Episode 2

The taxi, a surprisingly sturdy older model, finally slowed, its tires crunching on gravel that was once a paved road, now swallowed by moss and encroaching roots. Eleanor pressed her face against the window, straining to see through the relentless drizzle and the thick canopy of ancient, gnarled trees. The forest here was unlike any she had ever seen—impenetrable, dark, and eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic swish of the wipers. It felt as though the very light had forgotten this place, leaving it in a perpetual state of twilight.

"This is as far as she goes, miss," the driver announced, his voice a low rumble that barely cut through the oppressive quiet. He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder. "Blackwood Manor. Looks... abandoned."

Eleanor squinted. Through a break in the trees, a pair of immense, wrought-iron gates materialized, half-hidden by overgrown ivy. They stood open just enough for a car to pass, but the sense of entry was profound. Beyond them, a long, winding drive, barely visible beneath a carpet of fallen leaves, disappeared into the deepening gloom. And then, through a final veil of rain-soaked branches, she saw it.

Blackwood Manor.

It was immense. A sprawling, gothic edifice of dark, weather-beaten stone, its turrets and spires piercing the low-hanging clouds like skeletal fingers. Generations of neglect had left their mark: crumbling gargoyles peered from shadowed eaves, window panes were dark and vacant, like blind eyes, and rampant ivy clung to its walls like a desperate, green shroud. It wasn't merely old; it was ancient, steeped in a melancholy grandeur that spoke of forgotten tragedies and lingering secrets. A shiver, colder than the damp air, danced across Eleanor’s skin. The driver was right. It looked abandoned. Utterly, irrevocably abandoned.

"Are you sure about this, miss?" the driver asked, his eyes darting towards the ominous structure, a clear desire to be anywhere but here etched on his face.

"Yes," Eleanor said, though a knot of apprehension tightened in her stomach. The curiosity that had propelled her here now mingled with a potent cocktail of dread. This wasn't just an old house; it was a mausoleum.

She paid the driver, feeling the unspoken relief in his quick nod. He spun the taxi around, its headlights briefly cutting through the oppressive darkness, before it vanished down the winding road, leaving Eleanor utterly alone. The rhythmic drone of its engine faded, replaced by the hushed whisper of the wind through the ancient trees and the drip-drip-drip of rain from the leaves. The silence that followed was absolute, suffocating, as if the forest itself held its breath.

Eleanor gripped her small duffel bag tighter, the worn canvas digging into her shoulder. The cold seeped into her bones. She took a deep breath, the air smelling of damp earth, decay, and something else – something faintly metallic, like old pennies, or fresh blood. Dismissing it as her imagination, she pushed through the creaking gates, which groaned in protest like a forgotten crypt.

The drive was long, winding, and almost completely overgrown. Brambles clawed at her jeans, and the branches of ancient oaks tangled overhead, forming a perpetual, skeletal archway. She walked slowly, her hiking boots squishing on the wet leaves, each step echoing in the oppressive quiet. The manor grew larger with every step, its shadowed bulk more imposing, more menacing.

Finally, she stood before the colossal main entrance. Twin wooden doors, intricately carved and studded with heavy iron, loomed over her. They were scarred by time, their dark wood almost black with age and moisture. A heavy, ornate knocker, shaped like a grimacing lion’s head, hung motionless. She reached for it, her hand hesitating. The air was thick here, heavy, as if breathing was an effort.

She rapped the knocker, the sound surprisingly dull, swallowed by the manor's vastness. No answering echo. Only the silence. She waited. And waited. Doubt began to creep in. Had she made a mistake? Was this indeed abandoned, and the letter a cruel joke? Just as she was about to turn, to retreat back down the long drive, a faint, almost imperceptible sound came from within. A soft thump, like a distant door closing.

Then, the heavy oak doors slowly, silently, swung inward.

Framed in the cavernous, shadowy entrance stood a man. Tall, gaunt, and impossibly still, he was a figure plucked from a bygone era. He wore a perfectly tailored, if slightly faded, black suit, his posture ramrod straight. His face was a mask of polite indifference, aged and deeply lined, his eyes the color of old slate – devoid of warmth, yet keenly observant. His hair, what little remained, was slicked back, silvery-grey. This was Mr. Abernathy. There was no doubt.

"Miss Vance, I presume?" His voice was a low, even murmur, devoid of inflection, like water flowing over smooth stones. He didn't smile, didn't offer a hand, didn't move an inch.

Eleanor, unnerved by his silent appearance and unnerving stillness, managed a weak nod. "Yes. Eleanor Vance. The letter said..."

"Indeed. Your presence is expected. Please, follow me." He didn't wait for her response, simply turned and glided into the gloom of the manor's interior. He moved with an almost unnatural grace, his footsteps utterly silent on what Eleanor assumed was a grand marble floor.

She stepped inside, and the massive doors closed behind her with a soft thud that resonated through the very foundations of the house. The sound was not loud, but it was final, sealing her within. The immediate darkness was overwhelming. The air inside was thick, cold, and smelled of dust, old wood, and a faint, cloying sweetness, like decaying flowers.

The grand foyer was vast, a shadowy expanse that dwarfed her. Overhead, a colossal chandelier, draped in cobwebs, hung like a forgotten spider. Moonlight, or what little filtered through the heavy clouds, struggled to penetrate the tall, grimy windows, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like specters across the polished, unreflective floor. Dust motes, disturbed by her entry, shimmered in the sparse light. There was no fire in the enormous fireplace, no warmth, no sign of recent habitation beyond the butler himself.

Abernathy continued his silent procession, leading her down a wide, echoing hallway. Her boots clicked loudly on the stone floor, the only sound apart from the faint, distant creaks and groans of the ancient house settling around her. The silence was not peaceful; it was oppressive, a heavy blanket that smothered any hint of life. Along the walls, faded tapestries depicted scenes of ancient forests and strange, almost grotesque creatures, their colors leached by time. The eyes of painted portraits, hanging crookedly in the dim light, seemed to follow her, their expressions grim and uninviting.

Eleanor swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. This wasn't just an old house; it was a place where sound went to die. She tried to speak, to ask a question, to break the stifling quiet, but the words felt trapped in her chest. Abernathy didn’t glance back, his pace steady, his form a silent, black silhouette against the deeper shadows.

They passed numerous closed doors, each one a mystery, each one seemingly identical. The hallway twisted and turned, disorienting her, making her feel as though she was traversing a labyrinth. With every turn, the air grew colder, and the faint, sweet smell intensified, almost like something was blooming in the dark.

Finally, Abernathy stopped before a set of massive, double doors, made of the same dark, heavily carved wood as the entrance. He didn’t knock. He simply reached out a slender, almost skeletal hand and pushed one door open. It swung inward silently, revealing a room that plunged Eleanor instantly into the heart of her apprehension.

It was the dining room.

And it was enormous. A long, rectangular chamber, dimly lit by tall, narrow windows that let in only a sliver of the gloomy exterior light. A massive, polished mahogany table, easily seating twenty, dominated the center of the room. It was bare. Utterly, completely bare. No tablecloth, no silverware, no flickering candles. No food. Just the dark, reflective surface of the wood.

And around it, sitting perfectly still in high-backed chairs, were four figures.

Eleanor stopped dead in the doorway, her breath catching in her throat. Her eyes darted from face to face. An elderly man at the head, his features sharp, severe, and strangely familiar from old, almost forgotten photographs. A frail, pale woman beside him, her eyes wide and staring. A younger man, perhaps in his late twenties or early thirties, dark-haired and brooding, his jaw clenched. And finally, a small, unnervingly still girl, no older than eight, her porcelain doll clutched in her lap.

Her family. The Blackwoods.

They sat in absolute, profound silence. Not the comfortable silence of people at rest, but a heavy, deliberate, almost enforced silence. Their gazes, cold and unwavering, were fixed on Eleanor. Not with welcome, not with curiosity, but with an unsettling, blank intensity. Their eyes seemed to pierce her, stripping away her composure, making her feel utterly exposed.

But it wasn't just the silence, or the stares, or the empty table that stole the air from Eleanor's lungs. It was what lay at the very center of that vast, bare expanse of wood.

A gun.

An antique revolver, its brass gleaming faintly in the meager light, lay perfectly centered on the table. It seemed almost ceremonial, strangely out of place yet utterly in command of the room's morbid atmosphere. Its presence screamed a warning that words couldn't convey.

Eleanor could feel her heart hammering against her ribs. The dread she had felt since receiving the letter solidified into a cold, hard knot in her stomach. This wasn't a family reunion. This wasn't an urgent matter of inheritance or legal affairs. This was something else entirely. Something ancient and wrong.

Abernathy, still silent, stepped past her, motioning with a subtle flick of his wrist towards an empty chair set perfectly between the young girl and the brooding man. He then moved to the side, positioning himself near the far wall, his hands clasped behind his back, becoming another silent, watchful sentinel in the room.

Eleanor's voice, when it finally came, was a mere whisper, cracking on the profound silence. "Hello? Is... is everything alright?"

Her words hung in the air, swallowed by the oppressive quiet. The family didn't stir. Their eyes remained fixed. Unblinking. Unresponsive. The only sound was the faint, sickly sweet smell, now stronger, and the frantic pounding of her own blood in her ears.

Something told Eleanor, with a chilling certainty that settled deep into her bones, that this family wasn't quite right. And the gun on the table wasn't for protection. It was a promise.

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