THE MANSION ON THE HILL

Fog peeled back like curtains as the boat docked.

Before me stretched the quaint little town of Mystique Gore, sunlit and alive much to my surprise.

Children ran across cobblestone streets, laughter bouncing off brick walls. Vendors sold roasted nuts and colorful pastries. Someone played a violin near the fountain, and an old woman tossed breadcrumbs to an army of pigeons like a general feeding her soldiers.

Not what I expected.

I had imagined mist, crows, someone whispering cryptic warnings in Latin, maybe a guy with no eyes yelling “leave this place!” in slow motion.

Instead?

It looked like a postcard from Europe with better lighting.

But beyond the cheerful town, high on a hill that caught no sun, stood the mansion.

Black stone. Spiral towers. Windows too narrow and too many. It didn’t look haunted—it looked like it did the haunting.

I stepped onto the dock.

A man in a vest and hat stood waiting, holding a sign with my name: LEA.

He looked like the kind of man who ironed his socks and kept his secrets alphabetized.

“You’re early,” he said in a clipped accent, bowing. “We like that.”

“I like not being dead,” I replied.

He raised an eyebrow, not sure if I was joking. I wasn’t.

“I am Alfred,” he introduced. “But you may call me Mr. Alfred.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“Yes. But one sounds more expensive.”

This was going to be fun.

We walked through town. I got a few stares...friendly, mostly—but there was an unspoken awareness in the air. Like the townspeople recognized I wasn’t just a visitor, but part of something else. Something they’d rather not discuss.

“I see you’re famous,” I said, nodding at the people waving to Alfred.

“Oh, I’m quite the catch,” he replied proudly. “I was the organizer of last year’s Goat Parade. Not a single stampede, thank you.”

“You must have nerves of steel.”

“Or a sturdy fence.”

As we began the climb toward the mansion, the cobblestones turned to mossy stone, the laughter faded behind us, and the temperature dropped by at least five degrees.

Something about the air felt older up here.

The sun still shone but not on the mansion.

It wasn’t in shadow. It just… didn’t catch light.

We reached the wrought iron gates. They groaned open with theatrical timing, like a door creaking in a horror movie.

“Does that gate always do that?” I asked.

“Only when someone important arrives,” Alfred replied, deadpan.

“Do I count?”

“Not really.”

The house was a Gothic painting made real.

The steps creaked underfoot as we approached a massive door etched with spirals and symbols. I didn’t recognize runes, maybe, or someone’s idea of fancy circles.

Alfred knocked four times. Not three. Not five.

“Secret code?” I asked.

“No. Makes the butler feel needed.”

The door opened to reveal a tall man in a black suit with a jaw sharp enough to slice bread.

“Miss Lea,” he greeted. “Welcome.”

“You the butler? Or a sentient statue?”

“I am James. I oversee internal operations.”

“So… butler.”

“Yes.”

Good. We were bonding already.

Inside, the mansion swallowed sound. Velvet carpet. Marble walls. Paintings that watched. Mirrors—so many mirrors. Some framed with gold, others set into walls like they grew there.

I caught my reflection in one. Normal.

Then looked again.

Alfred and James weren’t in it.

I turned there they were behind me. I turned back.

Still not in the reflection.

“Cool,” I muttered. “Haunted mirror. Classic one,”

Alfred looked nervous. James didn’t flinch.

“Where’s the master of the house?” I asked, scanning the looming portraits on the walls men with pale faces and tired eyes.

“He prefers privacy,” James said.

“Is he real, or are we doing the whole mysterious-figure-I-never-see thing?”

“You’ll meet him,” Alfred assured me. “He likes to… observe first.”

That didn’t sound suspicious at all.

They showed me to my room: high ceiling, canopy bed, a window view of the woods, and furniture older than my entire ancestry.

A neat stack of uniforms waited on the dresser. Black. Crisp. My exact size.

Creepy.

“I didn’t give anyone my measurements,” I noted.

“We know everything that matters,” James replied.

“Can I get a different room?” I asked.

“There isn’t one.”

“Okay. Just checking how fast you say creepy things.”

Alfred coughed to hide a laugh. I liked him already.

After they left, I inspected the room.

No cameras. No bugs.

At least none that I could find.

But the mirror above the fireplace caught my eye.

This one didn’t hide anything. I saw myself clearly—and something else, just for a second. Like a faint silhouette behind me, tall and still.

I turned, it's empty of course!

I tried the bed. Comfy, soft sheets and zero bloodstains.

That’s always a plus.

Still, sleep wasn’t happening. So I explored.

The hallway outside was dead silent. I passed a painting of a woman in a red gown, staring into a mirror.

Her eyes followed me. I stopped.

Then blinked.

Now, she wasn’t in the painting anymore.

“Cool,” I whispered. “Totally normal.”

Dinner was at seven sharp. I got dressed and followed the hallway down past endless doors.

The dining room was grand and dim, lit by candles and a single chandelier that looked like it cost more than my education.

Only Alfred and James were present. No mysterious master.

The long table could seat twenty. Only three chairs were pulled out.

“Bit formal for an empty room,” I said, sitting down.

“He eats elsewhere,” James replied.

“Does he breathe elsewhere too?”

Alfred tried to hide a grin.

We ate quietly some kind of meat stew, bread warm from the oven, and a wine I didn’t touch.

Something in my gut said: don’t drink that.

After dinner, I was escorted back to my room like a guest in a castle or a prisoner in velvet.

The lights flickered once in the hall.

The mirrors showed a shadow walking beside me.

But when I turned...just James.

“You’ve got ghosts,” I said.

“We’ve got history,” he corrected.

“That’s the creepiest way to say yes.”

He stopped at my door.

“Sleep well, Miss Lea,” he said.

And for the first time, I thought I saw his mouth twitch.

Not into a smile.

Into something darker.

I lay in bed, the moon high outside.

The wind whispered against the glass.

I stared at the ceiling, sleeping nowhere in sight.

This place was elegant and beautiful.

And wrong.

Like the air was holding its breath. Like the house was waiting for something.

Watching.

Whispering.

And somewhere, deep in its bones.

Something moved.