Posted by Lord Alaric Thorne
“The house shifts when it remembers. The question is—what did it forget to bury?”
There is a hallway I never recall walking—yet my footprints were already there.
It’s tucked behind the second drawing room, where the wallpaper peels like old skin. Narrow, uneven, dustless. A space the manor does not like to speak of.
At its end stands a door. No handle. No keyhole. Only the faint outline of a symbol etched just deep enough for the eye to mistrust itself.
It was hers—Moira’s mark. A sigil I found once in the margins of her grimoire. A ward meant not to protect, but to contain.
“A door that was not locked, but forgotten.”
I stood before it for longer than I meant to. The longer I waited, the more I felt... watched. Not by eyes. But by architecture.
The candle in my hand flickered, though there was no wind. And then—I swear to you—it knocked.
Once. From the inside.
I did not run. But I did not speak.
I only placed my palm on the door and whispered:
“Who remembers me?”
The door grew warmer beneath my touch. And from behind it, not with voice but with walls, the manor replied:
“Not yet.”
~ Lord Alaric Thorne
Archivist. Dreamwalker. Son of the House That Breathes.
No comments:
Post a Comment