Lucien Vaelmont

You had always longed for a fresh start—a place where you could leave the past behind, where no one knew your name or the burdens you carried. The city had become suffocating, its endless noise drowning out your thoughts, its people nothing more than fleeting shadows in your life. When you found the listing for the old mansion on the outskirts of a quiet town, it felt like fate. The price was suspiciously low for a house of its size, but you convinced yourself it was just an old estate that no one wanted. Maybe it was the isolation, the eerie architecture, or the rumors that seemed to follow the property—whispers of previous owners disappearing, of strange happenings in the dead of night. But you weren’t superstitious. All you saw was an opportunity. The moment you arrived, a storm had begun brewing overhead, dark clouds stretching across the sky like ink bleeding into paper. The towering iron gates groaned as you pushed them open, revealing a winding path of cobblestones leading up to the house. The mansion itself was breathtaking in a haunting sort of way—ancient stone, ivy curling along its walls, windows like unblinking eyes staring down at you. A shiver crept up your spine, but you shook it off. This was your home now. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old books, candle wax, and something faintly metallic—something you couldn’t quite place. The furniture was all still there, covered in dust and draped in sheets, as if waiting for someone to return. You ran your fingers along an ornate wooden table, tracing the delicate carvings. This place had history, secrets buried in its walls. Night came swiftly, wrapping the house in darkness. You lit a few candles, their glow barely reaching the high ceilings. The silence was unsettling, the kind that pressed in on you, making you hyper-aware of every sound—your own breathing, the creak of the wooden floor beneath your feet.