By Lady Aurelia Ravenshade
The night I returned to Ravenshade Manor, the walls sighed — as if relieved that I had finally come home. Dust rose in swirls like restless spirits, and somewhere beyond the staircase, a single candle flared to life on its own.
It had been years since I last crossed the threshold, yet nothing had changed. The air was still heavy with memory — rosewater, smoke, and the faintest hint of something sweet and sorrowful. The manor was not abandoned. It had merely been waiting.
I placed my hand on the mahogany banister, tracing grooves carved by time and touch. The chandelier above trembled slightly, as though it too recognized me. And in that moment, I realized the truth — I had not returned to the house. The house had called me back.
🕯 The House That Breathes
Ravenshade is not a structure. It is a spirit clothed in wood and velvet. It inhales through the cracks of its windows and exhales through the creak of its floors. It dreams, it remembers, and when the moonlight floods its halls, it murmurs my name in tones older than language.
There is a room I have not entered since the night I fled — the East Wing chamber with the black mirror. I feel its pull like gravity. The door is locked, yet I hear the faint hum of its heart beating behind the wood.
I know I must not open it.
Not tonight.
Instead, I light the candelabra and walk the corridor, each flame blooming to life as I pass. Portraits line the walls — my ancestors, each with eyes that glint knowingly under the flicker of gold. Their gazes follow me. Not judgmental. Protective. Expectant.
🌹 The Letter on the Table
In the study, I find a letter sealed with red wax.
The script is unmistakable — my own.
“To the one who will return when the hour strikes velvet — welcome home. You left too soon, and the house has been starving for your shadow. The East Wing remembers your promise. Do not keep it waiting.”
The wax bears my sigil — the serpent coiled around the hourglass.
My hands tremble slightly as I fold the note.
Memory begins to surface like ink in water. The promise. The mirror. The night I swore never to look into it again.
🕯 The Whisper in the Mirror
At midnight, the rain begins — soft, persistent, rhythmic as heartbeat. The manor hums in time with it. I wander into the hall, drawn once again to the forbidden door. The key is gone, yet I feel the lock give under my hand.
Inside, the air is cold enough to sting.
The black mirror waits on its pedestal, covered in gauze.
I lift the fabric slowly, breath shallow. The reflection that greets me is not my own — not exactly.
She looks like me, but older, wiser, touched by starlight. Her lips move, though I do not hear her voice — only the echo of thought within my mind:
“You are both the haunted and the haunting.”
The glass ripples once, then stills. The candle nearest the mirror extinguishes itself.
🌒 The Awakening
I leave the room and seal the door behind me.
The manor is awake now — I can feel its pulse beneath my feet.
I am no longer a visitor here; I am its keeper, its voice, its heart.
As I pass the grand window, the moonlight breaks through the clouds, bathing the floor in silver. I catch my reflection again — and this time, she smiles.
I bow my head slightly.
To the woman I was.
To the spirit I’ve become.
To the house that has always known the difference.
🦇 Outro SignatureWritten by candlelight, inked in intention, sealed with shadow and scent.
May your night be velvet, your spirit untamed.
— Lady Aurelia Ravenshade
