The Watchers of Bitterwind Road

The narrow road wound through trees so thick that they blotted out the sky, casting everything in shadows. Seren Hartley gripped the steering wheel tightly as her car bumped along the uneven asphalt, the silence of the forest around her thick and oppressive. She glanced at the clock on the dashboard, 4:45 p.m. It would be dark soon.

"How much farther?" she muttered, her eyes flicking to the GPS. The destination marker pulsed on the screen—Bitterwind Road, less than two miles ahead. 

The invitation had arrived unexpectedly in her mailbox two weeks ago, an elegant envelope with no return address. Inside was a handwritten note in black ink: *You are cordially invited to the reading of Peter Marshall's will, October 23, at 5:00 p.m. The Marshall Estate, 17 Bitterwind Road.*

Seren had barely known Peter, an eccentric man her late mother had mentioned only a handful of times. A distant cousin, she’d thought, or perhaps an old family friend. They had never met, and Seren had forgotten he even existed until the invitation arrived.

But curiosity, and the faint pull of some unresolved family connection, had brought her here. Besides, she couldn’t ignore the line at the bottom of the note: *Your presence is required.*

As her car approached the turnoff to Bitterwind Road, the trees seemed to grow taller, their branches intertwining overhead like the bars of a cage. A chill crept into the car, despite the mild October weather. Seren shivered and turned up the heat.

Finally, the Marshall estate came into view. The house stood at the end of a long, gravel driveway, a hulking structure that loomed against the darkening sky. It was old, at least a century if not more, with weathered stone walls and ivy climbing up the sides. The windows were dark, like hollow eyes staring out at her.

Seren parked the car and stepped out, the crunch of gravel beneath her feet loud in the stillness. There was no one else around. She checked the time—4:55 p.m. She was cutting it close. She hurried up the steps to the front door, her hand hovering over the brass knocker for a moment before she rapped it sharply three times.

For a long moment, there was no response. Seren shifted on her feet, glancing around the empty driveway, wondering if she was the only one who had come. Just as she was about to knock again, the door creaked open. A man in a dark suit stood in the doorway, his expression impassive.

"Miss Hartley," he said in a deep, measured voice. "You're just in time. Please, come in."

Seren stepped over the threshold, and the door closed behind her with a heavy thud. The interior of the house was just as imposing as the outside—high ceilings, dark wood paneling, and dim lighting that barely illuminated the long hallway stretching before her.

"This way, please," the man said, leading her down the hall. "The others are already gathered."

Seren followed him, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. The air inside the house was cold, almost damp, and it smelled faintly of old wood and something musty she couldn’t quite place. She tried to shake off the unease that had settled over her.

At the end of the hall, they entered a large sitting room. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Three people were already seated in the high-backed chairs arranged around the room. An elderly woman with a severe expression, a middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar, and a young woman, probably in her twenties, with dark hair and a nervous smile.

"Please, have a seat," the man in the suit said, gesturing to an empty chair near the fire. "We will begin shortly."

Seren sat down, offering a polite nod to the others, though none of them returned it. There was an uncomfortable silence in the room, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Seren could feel the weight of their gazes, as if they were waiting for something.

The man in the suit stood by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. "I am Mr. Greaves, Mr. Marshall's attorney. I will be reading the will this evening, as per his instructions."

He pulled a folded piece of paper from his inside pocket and cleared his throat. "Before we begin, I would like to remind you all that Mr. Marshall's estate is to be divided among his surviving relatives, as outlined in the will. Any disputes will be handled in accordance with his final wishes."

Seren glanced around the room again. None of the others seemed to react, though the young woman’s foot tapped anxiously on the floor. Surviving relatives? Seren had no idea she was considered close enough to Peter Marshall to inherit anything. In fact, she wasn’t entirely sure how she was related to him at all.

Mr. Greaves unfolded the paper and began to read. "I, Peter Marshall, being of sound mind, do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament. To my niece, Catherine Marshall, I leave the sum of fifty thousand dollars, to be paid out in monthly installments over the course of five years."

The elderly woman inclined her head slightly, as though this was exactly what she had expected.

"To my nephew, Thomas Marshall, I leave the property at 42 Maple Street, including all assets therein."

The middle-aged man nodded, his face unreadable.

"And to my great-niece, Lily Marshall, I leave the entirety of my stock portfolio, valued at approximately two hundred thousand dollars."

The young woman, Lily, blinked in surprise but said nothing.

Seren shifted uncomfortably in her seat. There had been no mention of her so far, and she began to wonder if there had been some mistake. Perhaps the invitation had been sent to the wrong person. But then Mr. Greaves continued.

"To my distant cousin, Seren Hartley, I leave the entirety of my estate, including the house at 17 Bitterwind Road, all properties, and remaining financial assets, totaling approximately five million dollars."

Seren’s breath caught in her throat. The room was suddenly silent. She felt the weight of everyone's eyes on her, the shock mirrored in their faces. Five million dollars? The entire estate? She barely knew Peter Marshall—why would he leave her everything?

"I’m sorry," Seren stammered, "there must be some mistake. I didn’t even know Peter that well—"

Mr. Greaves raised a hand to silence her. "There is no mistake, Miss Hartley. Mr. Marshall was very clear in his wishes. The estate is yours."

Seren’s mind raced, trying to make sense of it. This had to be some kind of mix-up, some kind of—

"However," Mr. Greaves continued, "there is one condition."

Seren froze. Condition?

"You must stay in this house for one night—alone. If you fail to do so, the inheritance will be forfeited and divided among the other beneficiaries."

The silence in the room deepened. Seren felt a cold prickle run down her spine. Stay in the house? Alone?

"What happens if I don’t stay?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Then the estate will pass to the Marshalls," Mr. Greaves said, his tone matter-of-fact. "But if you leave before sunrise, you will receive nothing."

Seren stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced at the others. Catherine's expression was unreadable, but Thomas was watching her with an intensity that made her uncomfortable. Lily looked away, her hands fidgeting in her lap.

Mr. Greaves folded the will and tucked it back into his pocket. "I suggest you take some time to consider your decision, Miss Hartley. The terms are non-negotiable."

With that, he turned and left the room, leaving Seren sitting there in stunned silence. The others rose as well, each offering her brief, tense nods before they too left her alone by the fire.

Seren stared into the flames, her mind racing. Five million dollars. It was more money than she could ever have imagined. It would change her life. She could pay off her student loans, buy a house, start her own business. She could be free of the financial burden that had weighed her down for so long.

But one night in this house?

Seren glanced around the room, taking in the dark wood paneling, the heavy curtains, the flickering shadows that seemed to dance along the walls. There was something unsettling about the house, something that made her skin crawl.

---

Later that night, Seren stood in the front hall, her bags at her feet, staring at the heavy door as it swung shut behind Mr. Greaves. The others had left hours ago, and now the house was empty. Silent.

The weight of the place pressed down on her. The ticking of a nearby clock echoed loudly in the quiet, a reminder of the long hours that stretched ahead.

She paced the foyer, her footsteps echoing off the cold marble floors. The estate was hers, she reminded herself. All she had to do was stay until morning, and the money, the house—everything would be hers.

But the house seemed to hum with an energy that made her uneasy. Every creak of the floorboards, every gust of wind against the windows sent her heart racing.

Finally, she decided to head upstairs, hoping that sleep would come and the night would pass quickly. But as she climbed the grand staircase, a feeling of unease settled in her stomach. It was as if the house itself was watching her.

She chose the bedroom closest to the stairs—a large room with high ceilings and

 a canopy bed that looked like something out of an old Gothic novel. She placed her bags on the floor, sat on the edge of the bed, and tried to calm the pounding in her chest.

But the quiet was unnerving. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, and the house groaned as if settling into itself. She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 11:45 p.m. Morning was still hours away.

Seren lay down, pulling the heavy blankets over herself, trying to ignore the sense of being watched. She closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every noise seemed amplified in the stillness—the creak of the bed, the distant hum of the wind, the soft rustle of fabric.

And then...a whisper.

Her eyes snapped open, her heart pounding. She held her breath, listening.

Nothing.

Seren sat up slowly, her ears straining for any sound. Had she imagined it? The house was old—probably full of strange drafts and noises. But the whisper had seemed so close, like someone was standing right next to her.

She turned on the bedside lamp, casting a soft glow across the room. Everything looked the same—the furniture, the walls, the closed door. But the sense of unease wouldn’t leave her.

She got up, her bare feet sinking into the thick carpet, and crossed the room to the door. She hesitated for a moment before turning the handle and pulling it open. The hallway beyond was dark, the only light coming from the flickering candles mounted on the walls.

Seren stepped into the hall, the cold air hitting her skin like ice. She stood there for a moment, listening. The house was silent.

And then she heard it again.

A soft whisper, barely audible, but unmistakable.

Seren's breath caught in her throat. It was coming from downstairs.

She took a step back into the room, her mind racing. She should leave. Forget the money, forget the will—nothing was worth this. But something stopped her. Something pulled her toward the sound, toward the whisper.

She grabbed her phone from the nightstand, its faint glow her only comfort as she crept down the stairs. The house was deathly quiet, save for the soft hum of the wind outside.

The whispering grew louder as she descended, pulling her toward the grand foyer. It was as if someone was calling her name, their voice just out of reach.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped. The air was thick with something she couldn't explain—a presence, a weight that pressed against her chest.

"Seren..."

She spun around, her heart racing. The whisper had come from behind her.

She backed away slowly, her phone shaking in her hand. The whisper grew louder, more insistent.

And then the front door flew open with a deafening crash, and the cold night air rushed in.

---

The next morning, the house stood silent once again. The sun rose over the horizon, casting long shadows across the estate. The Marshalls arrived promptly at dawn, expecting to find the house empty, expecting to claim their inheritance.

But they found Seren Hartley standing in the grand foyer, her face pale and drawn, her eyes wide with terror. She had stayed the night, just as the will had required.

But she had not stayed alone.

---

Seren never spoke of what had happened that night. She inherited the estate, as promised, but she rarely visited. The house remained empty, its dark halls and cold rooms untouched.

But the whispering never stopped.