In the quiet town of Eldergrove, there stood an old mansion at the edge of the woods, its windows boarded up and its iron gate rusted shut. Locals called it Blackthorn House, though no one could remember who had built it or why it was abandoned. The only thing they knew for sure was that no one dared to enter. For years, the house remained untouched, a silent sentinel against the creeping ivy that climbed its walls. But one autumn evening, a young artist named Elias found himself drawn to it. He had heard the stories—whispers of strange lights flickering behind the boarded windows, of footsteps echoing in empty halls, of people who entered and never returned. Yet something about the house called to him, as if it were waiting for someone to finally listen. Elias arrived just before dusk, the sky painted in hues of orange and purple. The air was still, thick with the scent of damp earth and old wood. As he approached, the gate creaked open on its own, though he hadn’t touched it. A chill ran down his spine, but he pressed on. The front door groaned as he pushed it open, revealing a foyer bathed in dim light. Dust motes swirled in the air, catching the glow of a single candle that had somehow been lit. The floorboards beneath his feet creaked with each step, as if the house itself was aware of his presence. He wandered through the rooms, each more decrepit than the last. A grand staircase led to a second floor where portraits of long-forgotten faces hung crookedly on the walls. Some of them seemed to follow him with their eyes, though he told himself it was just the play of the candlelight. In the parlor, an old piano sat in the corner, its keys yellowed and cracked. When he touched one, a soft note rang out, filling the room with a sound that felt both familiar and wrong. As he explored deeper, he found a study filled with books stacked haphazardly on shelves. One book, bound in black leather, caught his eye. Its cover was embossed with a symbol he didn’t recognize, but something about it felt important. He opened it, and the pages turned themselves, revealing sketches of the house, but not as it was now. These drawings showed it in its prime, with gardens and people walking through the halls. Among the figures, he spotted a woman in a white dress, her face half-hidden by shadow. A sudden gust of wind blew through the house, extinguishing the candle. In the darkness, he heard a voice—soft, melodic, and far too close. “You shouldn’t have come here.” It wasn’t a threat, just a statement. He spun around, but the room was empty. The next room he entered was different. It was smaller, with a single window that looked out over the woods. On the wall was a mirror, its frame covered in dust. When he wiped it clean, he saw not his reflection, but the woman from the book. She smiled, and for a moment, he thought he saw her lips move. Then she was gone, and the mirror was clear again. Elias left the house that night, but something had changed. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt watched, as if the house had marked him. He tried to forget it, but the images kept coming back—those eyes, that voice, the woman in the mirror. Weeks passed, and he began to notice odd things. His dreams were filled with the same house, the same woman, the same silence. One morning, he found a small black book on his desk, identical to the one he had seen in the study. Inside, the pages were blank, but when he touched them, words appeared: *“You are welcome home.”* He tried to burn the book, but it wouldn’t catch. He tried to throw it away, but it always reappeared. The house had become part of him, and he wasn’t sure if he had entered it, or if it had entered him. One night, he returned to Blackthorn House, drawn by an unseen force. The gate opened again, the door creaked, and the candle burned once more. This time, he didn’t turn back. He stepped inside, knowing he might never leave. And in the silence of the house, the woman waited, smiling as the door closed behind him.