Chapter 1
The air in the grand hall of the mansion was thick with the scent of dried lavenders and rotting oak. It was a lingering decay that no amount of polished mahogany or heavy velvet drapes could ever fully mask.
Outside, the storm had been building since sunset. Rain lashed violently against the arched glass windows, each heavy droplet sounding like restless fingers tapping to be let inside.
Y/N pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she walked down the silent corridor. The floorboards groaned beneath her light steps, echoing into the cavernous empty spaces of the upper wing. This house didn’t just feel old; it felt watchful. Every shadow tucked into the corners seemed to stretch toward her, listening to the rhythm of her pulse.
She made her way to her room, locking the heavy brass door behind her with a sharp, echoing click. The sound offered little comfort.
She threw back the embroidered duvet and climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her collarbone.
Sleep refused to come.
Y/N turned to her left.
Then to her right.
She pulled the blanket higher, closed her eyes, and tried to force her mind into silence.
Nothing worked.
The old mansion was unusually quiet tonight. Beyond the tall windows, the wind moved through the trees, brushing their branches against the glass with a faint, irregular sound.
Y/N opened her eyes again.
She glanced at the clock on the bedside table.
2:17 AM.
She sighed and turned onto her back.
Maybe she should get up.
Get some water.
Read something.
Anything was better than lying there awake.
She shifted beneath the blanket—
And suddenly—
something grabbed her.
Y/N’s entire body jolted.
Before she could even understand what was happening, an unseen force pulled her backward and pressed her flat against the mattress.
Her eyes flew open.
Her breath caught.
She tried to move.
Nothing.
She pushed against the bed with both hands.
Nothing.
Her heart began pounding.
What is happening?
She tried again, harder.
Her shoulders wouldn’t move.
Her legs wouldn’t respond.
Panic rushed through her.
Then—
creak.
The bedroom door slowly opened.
Y/N’s eyes snapped toward it.
A woman stepped inside.
Y/N couldn’t see her face.
Only the long silhouette of her dress beneath the dim corridor light.
She walked slowly toward the bed.
One step.
Then another.
In her hand—
was a knife.
Y/N’s eyes widened.
Her breathing became uneven.
The woman stopped at the foot of the bed.
For a moment, she simply stood there.
Then she slowly raised the knife.
Y/N tried to scream.
Nothing came out.
The woman lifted it higher.
Closer.
Y/N’s entire body strained against whatever was holding her down.
And then—
her voice finally broke free.
Y/N : “AAAAAH!”
She shot upright.
Her hands flew to her chest.
The room was empty.
The door was closed.
No woman.
No knife.
No one.
Y/N stared at the doorway, breathing heavily.
A few seconds later, hurried footsteps sounded outside.
The door opened.
The old caretaker rushed inside.
Caretaker : “Miss Y/N?”
Y/N couldn’t answer immediately.
She was still staring at the door.
The caretaker switched on the bedside lamp.
Warm light filled the room.
Everything was exactly where it had been.
The chair near the window.
The books on the table.
The curtains.
The locked door.
Nothing was disturbed.
Caretaker : “What happened?”
Y/N swallowed.
She took a long, deep breath.
Then another.
Her hands were still trembling.
Y/N : “I...”
She looked toward the doorway again.
Y/N : “I don’t know.”
The caretaker came closer.
Caretaker : “Did you have a nightmare?”
Y/N’s lips parted.
That was the obvious explanation.
A nightmare.
Except—
she hadn’t been asleep.
She remembered lying there.
She remembered turning over.
She remembered looking at the clock.
She remembered everything.
And yet she had felt that hand.
She had felt herself being held down.
She had seen the woman walking toward her.
Y/N slowly shook her head.
Y/N : “I wasn’t sleeping.”
The caretaker frowned.
Caretaker : “Perhaps you were half asleep.”
Y/N looked at her.
Y/N : “No.”
Her voice was quieter this time.
Certain.
Y/N : “I wasn’t.”
The caretaker didn’t argue.
She simply pulled the blanket properly around Y/N and looked toward the open doorway.
Caretaker : “Would you like me to stay?”
Y/N hesitated.
Her eyes moved once more toward the darkness beyond the room.
Y/N : “No. I’m fine.”
The caretaker didn’t look convinced.
Still, after making sure the lamp was on, she left the room.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
Y/N remained sitting against the headboard.
Her breathing had finally slowed.
But her mind hadn’t.
She looked at her hands.
Nothing.
Then at the bed.
Nothing.
Her gaze moved toward the door.
Still nothing.
She whispered to herself—
Y/N : “What was that?”
No answer came.
She leaned back slowly.
For the first time that night, she was afraid to close her eyes.
Because if it had been a dream—
why had she been awake?
And if it hadn’t been a dream—
then what had just entered her room?
The rest of the night passed in a agonizingly slow blur. Y/N never closed her eyes again.
She sat propped up against the carved wooden headboard, her knees pulled tight against her chest, watching the golden circle of light cast by the bedside lamp. Outside, the storm gradually spent its rage, fading into a dismal, cold drizzle that streaked the glass panes like tears. Every creak of the aging timber frame made her heart leap into her throat. Every shadow cast by the gentle flickering of the bulb seemed to hold a figure lurking at the edge of her vision.
When the pale, grey dawn finally began to creep through the heavy curtains, Y/N let out a breath she felt like she had been holding for hours.
She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. Her limbs felt heavy, drained of all warmth and energy. Stepping over to the tall vanity mirror, she froze.
In the dim morning light, her reflection looked ghostly—dark circles shadowed her eyes, and her skin was unusually pale. But it wasn’t her face that caught her attention.
Y/N pulled down the collar of her nightgown and swallowed hard.
On her wrists and around her upper arms, faint red marks had begun to blossom against her skin—unmistakable pressure imprints, as if powerful fingers had pinned her down against the mattress hours prior.
Her breath hitched. I wasn’t imagining it.
Determined to find answers or at least distract her hyperactive mind, Y/N washed her face with freezing water, dressed in a warm woolen sweater and long skirt, and headed downstairs.
seasonal shadows draped the ground floor of the manor. The estate—known as Crimson Manor—had belonged to her family line for generations, though it had sat abandoned for decades before Y/N decided to move in to finish her research and writing.
In the dining room, the table was set with a simple breakfast of warm tea, freshly baked bread, and preserves. The old caretaker, Mrs. Gable, was quietly wiping down the sideboard with a damp cloth.
“Good morning, Miss Y/N,” Mrs. Gable said softly, turning around. Her sharp, weathered eyes immediately scanned Y/N’s tired face. “You didn’t sleep a wink after I left, did you?”
Y/N sat down, wrapping her hands around the hot porcelain teacup to warm her chilled fingers. “I couldn’t, Mrs. Gable. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt like someone was standing right beside me.”
Mrs. Gable paused her wiping, her expression clouding over. She set the cloth down slowly.
“This house has a long memory, child,” Mrs. Gable murmured, her voice dropping an octave. “I warned your family when you decided to open the east wing again. Some doors are meant to stay locked.”
Y/N looked up sharply. “What do you mean? Is there something about this manor you haven’t told me?”
Mrs. Gable hesitated, looking toward the hallway as if afraid the walls themselves were listening.
“Eighty years ago,” the caretaker began quietly, “before the estate fell into neglect, the lady of the house was a woman named Elena. She was deeply devoted, but obsessed with dark omens and old rituals. They say she went mad in that very bedchamber—convinced an unseen presence was haunting her nights, holding her down, tormenting her until she could no longer distinguish dreams from reality.”
Y/N felt a cold shiver run down her spine. “What happened to her?”
“One night, during a storm just like the one we had last night,” Mrs. Gable said, looking Y/N dead in the eyes, “she walked down the long corridor carrying an iron blade. She claimed she was going to sever the curse once and for all. No one knows who or what she saw... but they found her at the foot of the master bed, consumed by her own madness.”
Y/N’s hand trembled, spilling a drop of tea onto the saucer. The description matched the woman in her room—the silhouette, the long gown, the raised knife.
“Is that why the villagers call it the Crimson Curse?” Y/N whispered.
“The bloodline was marked from that night onward,” Mrs. Gable replied grimly. “Every woman who has stayed in that room has spoken of the heavy air, the paralysis, and the shadowy lady with the knife. Most leave within a week.”
“I can’t just leave,” Y/N said, setting her cup down with a sharp clatter. “This is my home now. There has to be an explanation—a rational one. Sleep paralysis, atmospheric pressure, old house draughts...”
“Rationality won’t protect you if the spirit wants something from you, Miss Y/N,” Mrs. Gable warned softly before picking up her tray and walking toward the kitchen.
Refusing to succumb to fear, Y/N spent the afternoon in the manor’s sprawling library. The room smelled of old parchment, leather bindings, and dust. High ladders rested against floor-to-ceiling bookshelves containing old land deeds, family journals, and historical records.
She pulled down several thick, leather-bound diaries belonging to the estate’s previous owners. Hours ticked by as she flipped through yellowed, brittle pages filled with elegant cursive handwriting.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long orange and purple hues across the library floor, Y/N found what she was looking for: The Journal of Lady Elena (1846).
Her fingers turned the delicate pages carefully until she reached the final entries:
October 12th — It returns every time the rain falls. It binds my limbs so I cannot scream. It demands the blood token promised three generations ago. I see the shadow clearly now. It carries the ceremonial dagger. It is not trying to kill me... it is trying to break the seal.
Y/N read the paragraph twice. Trying to break the seal?
Before she could read further, a sudden, frigid draft swept through the windowless library. The pages of the journal began flipping violently on their own, stopping at a blank page at the very back.
Y/N watched in horror as dark, red ink slowly seeped out from the center of the paper, forming distinct, shaky letters right before her eyes:
BEWARE THE THIRD NIGHT
Y/N gasped and recoiled, knocking her chair backward onto the hardwood floor.
The library lights flickered wildly, and from the deep, shadowed corridor outside the open door, she heard it again—
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, wearing a long dress, walking slowly toward the library.
