Dorian Manor

In the quiet town of Seaport Summit, nested on a plateau among rolling hills and whispering pines, lived Eleanor Gray, a librarian with a penchant for mysteries. Eleanor's days were spent surrounded by books old and new, their stories weaving through her mind like a continuous narrative.

One crisp autumn late evening, Eleanor locked the door and walked through the cobblestone path to her car as she has done for the last forty years.

She noticed a small, weathered envelope tucked under a rock. Curiosity piqued, she picked it up. Inside was a faded photograph of the Dorian Manor, a forgotten estate perched on the cliffs overlooking the endless expanse of a black, restless sea. Dorian Manor had stood abandoned for decades; its secrets shrouded in mystery. But what intrigued her most was a note scribbled on the back of the photograph. "Find me at the Dorian Manor, if you dare."

Looked ahead. In the distance, the shadowy outline of Dorian Manor. A place where time seemed to stand still here, and nights lingered too long. Many times Eleanor stood gazing at the Manor wondering what was lying in its crumbling walls with a feeling of belonging. As the mist curled like pale fingers around the towering spires, shadows crawled from its corners, whispering its secrets to those who dared to listen.

Determined to find who was the mystery stranger who had invited her to the Manor, Eleanor embarked on a journey that let her through dusty archives and forgotten histories. The trail eventually pointed to an old journal hidden in the library's rare books section.

Within its brittle pages, she discovered the name "Agatha Dorian," a name etched in elegant script beside sketches of the Dorian Manor.

Armed with this newfound knowledge, Eleanor ventured to Dorian Manor one stormy evening. The mansion loomed like a specter against the darkening sky, its windows boarded up and its gardens overgrown. As Eleanor stepped through the crackling gate, she sensed a presence - a figure cloaked in shadows, watching her from the porch.

Heart racing, Eleanor approached cautiously. The figure emerged, a frail elderly woman, her eyes gleaming with a mixture of fear and hope. "You found it," she whispered, clutching Eleanor's hand tightly.

The woman introduced herself as Agatha Dorian, the last living descendant of Dorian Manor's original owners. She recounted a tale of family betrayal and hidden treasures buried within the mansion's walls, and that she was the last. Agatha also said to watch a visit from Jacob Sinclair, who will guide her to the final segment, and warned her of those who want to harness the power.

The last of what? What power? And what final segment?  Eleanor asked.

"He'll be here soon." Agatha replied, avoiding elaborating further.

The wind howled as Eleanor hurried home, the evening shadows stretching long beneath the glow of streetlights. The night felt different. There was a strange sense of being watched, a tingle at the back of her neck. She glanced behind her—nothing but empty streets and the occasional rustle of leaves.

Eleanor's heart quickened. A chill spread down her spine. Unable to shake the feeling of unease, Eleanor hurried inside her apartment, locking the door behind her.

Moments later, a loud bang shattered the stillness of her apartment. Eleanor froze, her heart pounding in her chest. Someone was at the door. Her phone buzzed on the table. A message from an unknown number:

"Leave now. They're here."

The air around her thickened with panic. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. Who was after her?

The banging grew louder. Whoever was on the other side of the door wasn't going to wait much longer.

Eleanor had no choice. She bolted for the fire escape, pushing open the window and scrambling down the rickety ladder. Below, the alley was bathed in darkness, and for a moment, she hesitated. She could hear voices now, muffled and urgent, coming from her apartment.

As she reached the street, headlights from a car flashed on, illuminating her for just a second before the car sped towards her. Her phone buzzed again.

"Get in."

Without thinking, Eleanor leaped into the backseat. The driver, a man in his early thirties with dark, intense eyes, looked back at her through the rearview mirror.

"Jacob Sinclair," he said in a low, urgent voice. "We don't have much time. They know you're the last, and they'll do anything to take it from you. "

Before she could respond, the car roared down the street; the tires screeching against the pavement. The city lights blurred past them as Eleanor tried to grasp what was happening.

"You're the only one who can unlock what they're after." Said Jacob.

"But who are they?" Eleanor asked, her voice shaking.

Jacob's jaw tightened. "A group that's been hunting me for years. They're after something powerful—something hidden in the place where no shadow falls."

Eleanor stared at him, her heart pounding in her ears. None of this made sense, yet the fear in Jacob's eyes was unmistakable.

"What do I have to do?" she whispered.

Jacob handed her a key, its metal cold against her palm. "There's a safe room in the manor. It holds the final piece of the puzzle. Once you find it, it will all end, but it has to be you."

As the car sped into the night, Eleanor realized she was no longer just an ordinary woman with an ordinary life. She had stumbled upon something far bigger than she could have ever imagined—and there was no turning back now.

The storm raged violently over the cliffs of Dorian Manor, waves crashing against jagged rocks far below. Inside the sprawling, decaying estate, the air was thick with the scent of damp stone and musty velvet, the darkness pierced only by the occasional flicker of lightning.

Over the years, villagers had spoken of curses, madness, and disappearances tied to the Dorian name. But Eleanor, intrigued by the eerie grandeur of the mansion, was pushed by an inexplicable urge to discover the truth behind the stories.

As the storm intensified outside, Eleanor wandered deeper into the manor, her eyes scanning the towering shelves in the ancient library room. A glint caught her attention—a small, ornate box resting on a high shelf, half-hidden behind a dusty volume. Curious, she reached up, pulling it down with trembling hands. On her left index finger, a ring she wore since her childhood, but knew nothing about, grew warm. The box was cold to the touch, its intricate design etched with strange, almost occult symbols.

Eleanor hesitated for a moment before opening it. Inside lay a single object: an antique locket, tarnished with age. The delicate chain felt oddly familiar in her fingers, though she was certain she had never seen it before. As she held the locket up to the light, something else slipped from the box, a faded note, yellowed and brittle with time.

"To the one who bears my blood, seek me where the shadow never falls. V.D."

Victor Dorian.

Eleanor's breath caught in her throat. This locket—this strange, ancient piece of jewelry—had once belonged to the owner of the manor. Victor Dorian. But what was the meaning of "where the shadow never falls"? And why did this cryptic message feel like an invitation, or perhaps… a warning?

Her fingers brushed against the latch of the locket, and it sprung open with a soft click. Inside was a miniature portrait of a woman—her face strikingly similar to Eleanor's own. Dark hair framed the woman's pale face, and her eyes, deep and hollow, seemed to stare directly into Eleanor's soul. Beneath the portrait, a name was engraved in delicate script: "Adriana Dorian."

The name sent a shiver down Eleanor's spine. Adriana—her mother's name. A mother she had never met.

Eleanor's thoughts swirled as the wind howled outside, rattling the windows. The room seemed to grow colder, the air thickening with a presence that felt ancient and watching. With the locket clutched tightly in her hand, Eleanor searched the manor further, drawn by an inexplicable force, as if the very house itself was guiding her.

Down the grand staircase and through the labyrinthine halls, she followed the pull of the locket. Her feet led her to the east wing of the manor, where the rooms were long abandoned and the walls bore the weight of centuries. She passed locked doors and shattered mirrors, their surfaces clouded with dust and age.

Finally, she came upon a narrow hallway, its end bathed in an eerie glow. At the far end stood an arched doorway she hadn't noticed before. Its frame was carved with symbols similar to those on the box that held the locket. Above the doorway, barely visible in the dim light, was an inscription.

"Here lies the place where no shadow falls."

Her heart raced as she stepped forward, pushing open the heavy door. Inside was a small chapel, long forgotten and choked by time. The walls were lined with crumbling stone, and at the center of the room stood an altar draped in a tattered velvet cloth.

But it was what lay beyond the altar that made Eleanor's blood run cold.

A coffin, its wood blackened with age, rested beneath a stained-glass window. Unlike the rest of the room, the coffin bore no signs of decay—its surface was polished, pristine. Above it, the window depicted a woman in a flowing black gown, her eyes hollow and sorrowful. It was the same woman from the locket, Adriana Dorian. Eleanor noticed the ring on Adriana's left index finger, it was her ring.

She approached slowly, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. The locket seemed to pulse in her hand, its chain growing warm against her skin. She could almost hear a faint whisper on the wind, calling her closer, urging her to look inside the coffin.

With trembling fingers, she lifted the heavy lid.

Inside, to her shock, was no decayed body, but a mirror. A large, ornate mirror that reflected not the room, but something else entirely. In its dark depths, she saw a sprawling garden, bathed in eternal twilight. And there, standing at the edge of the garden, was the figure of a man—tall, gaunt, and cloaked in black. His face was hidden in shadow, but his presence was unmistakable.

Victor Dorian.

Eleanor gasped, stepping back from the coffin as the vision in the mirror faded. But the locket around her neck pulsed again, tightening like a noose. She felt a pull, as if the house itself was dragging her toward the truth that had been buried for generations.

Suddenly, the door behind her slammed shut. The air grew thick with the scent of earth and decay. And then, from the shadows, a voice—low, echoing, and impossibly distant—whispered:

"You are the last, Eleanor. The bloodline ends with you."

The chapel grew colder; the walls seeming to close in around her. She backed away from the coffin, from the mirror, from the truth that now seemed all too clear. She was bound to the Dorians in ways she had never imagined, linked to their dark, cursed legacy.

Victor had found her. The locket was no mere trinket—it was a key, a bond that tied her to the house, to the bloodline she knew nothing about. A bloodline that had haunted this place for centuries. And now, there was no escape. The wind howled through the empty halls, and the sea crashed against the cliffs with relentless fury, as if urging her to turn back. But she couldn't. She was here because she had no choice.

Eleanor made her way through the darkened corridors, her footsteps echoing in the silence. Unknown memories flared to life in every room—the drawing room where her mother had wasted away in madness, muttering to the shadows; the study where her father had spent long, sleepless nights poring over ancient tomes, searching for a way to break the Dorian curse. But no one had ever escaped it.

And now, it was Eleanor's turn.

In the heart of the manor, hidden beneath a spiral staircase that wound deep into the earth, lay the family crypt. The door was heavy with rusted iron, and as Eleanor pushed it open, the stench of damp stone and old decay assaulted her senses. The crypt was lined with the graves of generations of Dorians, each tomb marked with a stone effigy of its occupant, their faces frozen in expressions of torment.

At the far end of the crypt stood an empty sarcophagus. It was hers.

Above it, carved into the wall, was an inscription.

"The last Dorian shall inherit the darkness. None shall escape its grasp."

Eleanor stepped closer, the weight of inevitability pressing down on her. Her hands trembled as he reached into her coat and withdrew the locket. Its surface was carved with intricate symbols, ancient and cryptic, passed down from generation to generation. Eleanor stared at the locket, his pulse thudding in her ears. As she stood there, staring at the empty sarcophagus meant for her, the shadows in the crypt stirred. From the corners of the room, they slithered toward her, pooling at her feet like ink. The temperature dropped, the air heavy with something unseen but palpable, something ancient and malicious. She could hear whispers now, rising from the darkness, voices that sounded like her ancestors calling her home.

"It is time, Eleanor. The darkness awaits. You belong to us. You always have."

Eleanor tried to resist, but her body felt numb, her limbs unresponsive. The darkness was inside her now, filling every part of her, a tide of despair that threatened to drown her very being. She could feel the weight of centuries of Dorians, their curses, their sins, their madness, pressing down on her, consuming her.

And then, as the final tendrils of shadow wrapped around her throat, a figure appeared in the crypt's doorway, a tall, gaunt man with hollow eyes and a twisted smile. Her father.

"You cannot escape your destiny, Eleanor. None of us could."

Eleanor's vision blurred as the darkness closed in, the Dorian's had long been bound to the darkness, their souls claimed by something far older and more terrible than they had ever understood.

And now, Eleanor Gray, the last of the Dorian bloodline, was the final victim.

As the shadows swallowed her whole, the crypt fell silent once more, the echoes of the Dorian curse settling into the bones of the manor waiting for the next soul to claim.

The manor would stand eternal, for the darkness had found its heir.