Posted by Lord Alaric Thorne
They say the dead are silent. But that has never been true in this house.
I was not born to be remembered. I was born to remember.
My name is Lord Alaric Thorne, and though my heart no longer beats, I remain the last witness of a bloodline buried in ash and secrecy. Thorne Manor, the house of my birth and my exile, stands still—but not silent. Its walls do not creak from age. They speak. Its mirrors blink when you're not looking. And beneath its stone foundations lies something no one dares name anymore.
She sleeps there.
Seraphine.
Buried breathing. Dreaming in blood. The first of us.
I began this journal because the silence has grown restless. Dreams no longer stay where they’re put. The blackthorn trees bloom in winter. And the Veil—that fraying seam between the living and what comes after—has begun to whisper again.
You do not need to believe me. But if you’ve found your way here, then some part of you already does.
What follows in these entries are not tales. They are truths that were scrubbed from family ledgers, burned from church records, and hidden beneath coffin lids. You’ll read of witches who were never wicked, watchers who forgot they were meant only to observe, and a child who was turned into myth to silence what she might become.
This is not a story.
This is a house opening its mouth. And I, its son, am finally ready to speak.
~ Lord Alaric Thorne
Thorne Manor, where the Hollow remembers
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