The first thing Lyra felt when she crossed the threshold of Adrian Blackthorn's mansion was not awe—but silence.
Not the comforting kind. This silence was alive. It pressed against her skin like cold breath, whispering things her ears couldn't catch, but her soul flinched at. The heavy oak doors shut behind her without a sound, though they should have groaned. No echo, no draft, no greeting.
Only stillness.
She stood at the edge of the black marble foyer, rooted in place. Her fingers curled tighter around the strap of her small bag. The manager, Sebastian, said nothing. He simply moved forward, his footsteps soundless against the polished floor. Lyra followed, her eyes wide.
The interior was cathedral-like—vast and dark, yet gleaming. Each step revealed secrets she didn't want to see but couldn't look away from. High ceilings loomed overhead, painted in ominous shades of midnight and ash, swirling with patterns like demonic runes. An unsettling scent hung in the air—not unpleasant, but... ancient. As though time itself had decayed here.
There were no windows.
Or rather, the windows that existed seemed painted shut with shadows. Thick, dark velvet curtains hung like funeral veils, absorbing light rather than letting it in.
"What... is this place?" Lyra whispered, more to herself than to Sebastian.
He didn't answer. Of course he didn't.
He glided ahead like a phantom, leading her through a grand hall lined with strange artifacts. Onyx statues shaped like hybrid creatures—half-human, half-something else—stood with twisted smiles. Some held objects: black roses made of glass, cages with no doors, swords etched in forgotten tongues.
"Why does that statue look like it's bleeding?" she asked aloud, eyeing the ruby-like trail running from the corner of one statue's mouth.
No response.
And the paintings—oh, the paintings. They dripped from the walls like cursed memories.
A woman with stitched lips and hollow eyes sat in a throne made of bones. A child reaching toward a burning moon, his shadow twisted into a beast. A man who looked eerily like Adrian, standing in a storm of feathers and blood.
Each painting had eyes that watched. No matter where Lyra moved, she could feel them tracking her.
Her heart pounded louder with each step.
Sebastian finally stopped in front of a towering black door, inlaid with silver veins that pulsed faintly, as though alive. He turned the handle and opened it to reveal a massive bedroom—clearly hers.
It looked like something out of a gothic fairytale. A king-sized canopy bed with silver embroidery, black velvet curtains draped in every corner, and a fireplace already lit with cold blue flames. An antique mirror took up an entire wall, its surface oddly rippling, like a pond disturbed by wind.
"You may stay here until the Master arrives."
It was the first time he'd spoken to her. His voice was deep, smooth, and without warmth—like moonlight on a frozen lake.
"Wait—wait, I can't just—when will he be back? What am I supposed to do?"
Sebastian didn't answer. He stepped out and shut the door behind her. It locked.
Click.
The sound echoed through her bones.
---
Lyra paced the room like a bird in a cage. She tested the windows—sealed. Tried the door—still locked.
"This is insane. This is actually insane," she muttered.
Out of desperation, she pulled out her notebook from her bag, along with a pen, and dropped herself onto the velvet chaise by the fire.
She opened to a clean page and wrote at the top:
"Day 1 in Adrian Blackthorn's mansion."
She stared at it for a long time before continuing.
"I've never felt more watched in my life. I don't know where I am. The road that brought me here disappeared the moment I closed my eyes. Was it a spell? Hypnosis? Why did I sleep so suddenly in that car? I can't remember anything after asking Sebastian about the house. What is this place?"
She paused, tapping her pen against her lip.
"Is this really the same man who offered me a contract with such calm coldness? Who is Adrian Blackthorn, really? And why does his house feel like a living, breathing thing?"
She flipped to another page and reviewed the contract rules. Her eyes scanned the lines again, noting things she hadn't fully processed before:
Do not enter any room marked with a silver crest.
Do not speak to the staff unless spoken to.
Do not touch the mirrors after midnight.
Always remain in your designated quarters unless summoned.
Never ask Adrian personal questions.
She frowned.
"Why would someone include mirror rules in a relationship contract?" she whispered aloud.
A soft creak from the far corner of the room made her freeze. She whipped around.
Nothing.
Yet the fire suddenly flickered with a violent hiss.
She turned back to her notebook and wrote, quickly:
"Something isn't right. I haven't seen another soul except Sebastian. The staff move like they're floating, not walking. They don't blink. One of them stared at me for so long I thought he wasn't breathing."
Then a strange thought struck her:
Are they even human?
---
Hours passed. She lay on the grand bed, staring at the ceiling etched with silver stars that glowed faintly.
Eventually, she rose and wandered to the mirror.
Her own reflection stared back. Pale. Small. Out of place.
She placed a hand on the cold surface.
And for a brief second, her reflection didn't move.
She stumbled back with a gasp.
"No. No, I didn't see that. I'm just tired," she whispered.
She climbed back into bed, pulling the sheets to her chin.
But sleep didn't come easy.
Because even in the silence, she could hear it—the whisper of questions with no answers:
Why was she chosen?
What really lives behind these walls?
Who is Adrian Blackthorn… and what does he want from her?
And when he finally arrives… will she still be herself?
Outside, the wind howled. Or was it laughter?
And far below the floorboards, something shifted.
Watching.
Waiting.
To be continued…