the question. “What makes you ask that?”
Caleb shrugged, a hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Places like this… they hold on to things. Stories, people, secrets. Sometimes they protect them, sometimes they don’t let them go. It’s hard to tell the difference.”
Maeve, perched on the arm of a nearby chair, tilted her head thoughtfully. “It’s an interesting way of putting it. What about you, Caleb? Have you ever lived somewhere that didn’t want to let you go?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. For a moment, Caleb didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced toward the window, where the darkness pressed against the glass like a living thing. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair.
“Maybe,” he said finally. “But some places… they let go of you whether you’re ready or not.”
There was something in his tone that brought a suffocating emptiness. Cormac wasn’t sure if it was sadness or something darker, but it lingered in the space between them, an unspoken weight. Maeve seemed to sense it too, though she chose to deflect the tension with her usual lightheartedness.
“Well, this place has certainly never let go of us,” she said, gesturing around the room. “And it never will, not if Cormac has anything to say about it. He’s practically married to the manor.”
Cormac rolled his eyes, though he couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Someone has to take care of it.”
“Or maybe it’s taking care of you,” Caleb murmured, his words almost too quiet to hear. But Cormac heard them, and they sent a shiver down his spine.
Later that night, after Maeve had retired to her room and Caleb had retreated to the guest quarters, Cormac found himself wandering the halls of the manor. The air was colder than usual, and the creaks and groans of the old building seemed louder in the silence. He was dressed in a rich, deep green that was almost black in the dim light, its heavy velvet fabric swishing softly with each step.
The deep folds of the robe billowed around him, the soft, warm fabric offering little protection from the coolness creeping through the manor’s stone walls, but he didn’t mind. The robe was a comfort, a shield against the oppressive quiet of the house and the restless thoughts that churned in his mind. Underneath, he wore a simple black tunic, the soft fabric of which clung just enough to his physique to suggest the strength he often hid behind his formal attire. His dark hair, untamed from sleep, fell in soft waves around his face.
The robe was his armor now—rich, but casual, a reflection of his need for solitude as he moved silently through the familiar hallways. The manor’s shadows stretched long, and the silence of the house seemed to press in on him. The cold stone floors beneath his bare feet felt cool, though the heat of his thoughts made him restless, like he was being drawn to something deeper, something unknown within the walls of the place he had always called home.
His footsteps carried him to the library, a room he often turned to for solace. The walls were lined with shelves of ancient books, their spines cracked and faded from centuries of use. The scent of leather and parchment was comforting, a reminder of his family’s long history.
But tonight, even the library felt different. The shadows were deeper, the silence more profound. As Cormac ran his fingers along the edge of a nearby desk, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t alone.
“Can’t sleep?”
The voice startled him, and he turned quickly to see Caleb standing in the doorway, his expression unreadable. He leaned casually against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest.
“What are you doing here?” Cormac asked, his voice sharper than he intended.
Caleb shrugged, stepping into the room. “Could ask you the same thing. Thought I’d explore a bit, see what makes this place tick.”
Cormac narrowed his eyes. “The manor isn’t just a curiosity, Caleb. It’s a legacy.”
“I get that,” Caleb said, his tone even. “But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s alive. I can feel it.”
The question caught Cormac off guard. He had always been aware of the manor’s presence, its almost sentient quality, but he had never spoken about it with anyone—not even Maeve. The idea that Caleb, a complete stranger, could sense it too was both unsettling and oddly validating.
“What are you getting at?” Cormac asked, his voice wary.
Caleb moved closer, his gray eyes meeting Cormac’s with a piercing intensity. “Places like this… they don’t just exist. They remember. They hold on to things—pain, love, loss. And sometimes, they choose people.”
“Choose people for what?” Cormac’s voice was barely above a whisper.
Caleb’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Then, without another word, Caleb turned and left the room, leaving Cormac alone with his thoughts and the oppressive weight of the manor’s secrets.
Outside, the wind had grown stronger, rattling the windows and sending leaves skittering across the stone terrace. Cormac stood at the window, staring out into the darkness. The moon cast a pale light over the grounds, illuminating the twisted branches of the ancient oak trees that bordered the estate.
Somewhere in the distance, a low, mournful sound echoed through the night. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but it sent a chill down Cormac’s spine. He couldn’t tell if it was the wind or something else, something older and far more unsettling.
As he turned away from the window, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glass. For a brief moment, he thought he saw another figure standing behind him—a shadowy shape that disappeared as soon as he blinked.
The manor was awake, and it was watching.
The first light of dawn filtered softly through the tall windows of Rúndiamhair Shíoraí Manor, casting pale golden streaks onto the polished wood floors. Outside, the world was waking slowly; birdsong mingled with the faint rustle of leaves in the morning breeze. The storm of the previous night had left the air cool and damp, its remnants lingering as mist over the rolling hills.
Silhouetted by the soft glow of morning light spilling through the windows, Maeve paused, one hand resting lightly on the banister. Her dark hair tumbled loosely over her shoulders, framing her face in soft waves that caught the golden light. She was wrapped in an elegant velvet dressing gown of deep sapphire blue, its rich fabric catching the faint morning glow and adding an almost regal air to her presence. The gown’s flowing sleeves and cinched waist accentuated her graceful figure, though her bare feet peeking out beneath the hem betrayed her comfort in the manor’s quiet intimacy. Her usual smile played on her lips—a mischievous curve that suggested she’d been up long enough to already get into trouble.
“You’re up early,” she noted, descending the stairs with a grace that matched the quiet elegance of the manor. “Couldn’t sleep?”
Cormac smiled faintly, though the weight of the night before still lingered in his expression. “Something like that,” he replied, watching her with a mixture of fondness and curiosity. "The storm left me restless."
Maeve reached the bottom step and tilted her head, her gaze sharp despite her easy demeanor. “Restless? Or worried about your new guest?”
Cormac’s expression faltered, but he said nothing, only glancing toward the east wing where Caleb’s room was tucked away. Maeve followed his gaze, her smile fading slightly. "Secrets have a way of coming to light in this house, Cormac," she said softly. "You should know that better than anyone."
“I’m well aware.” Cormac glanced at the door, his thoughts momentarily drifting back to the man he had met during his last journey into town —the mysterious Caleb.
“I wasn’t talking about him,” Maeve continued, her voice growing more serious. “I mean us. The family. This place. It’s just the two of us now, Cormac. And we can’t keep living in the past.”
Cormac looked at her, a forboding look darted across his face. “You don’t understand. This place... it’s more than just walls and old memories. It’s everything we have left.”
Maeve paused, her hands stilling as she looked at him. “And it’s killing you.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked toward the large window overlooking the estate’s grounds. Beyond the meticulously maintained gardens, the ocean stretched out to the horizon, dark and foreboding. The manor had been in the Darragh family for generations, but Cormac was the last of his line. The weight of that responsibility was suffocating.
“We need to let go, Cormac,” Maeve said softly, walking up behind him. “You’re not your father. You’re not your grandfather. You don’t have to carry the past on your shoulders.”
“I don’t have a choice,” Cormac muttered, his voice distant. “I promised.”
Maeve shook her head, exasperated. “Promises are not curses. Let it go.”
The faint creak of a floorboard drew Cormac and Maeve’s attention as Caleb stepped into the hall. He looked like someone caught between rest and waking—a few strands of his hair sticking out in defiance, his usual scruff a shade heavier after a restless night. Despite the new clothes he now wore, a crisp linen shirt tucked into well-fitted trousers, there was an unmistakable air of dishevelment about him. He glanced down at himself, tugging absently at the sleeve as though still unsure how he’d come to be wearing them.
“Morning,” Caleb murmured, his voice rough with sleep as his eyes darted between Cormac and Maeve. “I don’t suppose I could trouble either of you to tell me where these came from—or who decided I needed a bath last night?” His gaze lingered on Cormac, one brow raised in suspicion.
Cormac chuckled softly, the sound as much amusement as exasperation. “The clothes are yours now, courtesy of the manor’s stores. Mrs. Byrne likely drew the bath. You can thank her later—she prides herself on keeping guests presentable.”
Caleb frowned slightly, clearly unused to such care. “I thought it was you,” he admitted, his tone a mix of genuine gratitude and confusion.
“I only ensure the manor’s guests are comfortable,” Cormac said smoothly, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “Mrs. Byrne sees to the details.”
“Efficient,” Caleb muttered, running a hand through his already mussed hair as if that might tame it. His grey eyes moved to Maeve, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “Maeve. You look well.”
“Thank you,” Maeve replied, though there was a glint of something playful in her eyes as she met Caleb’s gaze. “And you’re still looking for answers, I see.”
He offered a wry smile. “I think I’m always looking for answers.”
Maeve chuckled, turning back to the fire. “Answers are overrated.”
“Perhaps.” Caleb’s gaze shifted to the portrait of the Darragh ancestors that hung above the fireplace. The eyes of the long-dead family members seemed to follow his every movement, their expressions frozen in time. “There’s something about this place, though, isn’t there? It feels like it’s waiting for something.”
“It’s waiting for the past to leave us alone,” Cormac said, his voice hardening. He hadn’t meant to sound so bitter, but the words slipped out before he could stop them.
Caleb’s eyes swept Cormac's face, studying him for a moment before he spoke. “I get the sense you’re haunted by something, Cormac. Something more than just the manor.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Caleb?” Maeve asked, her voice light, but Cormac could see the curiosity in her eyes. She was always the more superstitious of the two.
“Not really,” Caleb replied, eyes narrowing as he looked around the room. “But I do think places like this have a way of holding onto memories.”
“You’re not wrong,” Cormac muttered. “But I don’t think it’s memories that haunt this place.”
The conversation shifted, but Cormac couldn’t shake the unease that had taken up residence in his chest. Caleb’s presence was strange, like a storm on the horizon, something he couldn’t quite predict. He glanced over at Maeve, who seemed at ease in the company of the guest, as though the tension in the air didn’t exist for her.
As Caleb’s stay stretched into days, the tension between him and Cormac grew. They were never far from each other in the manor, but the silences between them were as heavy as the walls that surrounded them. Each conversation felt like a calculated maneuver—each word a potential weapon. Caleb spoke little of himself, only offering vague answers to the questions that Cormac couldn’t help but ask. The mystery surrounding him gnawed at Cormac’s thoughts, especially when Caleb seemed so intent on unraveling the house’s secrets, as if he already knew something about the Darraghs that even Cormac didn’t.
In their moments alone, Caleb’s gaze often lingered on the old family portraits, his eyes tracing the features of those long gone. Cormac had seen it too—the way Caleb studied the faces of the ancestors, as though trying to decipher their hidden messages. What he didn’t notice was Caleb doing the same to him. But Cormac couldn’t make sense of it. There were things buried deep in this house, things that shouldn’t be disturbed. He knew that well enough.
Maeve, on the other hand, seemed to have taken to Caleb in a way that unsettled Cormac even more. The two of them had an easy camaraderie, their conversations flowing naturally, while Cormac felt like the outsider. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Caleb—it was that there was something about the man’s calm, composed demeanor that felt like a mask, one he couldn’t pull off.
One evening, as the three of them gathered in the drawing room, Cormac couldn’t take it any longer. He glanced from Maeve, absentmindedly stirring her drink, to Caleb, who was standing near the window, gazing out at the storm gathering over the sea.
“You’re not here just for the manor,” Cormac said suddenly, his voice sharp. The words had been building in him, but he hadn’t known how to release them until now.
Caleb turned slowly, a slight quirk of a smile on his lips. “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”
“And what is it that you want?” Cormac pressed, stepping forward. “What are you really after, Caleb?”
For a moment, Caleb said nothing. His eyes met Cormac’s, steady and unwavering. Then, in a voice that seemed to come from a place deeper than words, Caleb finally answered.
“Truth.”
As the fire crackled behind them, Caleb’s sharp eyes shifted momentarily toward the stairs, as though he’d heard something—or someone—moving there. Maeve caught his glance and shrugged lightly.
"The manor likes to whisper now and then," she said with a wry grin. "You’ll get used to it."
Cormac tensed, his hand tightening briefly on the back of a chair. "Or you won’t," he muttered. "It has a habit of revealing things you’d rather stay buried."
Caleb raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, he took another long sip of whiskey, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were savoring every drop. "Sounds like this place has stories."
Maeve chuckled. "Oh, it’s not the stories you have to worry about. It’s the endings."
The three fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of Maeve’s words lingering in the air like a forgotten melody. From somewhere deep within the manor, there came a faint creak—wooden floorboards protesting under a weight that didn’t seem to belong.
Cormac’s gaze darted to the staircase. "Maeve... did you lock the south wing doors earlier?"
Her smirk faded, replaced by a flicker of concern. "I thought you did."
The fire dimmed suddenly, the room growing colder by degrees. Caleb set his glass down, his sharp features etched with intrigue rather than fear. "I think I’ll take a look."
Maeve reached out to stop him, her tone urgent. "The manor doesn’t take kindly to intrusions, Caleb. If it’s something that shouldn’t be disturbed..."
He gave her a lopsided smile, standing and stretching with a casualness that seemed almost out of place. "I’m pretty good at handling things that shouldn’t be disturbed." He strode toward the hall. Maeve’s sharp gaze followed him as he disappeared into the shadows, each step of his boots seemed to resonate in the stillness, a rhythmic reminder of their fragile presence in the ancient corridor, fading until only the crackle of the fire remained.
For a long moment, neither sibling spoke. The silence of the manor seemed to stretch, wrapping around them like a shroud. Maeve turned back to Cormac, her expression pensive.
Cormac didn’t answer immediately. The manor—Rúndiamhair Shíoraí—had always had a way of creeping into his thoughts, as if its stones held echoes of conversations long since forgotten. Tonight, though, it wasn’t just the manor’s usual presence pressing against his mind. It was something sharper, more immediate, something that felt as though it were breathing down the back of his neck.
“Do you think it’s the manor, or something inside it, that’s restless tonight?”
“Both, I think,” Cormac finally replied, his voice low. “The manor... and whatever it’s hiding.”
Maeve gave him a long, measured look. Her playfulness was gone now, replaced by the serious demeanor she rarely let anyone see. “It’s not just tonight, is it?” she asked. “You’ve felt it for a while.”
He hesitated but nodded. “Ever since the equinox. The shadows... they’ve been deeper. The air feels heavier. And then Caleb shows up, and it’s like the pieces are moving, but I can’t see the whole board.”
“Do you think he’s part of it?” Maeve asked, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Whatever ‘it’ is?”
Cormac sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t know. But I can’t shake the feeling that he’s... tied to this place. Somehow.”
Maeve’s gaze lingered on the door Caleb disappeared through, then shifted back to Cormac. “You’re not wrong about the manor testing its guests. But it also tests us, Cormac. You more than anyone. Maybe this is its way of telling you something.”
He frowned, not liking the implication. “Telling me what?”
“That you can’t do this alone,” she said simply. “Whatever ‘this’ is.”
The soft echoes of Caleb’s boots filled the room, growing louder with each step until the sound seemed to press against the walls. Cormac and Maeve turned toward the doorway, anticipation thick in the air. But as the steps came to a halt, no one appeared.
Their breath caught as they stared into the empty hallway, the light from the room spilling into the shadows beyond. For a moment, neither moved, the stillness of the manor stretching endlessly between them.
“Do you see—?” Maeve began, her voice barely a whisper, but she trailed off, unsure what she was even asking.
Cormac stepped forward instinctively, his brow furrowing, but before he could cross the threshold, Caleb entered from the opposite side of the room.
“Didn’t find anything,” Caleb said, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face as he paused, noticing their wide-eyed expressions. His gaze alternated between them. “What?”
“You’re sure you didn’t—” Maeve started, but Caleb cut her off with a confused laugh.
“Didn’t what? Startle you? Guess I should’ve knocked.” His teasing tone was light, but the crease in his brow betrayed his curiosity.
Maeve folded her arms, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. “No, Caleb, we’re staring because you’re clearly so stealthy in those boots of yours. The manor should hire you as its official ghost.”
Cormac snorted, though his unease lingered. “The manor already has enough ghosts, Maeve.”
Caleb raised an eyebrow, leaning casually against the doorway. “Maybe you two just imagined it. This place seems like it could mess with your head.”
Cormac opened his mouth to argue, but before he could speak, a sudden noise echoed through the room—a low, resonant thud, like the sound of a heavy door slamming somewhere deep within the manor. The fire in the hearth violently licked at the air, casting jagged shadows across the walls.
Maeve’s eyes widened as she turned toward Cormac. “What the hell was that?”
Cormac’s heart raced as he followed her gaze toward the hallway. “It came from the east wing,” he said, his voice tight. “But there’s no one else here.”
Caleb leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow arched skeptically. “Are you sure about that? Houses this old make plenty of noise. It’s probably just the wind slamming something shut.”
“The east wing has no open windows,” Cormac shot back, his tone sharper than intended.
“And you’ve personally checked every one tonight?” Caleb asked, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. He stood and walked to the hearth, peering into the flames with a casualness that felt deliberate.
Maeve crossed her arms, her brow furrowing. “Do you always have an answer for everything?”
“Only when there’s a rational explanation,” Caleb replied smoothly, brushing his hands together as if to dismiss the conversation.
But then the fire roared to life, the flames leaping higher than they should have, casting harsh bursts of light across the room. The sudden intensity forced them all to shield their eyes for a moment, and when the flames settled, Caleb’s confident smirk had faltered.
Maeve swore under her breath, instinctively clutching the silver pendant around her neck. “Don’t tell me that was the wind too.”
Caleb hesitated, his expression shifting slightly. “It’s a chimney draft,” he said, though his voice lacked its earlier conviction. He crouched by the hearth, inspecting the stones with deliberate care. “The soot’s probably been building up all day. Fires like this can get unpredictable if they’re not cleaned out properly.”
Maeve exchanged a glance with Cormac, her unease evident. “That doesn’t explain the noise from the east wing,” she said pointedly.
Caleb sighed, running his fingers through the soot. “Look, I’m not saying this place isn’t creepy—because it is. But I don’t buy the whole ‘haunted manor’ thing. There’s always an explanation.”
“And what’s your explanation for this?” Cormac asked, his voice low as he gestured toward the darkened hallway.
Caleb straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Old houses settle. They creak. Things shift.” He paused, glancing at Maeve’s skeptical expression. “But fine. If it’ll make you both sleep better, I’ll check it out.”
Cormac stepped forward, blocking Caleb’s path. “You’re not going alone.”
“Why? Afraid of ghosts?” Caleb asked with a smirk, though there was something uncertain in his tone.
Maeve interjected, her voice firm. “It’s not about ghosts. It’s about the manor. You don’t understand it the way we do.”
Caleb raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, stepping aside as Cormac moved past him.
The hallway stretched out before them, the shadows seeming to shift and writhe with a life of their own. Caleb hesitated, his earlier skepticism wavering as he followed Cormac into the unknown.
“Fine,” he muttered under his breath. “But if this turns out to be nothing, you owe me a drink.”
Caleb adjusted the cuffs of his shirt with deliberate nonchalance, his attempt to mask the uneasiness he wouldn’t admit to. "Alright," he said, stepping toward the dark hallway. "Let’s see what’s so terrifying about the east wing. Probably just some loose shutters, right?" His tone was lighter than he felt.
"Caleb, wait," Cormac said sharply, his voice echoing faintly in the vast manor.
But Caleb ignored him, his boots striking faintly against the stone floor as he crossed the threshold. The hallway was colder, the air heavy and still, as though it had been waiting for them. Shadows clung stubbornly to the corners, and the dim sconces along the walls protested, but their light was too feeble to hold back the darkness.
Maeve stepped closer to Cormac, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think it’s wise to let him go alone?”
Cormac sighed, his jaw tightening as he ran a hand over his face. “No.” He moved forward, Maeve following close behind.
The trio ventured into the hallway, the silence around them amplifying every footstep, every creak of the old manor. Caleb walked a few steps ahead, his posture tense despite his earlier bravado. He trailed a hand along the wall, his fingers brushing against the uneven stone as though searching for something tangible to ground him.
They had barely made it halfway down the hall when Caleb suddenly froze.
Cormac and Maeve halted behind him, alarm flashing across their faces.
“What is it?” Cormac demanded, his voice steady but low.
Caleb didn’t answer immediately. His hand dropped to his side as he slowly raised the other, pointing toward the far end of the hallway.
"There," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Do you see it?"
Cormac followed Caleb’s trembling finger, his sharp green eyes narrowing as he stared into the gloom. Maeve clutched at his arm, her grip tightening as her gaze locked on the same spot.
At the very end of the corridor, standing just beyond the faint pool of light cast by the last sconce, was a figure. It was darker than the shadows themselves, as if it absorbed all the light around it, a void given form. Two glowing yellow eyes pierced the darkness, unblinking and alien.
For a moment, no one spoke, the air thick with a suffocating tension. The figure didn’t move, but its presence was a weight that pressed down on them, a cold, visceral dread that crawled beneath their skin.
“Cormac,” Maeve finally managed, her voice barely audible.
“I see it,” he replied, his tone grim. His heart hammered in his chest, but he forced himself to stay calm.
Caleb took a hesitant step back, his earlier skepticism unraveling with every passing second. “What… what is that?”
Cormac didn’t answer right away. His gaze remained fixed on the figure, his mind racing. The manor was alive tonight—more alive than it had been in years. And whatever stood at the end of the hallway was no ordinary shadow.
Maeve’s grip on his arm tightened further. “It’s watching us,” she said, her voice trembling.
The glowing eyes blinked, the slow, deliberate motion sending a fresh wave of unease through the group.
Cormac swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak. “Caleb, step back. Slowly.”
Caleb hesitated, his body rooted to the spot as if the figure’s gaze held him in place. But then, with visible effort, he took a step back, his movements stiff and cautious.
As he did, the figure shifted, its form elongating and twisting unnaturally before it receded further into the shadows, melting into the darkness as though it had never been there.
The hallway fell silent once more, the oppressive atmosphere lingering like a bruise.
“We need to leave,” Cormac said firmly, his voice cutting through the tension.
“But what was it?” Caleb asked, his gray eyes wide with a mix of fear and disbelief.
Cormac placed a steadying hand on Caleb’s shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. “Not here,” he said. “We’ll talk in the drawing room. Now move.”
Without another word, the three of them retreated, the darkness of the hallway closing in behind them like a living thing. Whatever had been stirring in the manor was no longer content to stay hidden.
And now, it was up to them to face it.
