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Chapter 1: Arrival
The year was 1900, and the crisp air of early autumn carried a faint chill as Brigid Blackthorn stepped down from the carriage. Blackthorn Manor loomed at the outskirts Hollow’s Edge, a small, unassuming town nestled in the rolling hills near Vicksburg, Mississippi. The house stood like a sentinel, its weathered facade bearing the weight of generations of secrets. It seemed to promise the warmth of evening fires to ward off the creeping coolness of the night, yet its presence felt anything but inviting.
The air was thick with the scent of moss and damp earth, and the distant drone of cicadas rose and fell like a warning. Brigid hesitated, her gaze fixed on the manor’s towering front door. The house was hers now, yet it felt like a stranger—imposing, unfamiliar, and heavy with mysteries she wasn’t sure she wanted to unravel.
It had all started a week ago, when the package arrived. Inside were the deed to the house, a terse letter of inheritance, and a locket. No sender’s name, no explanation—just the bare facts. Victor Blackthorn, a distant cousin she had never met, had passed away, leaving the manor to her. The locket had been the first thing to catch her attention, its intricate design unlike anything she had ever seen. It felt heavier than it should, as though it carried more than its physical weight. Even now, it rested against her chest, its faint warmth a constant reminder of the mystery she had inherited along with the house.
Adjusting the locket, her fingers brushing its cool surface, Brigid turned to retrieve her bag. The moon was rising above the treetops, its pale light casting long, jagged shadows across the overgrown lawn. The locket grew warmer against her skin, and a shiver ran down her spine. There was something unsettling about the moon tonight—something she couldn’t quite name.
“Miss Blackthorn?” The voice startled her, and she turned sharply to see an older man standing in the doorway. His face was lined with age, his expression wary but not unkind. He wore simple, practical clothes—a buttoned shirt and trousers that had clearly seen years of wear. His hands, rough and calloused, hung at his sides, though there was a tension in his posture, as if he were bracing himself for something.
“I’m Pritchard,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Caretaker of this place. You must be Miss Blackthorn.”
Brigid nodded, stepping forward. “I am. Thank you for staying on. I wasn’t sure if anyone would still be here.”Pritchard stepped aside, gesturing for her to enter. “Didn’t see much reason to leave, even after… well, after Victor passed.”
Brigid hesitated in the doorway, her gaze flicking to the darkened interior of the house. “It’s… larger than I expected.”
Pritchard let out a short, humorless laugh. “Aye, it’s got a way of making folks feel small. But don’t let it fool you—it’s just a house. A big, creaky, stubborn house.”
She stepped inside, and the air hit her like a wave—colder than she had anticipated, carrying the faint scent of soot and decay. The high ceilings seemed to press down on her, and the shadows in the corners felt alive. “It doesn’t feel like just a house,” she murmured.
Pritchard’s expression darkened, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might argue. But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping. “No,” he admitted quietly. “It’s not. Not anymore.”
The entry hall was vast, its high ceiling swallowed by shadow. A grand staircase curved upward, its banister polished but worn, and faded tapestries hung on the walls, their patterns obscured by layers of dust. The house seemed to watch her, its presence palpable, as if it were studying her just as closely as Pritchard was.
“Thank you for keeping the house in order,” Brigid said, her voice echoing faintly in the cavernous space.
Pritchard inclined his head but said nothing. His hands, clasped in front of him, trembled slightly, though he didn’t seem to notice. Brigid caught the way his gaze flickered to the locket at her throat, his expression tightening for the briefest moment before he looked away.“The house has been… quiet since Mr. Victor’s passing,” he said after a pause. “I wasn’t sure if anyone would come.”
Brigid hesitated. Victor Blackthorn’s death had been sudden and shrouded in mystery, though no one had spoken of it openly. The solicitor’s letter had been brief, offering no details about Victor’s life or his death. And the package—its arrival had been so abrupt, so unexpected, that she had wondered if it was some kind of mistake. But the locket had felt like a key, as though it belonged to her as much as the house did. She couldn’t explain it, but she had known she had to come.
“I’m here now,” she said firmly. “And I intend to stay.”
Pritchard’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. “Very well. I’ll show you to your room.”
As they ascended the staircase, Brigid couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was listening. The floorboards groaned beneath their steps, and the faint sound of wind whistled through the cracks in the windows. Shadows pooled in the corners of the hallways, shifting slightly as the lantern in Pritchard’s hand swayed. She told herself it was just her imagination, but the locket grew warmer against her skin, as if in response to something unseen.“Pritchard,” she said as they reached the second floor, “how long have you been here?”
“Nearly thirty years,” he replied without looking back. “I came to work for Mr. Victor when I was a young man. I’ve been the caretaker ever since.”“And the house?” she asked, glancing at the faded wallpaper and the cobwebs clinging to the corners. “Has it always been like this?”
He paused at the door to her room, his hand resting on the doorknob. For a moment, he seemed to weigh his answer, his brow furrowing. “The house has its moods,” he said finally. “It’s not always kind to those who live here.”
Before she could ask what he meant, he pushed the door open and stepped aside. The room was modest but clean, with a four-poster bed, a small writing desk, and a window that overlooked the overgrown garden. A fire crackled faintly in the hearth, though its warmth did little to chase away the chill in the air.
“I’ll leave you to settle in,” Pritchard said, his tone curt. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the kitchen.”“Thank you,” Brigid said, though she doubted he would be much help. There was something guarded about him, something that made her think he knew more than he was letting on.
As the door closed behind him, Brigid let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She crossed the room to the window, her fingers brushing the locket as she gazed out at the garden. The trees swayed in the wind, their bare branches clawing at the sky, and for a moment, she thought she saw a figure standing among them. But when she blinked, it was gone.
The locket pulsed faintly against her chest, and she shivered. Whatever secrets Blackthorn Manor held, she was determined to uncover them. But as she turned away from the window, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the house was already aware of her presence—and that it was waiting.
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