The house that breathes

The darkness was total.

I froze, hand outstretched, candle useless. The whisper still lingered in my ear—Welcome home—and it felt less like a greeting than a claim.

My heartbeat filled the silence. One breath, two… then the candles flared back to life by themselves, flames steady and vertical, no smoke. The paper on the table was gone.

I swallowed hard. “All right,” I whispered. “Show yourself, then.”

Nothing answered—only the faint groan of timber shifting, as if the castle exhaled. I set the candle back in its holder and retraced my steps through the library door. The corridor seemed longer than before, as if the house had added a few feet while I wasn’t looking.

By the time I reached my room, dawn was breaking in a gray smear across the shutters. I collapsed into the chair by the fire, still fully dressed, and told myself I would write everything down in the morning. Instead, I slept.

When I woke, sunlight had turned the edges of the curtains to gold. The castle was quiet except for the distant rhythm of dripping water. A tray waited on the table: coffee, bread, and a note written in Elias’s neat script.

Breakfast for the scholar. Please avoid the western wing. The master sleeps.

I smiled faintly. “Does everyone here communicate by warning?” I muttered, but I drank the coffee anyway. It was strong enough to make my pulse feel like thunder.

Outside my window, the view stretched to the mountains—sharp peaks dusted in white, forests rolling down to a narrow river. Even in daylight, the place looked half-asleep, like a creature that only truly woke at night.

I spent the morning exploring the east halls. They were full of portraits: men in military coats, women with calm faces and too-dark eyes. None smiled. The strangest thing was how the light never seemed to hit their faces directly, no matter where I stood.

A sudden movement caught my eye. Elias was at the far end of the hall, arranging fresh candles.

“Good morning,” I said.

He turned, startled, then nodded. “You shouldn’t wander alone, Miss Blackthorne.”

“I wasn’t alone last night,” I said before I could stop myself.

That made him still. “You heard the house.”

“I heard someone. It said welcome home.”

His expression tightened. “It knows who lives here—and who once did. It learns names fast.”

“Is that supposed to comfort me?”

“No,” he said simply. “It’s supposed to make you careful.”

He gestured for me to follow him. “Come. The master has left instructions for your research.”

The library looked different in daylight: less like a cathedral, more like a maze. Dust motes danced in shafts of gray light. On the central table sat a stack of old ledgers bound in black leather.

“These contain what you came for,” Elias said. “Family records, maps, correspondence. His lordship believes you’ll find them useful.”

“I’d prefer to speak to him directly,” I said.

“That will have to wait for sunset.”

I nodded, tracing the gilt titles on the spines. “Elias… do you believe the stories about him?”

He hesitated, then said, “I believe he carries the weight of them.”

When I looked up, he was already at the door. “If the violin plays before nightfall,” he added quietly, “don’t answer.”

I worked until dusk. The ledgers were full of strange histories—bloodlines that looped back on themselves, dates that contradicted each other, pages that had been deliberately torn out. One entry repeated a phrase in the margin: The house keeps what the master cannot.

I didn’t like the sound of that.

The air changed as the sun slipped behind the mountains. Shadows sharpened; warmth drained from the stones. Somewhere deep below, I heard the low hum of a violin tuning itself.

I closed the last ledger and whispered, “So you’re awake.”

The candles nearest me flickered once in answer. A heartbeat later, the great door opened without a touch.

He stood there—Dracula—dressed in black again, eyes darker still, like the night hadn’t finished claiming him.

“Miss Blackthorne,” he said. “The house tells me you’ve been busy.”

“The house tells you things?”

“It tells me everything,” he said. “You heard it last night.”

“I did. It said welcome home.”

“Then it has decided you belong.” His smile was almost kind. “That makes two of us.”

He moved further inside; the candles leaned toward him as if greeting an old friend. I took a step back but couldn’t look away. He wasn’t beautiful in a mortal way—he was geometry and hunger, precision made flesh.

“You shouldn’t wander alone,” he murmured.

“Elias said the same.”

“Elias likes rules.” His voice softened. “I prefer choices.”

He stopped beside me, close enough that the air thinned. “What truth are you seeking, Miss Blackthorne?”

“Yours,” I said before thinking.

“And if you find it?”

“Then I’ll decide whether to believe it.”

His laugh was low, almost approving. “Spoken like someone who’s never lost anything to curiosity.”

He lifted a single page from the open ledger—the one with the strange phrase—and read it aloud: The house keeps what the master cannot.

His eyes met mine. “Do you know what that means?”

“I can guess,” I said quietly.

“Then don’t,” he replied. “Guessing is the first way Whitestone eats its guests.”

Before I could answer, the room’s temperature dropped. The candles flared blue for a breath and returned to gold. Dracula’s head tilted, listening to something I couldn’t hear.

“She’s restless,” he said.

“She?” I echoed.

“The house,” he said simply. “It likes you. It likes to test what it wants to keep.”

He set the page down and stepped back toward the door. “I’ll send Elias to fetch you before dawn. Until then—stay inside this room. No matter what calls.”

“What calls?” I asked.

“You’ll know.”

He smiled once more and vanished through the doorway, leaving the candles trembling in his wake.

The silence that followed was worse than any noise. I waited, counting heartbeats, until I heard it again: a sound faint as breath pressed against the wall.

“Evelyn,” it whispered.

I clutched the edge of the desk. “No.”

The whisper came again, coaxing. Evelyn… come see what he hides.

I backed toward the door. The handles were cold beneath my fingers.

A low groan shuddered through the stone—then, with a sound like a sigh, the far wall of the library cracked open along a hidden seam. Behind it, darkness waited.

From that darkness came the unmistakable scent of roses and iron.

And a voice—not the house’s this time—spoke from inside. Smooth, familiar, dangerous.

“You came sooner than I expected.”