Whispers behind Locked Doors
The storm raged on, its howling wind clawing at the Cartwright mansion like a living thing. Clara stood at the crumbling threshold, her breath caught in her throat as the towering structure loomed before her. The mansion was more ruin than home now, its once-pristine facade weathered and scarred. Empty windows glared down like unblinking eyes, shrouded in shadow and silence, daring her to enter. The air carried a chill that seemed to seep into her bones, heavy with the weight of secrets long buried.
Inside, the house felt alive-its groaning floorboards and whispering drafts filled the suffocating quiet. Clara's steps echoed as she moved through the decaying halls, each creak a reminder that this place had once been vibrant, alive. Now it was a crypt for memories she couldn't escape.
Vivienne's fragile voice pierced the oppressive stillness. The grieving mother led Clara to a door she had never dared approach before. At the end of a dark corridor, it loomed, its wood scarred and its brass handle tarnished. "This room," Vivienne whispered, her voice trembling with fear, "is where it began."
Clara's heart pounded as her fingers brushed the icy door, knowing that whatever lay beyond would reveal truths darker than she'd ever imagined.
