The Warning Letter


    Alice sat at her kitchen table, the faint aroma of brewed coffee lingering in the air. Her hands trembled as she held the letter. The paper felt old, brittle, as if it had been stored away for decades. Her name was scrawled in a jagged, hurried hand on the front of the envelope. No return address. No postage stamp. Someone had delivered it directly to her.


    She unfolded the letter slowly, her eyes catching the edges of a torn page tucked inside. The words were stark and chilling:


    “Stop your investigation. Some truths are better buried. The cost is greater than you know.”


    Alice’s breath caught as she retrieved the torn page. It was handwritten, the ink faded but legible. Her heart sank as she read the passage:


    “The pact was made in desperation. Greystone, Ashford, Mulligan—they all agreed. The entity promised wealth, harvests, and health in exchange for what it craved most. Blood. A sacrifice each year, bound by the mansion. We sealed it in shadows. But shadows have a way of slipping through cracks.”


    The bottom of the page was signed: Samuel Greystone, 1885.


    Her stomach churned. The Samuel Greystone? The man who had built Ashford House? She’d scoured countless archives in her quest to unravel the truth about David’s death, but this…this was something else.


    Confronting Harold Greystone


    By mid-afternoon, Alice was outside Harold Greystone’s sprawling estate, her hands balled into fists. The winter air stung her cheeks, but her anger kept her warm. Harold was the last living descendant of Samuel Greystone and had always dismissed her questions about Ashford House as nonsense.


    When Harold opened the door, his expression soured immediately. “Alice. I don’t have time for your conspiracy theories.”


    She shoved the letter and diary page into his hands. “Explain this.”


    Harold paled as he read, his fingers twitching slightly. “Where did you get this?”


    “It was delivered to me. No name. No explanation. I thought you might know something about your family’s ‘pacts.’” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.


    He sighed heavily, stepping aside to let her in. The Greystone mansion was warm but dimly lit, the faint scent of old books and cedarwood hanging in the air. Harold led her to his study, where he poured himself a drink, his hands shaking slightly.


    “You think you’ve stumbled onto some grand secret,” he muttered, sipping his whiskey. “But you have no idea what you’re dealing with.”


    “Then tell me,” Alice demanded. “Why was David in that house? Why did he die there? And what is this about a pact with some…entity?”


    Harold slammed his glass down, his face darkening. “You don’t want to know, Alice. That house isn’t just a house—it’s a prison. My great-grandfather and the others didn’t make a pact for greed; they did it to contain something. Something that can’t be destroyed.”


    “Then why warn me to stop? If it’s so dangerous, why not help me end this?”


    “Because you can’t!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the room. “The mansion is alive, Alice. It feeds on curiosity. The more you dig, the stronger it becomes. Leave it alone, for your sake.”Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.


    But Alice couldn’t let it go. David had died because of whatever was hidden in that house. She had to know the truth.


    Preparing for the Mansion


    That evening, Alice sat in her small living room, surrounded by a mess of notes, photographs, and articles she’d collected over the past year. She replayed snippets of David’s voice from an old voicemail, his laugh piercing her heart.


    “I’ll be back before you know it,” he’d said. “Don’t worry, Al.”


    Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She couldn’t let his death be in vain.


    She packed a bag with everything she thought she might need:


    David’s notes, which hinted at hidden passages and strange symbols within Ashford House.


    A powerful flashlight.


    Her handheld recorder, to document anything unusual.


    A small pocketknife—more for her own sense of security than actual protection.


    As she zipped up the bag, a shadow flickered in her peripheral vision. She froze, her breath hitching. Slowly, she turned, but the room was empty. Just her imagination. Or so she told herself.


    The Mansion at Night


    By the time Alice arrived at Ashford House, the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the world in an icy twilight. The mansion loomed before her, its silhouette jagged against the darkening sky.


    The iron gate creaked as she pushed it open, the sound cutting through the stillness like a scream. Her boots crunched on the frost-covered path leading to the front door. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the house itself was pulling her in.


    Standing at the threshold, she hesitated. Her breath puffed out in white clouds, the air unnaturally cold. The door was slightly ajar, as if inviting her inside.


    “This is for you, David,” she whispered, stepping over the threshold.


    Inside Ashford House


    The air inside was thick and oppressive, carrying the faint smell of mildew and decay. Alice clicked on her flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness. Dust motes floated like tiny specters in the light.


    The house was eerily silent, save for the creaking of floorboards under her weight. David’s notes had mentioned the library as a key location, so she made her way there first. The walls seemed to close in as she walked, the shadows twisting and shifting in the corners of her vision.


    The library was massive, with floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with ancient books. Alice scanned the spines, looking for anything that might match the torn diary page. A faint whisper brushed past her ear, sending a chill down her spine.


    “Alice…”


    She whipped around, but no one was there. Her flashlight flickered, plunging the room into darkness for a moment before stabilizing. Her breathing quickened as she turned back to the shelves.


    The Whispers Grow Louder


    As Alice combed through the library, the whispers grew louder, overlapping in a cacophony of voices. Some sounded like David’s, others like children laughing or crying. She pressed her hands to her ears, but the sounds were inside her head.


    Suddenly, one of the books slid off the shelf, landing with a thud at her feet. The title: Binding the Shadows. She hesitated before picking it up, her fingers trembling. The pages were filled with rituals, symbols, and warnings about entities from beyond.


    One passage was underlined in red:


    “The entity thrives on fear and curiosity. Do not listen to its whispers. Do not follow its shadows.”


    As if on cue, a shadow darted across the room, too fast to be human. Alice’s flashlight flickered again.


    The Heart of the Mansion


    Following the shadow, Alice found herself in a narrow hallway she hadn’t noticed before. The walls were lined with old portraits, their eyes seeming to follow her as she walked. At the end of the hallway was a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar.


    Inside, the room was circular, with strange symbols carved into the floor and walls. In the center stood an altar, stained dark with what she could only assume was blood. The air was freezing, and her breath came out in short, panicked bursts.


    A low growl rumbled through the room, and the shadows began to converge, forming a humanoid figure. Its eyes glowed faintly red, and its voice was a guttural rasp.


    “You should not have come.”


    The Escape


    Alice stumbled back, clutching her flashlight like a weapon. The figure advanced slowly, the shadows around it writhing like living things. She fumbled for her recorder, pressing the button to capture the moment.


    “What are you?” she demanded, her voice trembling.


    “I am what they tried to contain,” it replied. “And now, you have set me free.”


    Before she could respond, the figure lunged. Alice screamed, turning and sprinting out of the room. The house seemed to shift around her, the hallways elongating and twisting. Doors slammed shut as she passed, and the whispers turned into deafening screams.


    When she finally burst through the front door and into the cold night, she collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air. Behind her, Ashford House stood silent and dark, as if nothing had happened.


    But Alice knew better. The entity was free, and it was her fault.