HAUNTED MANORS 3. The Silent Wings of Ravenswood Manor

Chapter One: Arrival

The carriage creaked and groaned as it climbed the snow-covered hill, each lurch threatening to topple it into the steep ravine below. Eleanor Ravenswood kept her gloved hands clasped tightly in her lap, her breath misting in the frigid air. Beside her, Peter, her eight-year-old son, sat bundled in his coat, his wide blue eyes fixed on the towering silhouettes of the trees as they passed. Snowflakes clung to the glass, blurring the outline of Ravenswood Manor as it came into view.

“Is that it?” Peter asked, his voice small in the oppressive silence.

Eleanor turned her gaze toward the house�"a dark, sprawling estate with steep gables and spires that pierced the grey sky. The windows, covered in frost, glinted like the eyes of a predator. It looked every bit as foreboding as the stories had claimed.

“Yes,” she replied softly, “that’s Ravenswood Manor.”

The horses neighed as the coachman pulled them to a stop in front of the arched main door. The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the distant call of a raven. Eleanor stepped down, the snow crunching under her boots. Peter followed, clutching her hand as he surveyed the imposing house with a mixture of curiosity and fear.

An elderly man emerged from the shadows of the porch, a lantern in hand. His stooped figure was wrapped in a thick coat, his face lined with years of wear. This was Mr. Thorne, the caretaker, who had written to Eleanor about her uncle’s passing.

“Mrs. Ravenswood,” he said, tipping his hat. “Welcome to the manor.”

Eleanor nodded, her breath clouding in the cold. “Thank you, Mr. Thorne.”

Thorne’s gaze lingered on Peter for a moment before shifting back to her. “I’ve kept the place as best I could, but it’s a large house for an old man. I’ve prepared the east wing for you and the boy.”

“That will do fine,” Eleanor said, though the chill in her voice betrayed her unease. “We won’t be here long. Just enough to settle my uncle’s affairs and prepare the house for sale.”

Thorne’s lips pressed into a thin line. “A word of caution, madam�"stay clear of the south wing after dark.”

“The south wing?” Eleanor frowned. “Why?”

The caretaker hesitated, his weathered face shadowed by the lantern’s flicker. “It’s best not to ask questions you don’t want answered.”

Before she could press him further, Thorne handed her the keys. “The house will speak for itself,” he muttered and disappeared into the storm, leaving them alone.

Inside, the manor was colder than she had expected. The vast entry hall stretched upward into shadows, a grand staircase curving into darkness. Ornate chandeliers hung above, their crystals dulled by dust. Peter clung to her coat, his small frame trembling.

“It smells funny,” he whispered.

“Old houses often do,” Eleanor said, though she privately agreed. The air carried a peculiar metallic tang, sharp and unsettling.

She lit a lantern and led Peter to the east wing. The rooms were surprisingly intact, though the furniture bore the weight of decades of neglect. A fire had been prepared in the parlor, and Eleanor knelt to light it. The flames crackled to life, casting warm, flickering light over the faded wallpaper and threadbare rugs.

Peter wandered to the window, peering out into the blizzard. “Do you think Uncle Elias liked it here?”

Eleanor didn’t answer immediately. She barely remembered her uncle, a reclusive man who had lived alone in the manor for decades. The stories whispered about him in the village�"about his strange habits and tragic end�"were not ones she wanted Peter to hear.

“He must have,” she said at last. “He lived here his whole life.”

Peter turned back to her, his expression thoughtful. “If he lived here alone, who was he talking to?”

The question caught her off guard. “What do you mean?”

Peter shrugged. “I just thought I saw someone in the window. But it was probably just the trees.”

Eleanor forced a smile. “I’m sure that’s all it was.”

The first night was restless. The wind howled around the house, rattling the windows like an unseen hand trying to force its way inside. Eleanor lay awake, staring at the shadows dancing on the ceiling. The fire had long since burned out, leaving the room frigid.

She thought of Thorne’s warning. The south wing. Why had it been sealed off? What secrets did it hold?

A soft creak broke her thoughts. She sat up, straining to hear. At first, there was only silence, but then�"faint footsteps, muffled by the thick carpets. They stopped just outside her door.

“Peter?” she called softly.

No answer.

She rose, her bare feet cold against the floor. Opening the door, she found the corridor empty. The shadows stretched endlessly in both directions, and the air seemed heavier, colder. She shivered and closed the door, locking it behind her.

As she returned to bed, she caught sight of herself in the mirror across the room. For a moment, she thought she saw movement�"something dark flickering just behind her reflection. She spun around, but the room was empty.

The wind howled louder, drowning out the sound of her racing heart.

Chapter Two: Whispers in the Dark

Eleanor awoke to the sound of Peter crying. The room was still dark, save for the pale light of dawn creeping through the frost-covered windows. She threw off the covers, her breath visible in the icy air, and hurried to his room.

Peter was sitting up in bed, clutching his blankets tightly. His wide eyes darted to her as she entered.

“Peter, what’s wrong?” Eleanor asked, kneeling by his side.

“I heard her,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “The cold lady.”

Eleanor blinked, her sleep-addled mind struggling to process his words. “What cold lady?”

“She was in the mirror,” Peter said, pointing to the large oval mirror on the wardrobe. “She told me not to be afraid.”

Eleanor’s stomach tightened. She turned to the mirror, her reflection staring back at her, distorted slightly by the glass’s imperfections. Nothing else was there.

“You were dreaming,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “It’s just the wind playing tricks on you.”

Peter shook his head vigorously. “It wasn’t a dream. She said she’s waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Peter didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on the mirror.

Eleanor sighed and kissed his forehead. “Try to get some sleep, darling. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

As she closed the door behind her, she glanced back at the mirror. The surface seemed darker than before, as though it held something just out of sight. She shook the thought away and returned to her room, but sleep did not come.

Morning brought little relief. The storm continued unabated, the wind carving strange patterns into the snow outside. Eleanor spent the early hours unpacking what little they had brought, while Peter played quietly with his toy soldiers in the parlor.

The fire crackled weakly, casting long shadows over the faded furniture. Every creak of the house seemed amplified in the silence.

“Are you sure it’s safe to be here?” Peter asked suddenly, his gaze fixed on the window.

“What do you mean?” Eleanor asked, startled by his question.

“The house doesn’t feel...friendly,” Peter said. He looked down at his toys, avoiding her eyes.

Eleanor crouched beside him, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “It’s just an old house, Peter. It takes time to get used to.”

Peter frowned but said nothing more.

That afternoon, Eleanor decided to explore. She told Peter to stay in the parlor and ventured into the labyrinthine halls of Ravenswood Manor. The air grew colder as she moved away from the warmth of the fire, her footsteps echoing faintly on the wooden floors.

She passed countless closed doors, most locked or swollen shut with age. Dusty portraits lined the walls, their subjects staring down at her with solemn, accusing eyes. One painting in particular caught her attention: a stern-looking man with dark eyes and a sharply angled face.

The plaque beneath the frame read: Elias Ravenswood, 1813�"1879.

Her great-uncle’s gaze seemed to follow her as she moved. She shivered and turned away.

At the end of the corridor, she came to a set of double doors secured with heavy chains. This, she realized, must be the south wing. The chill in the air was more pronounced here, biting through her coat and gloves.

Eleanor touched the chains lightly. The metal was ice-cold, as though it had been left outside in the snow. She leaned closer, peering through the gap between the doors. The faint smell of decay wafted out, making her wrinkle her nose.

A sudden creak made her jump. She spun around, but the hallway was empty.

The south wing, she thought. What happened here?

That night, Peter’s cries woke her again.

This time, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, staring into the mirror. His small figure was silhouetted against the faint light filtering in from the hallway.

“Peter?” Eleanor called softly.

He didn’t respond. She moved closer, her heart pounding.

“Peter, what are you doing?”

“She’s in there,” he whispered. His voice was eerily calm. “She wants me to follow her.”

Eleanor grabbed his shoulders and turned him toward her. His face was pale, his eyes distant.

“Peter, there’s no one there,” she said firmly. “Look at me.”

He blinked and seemed to snap out of his trance. Tears welled in his eyes. “She was there, Mama. I saw her.”

Eleanor glanced at the mirror. This time, it wasn’t her reflection that greeted her. A shadow shifted within the glass, faint but unmistakable. A woman’s shape, gaunt and skeletal, with hollow eyes that seemed to pierce through the barrier of the mirror.

Eleanor gasped and pulled Peter away. When she looked back, the shadow was gone.

The following morning, Eleanor confronted Mr. Thorne. She found him in the kitchen, his weathered hands busy with kindling for the stove.

“Mr. Thorne, I need to know about the south wing,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “And the mirrors.”

Thorne froze, his shoulders stiffening. Slowly, he straightened and turned to face her.

“I told you to leave the south wing alone,” he said.

“I’m not asking for riddles. Something is happening here. Peter keeps seeing...things in the mirrors. And I saw something, too.”

Thorne’s expression darkened. “If you’ve seen her, it’s already too late.”

Eleanor’s throat tightened. “Who is she?”

Thorne hesitated, then sighed heavily. “Elias Ravenswood wasn’t the man the village remembers. He was...obsessed with keeping his family’s legacy intact. When his sister, Agnes, fell ill, he turned to unnatural means. They say he bound her soul to the mirrors to save her.”

“That’s impossible,” Eleanor said, though her voice wavered.

“Believe what you will,” Thorne said grimly. “But if she’s showing herself to the boy, she won’t stop until she has him.”

Eleanor felt the room spin. “What can I do?”

“Leave,” Thorne said simply. “Take the boy and go. Before the storm gets worse.”

But the storm was already raging, and Eleanor knew it was too late for escape.

Chapter Three: Shadows in the South Wing

The storm showed no sign of abating. Snow piled against the windows, muffling the world outside in a heavy, suffocating silence. Eleanor paced the parlor, her thoughts racing. Mr. Thorne’s warning echoed in her mind, but leaving the manor was impossible with the weather closing in. And even if they could leave, she couldn’t ignore the threat inside the house.

Peter sat by the fire, his toy soldiers arranged in neat rows on the rug. He seemed calmer today, though his occasional glances toward the parlor mirror betrayed his lingering fear.

Eleanor knelt beside him, brushing a hand over his hair. “Are you feeling better, darling?”

Peter nodded, but his gaze flicked again toward the mirror. “She hasn’t talked to me today.”

Eleanor’s chest tightened. “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, though the house seemed to bristle with an unseen presence. Doors creaked softly, and cold drafts whispered through the halls. Eleanor tried to keep Peter occupied with books and games, but her own unease made it hard to focus.

By evening, her curiosity about the south wing became unbearable. If Thorne wouldn’t tell her the full story, she’d have to uncover it herself. After Peter was asleep, she retrieved the lantern and made her way back to the chained doors.

The chains were rusted but sturdy. With a sharp tug, Eleanor tested their hold, her breath clouding in the freezing air. She had no tools to break them and no desire to draw more attention to her actions.

Instead, she peered through the gap between the doors again, this time holding the lantern close. The light illuminated a narrow section of the corridor beyond. The wallpaper was torn and stained, and the floorboards were warped, as if the south wing had been abandoned for decades.

Then she saw it�"a faint movement in the darkness, a shadow slipping silently out of sight.

Eleanor recoiled, her heart hammering. She stumbled back, the lantern shaking in her hand.

She spent a restless night, plagued by nightmares of shadowy figures and hollow-eyed faces. When morning came, the storm was fiercer than ever. Snow drifts reached the windowsills, and the wind howled like a living thing. Thorne’s prediction was proving true�"they were trapped.

As Peter ate breakfast, Eleanor pulled Thorne aside in the kitchen.

“I saw something in the south wing last night,” she said, keeping her voice low. “It wasn’t...it wasn’t just shadows.”

Thorne looked up sharply. “You opened the doors?”

“No, but I saw something move,” she said. “Mr. Thorne, you need to tell me the truth. What happened to Agnes Ravenswood?”

Thorne hesitated, then sighed. “Agnes was Elias’s sister. She lived here with him until she died...or so we thought.”

“What do you mean?”

“Elias was obsessed with keeping his family intact,” Thorne said. “He believed Agnes’s soul was too pure to leave this world. After she passed, he conducted...rituals, trying to bind her spirit to the house. But something went wrong.”

Eleanor’s throat tightened. “What happened?”

“He succeeded,” Thorne said grimly. “But not the way he intended. Agnes’s spirit didn’t stay peaceful. She became...something else. And Elias paid the price.”

Eleanor stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. “And now she’s targeting Peter?”

Thorne nodded. “She’s drawn to the living. The boy is vulnerable.”

“What can I do?” Eleanor demanded. “How do I stop her?”

Thorne shook his head. “If I knew that, she wouldn’t still be here.”

That afternoon, Eleanor resolved to find answers herself. She began searching the library, a vast room filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves and heavy drapes that shut out the weak daylight. Dust motes floated in the lantern’s glow as she scanned the spines of the books.

Near the back of the room, she found a stack of journals, their leather covers cracked with age. One was marked with Elias Ravenswood’s initials. She opened it, her hands trembling.

The pages were filled with dense, spidery handwriting, detailing Elias’s experiments with the occult. One passage caught her eye:

"The mirror is the doorway. Through it, the bond is forged. Blood and sacrifice are required to anchor the spirit, but the tether is fragile. Should the vessel fail, the spirit may wander, its hunger unending."

Eleanor’s breath caught. The mirrors�"the whispers Peter heard, the shadow she’d seen�"everything pointed to Elias’s ritual. He had used the mirrors to bind Agnes’s spirit, and now the house was steeped in her restless energy.

She flipped through more pages, searching for a solution. At the back of the journal, she found a crude sketch of a raven figurine. Beneath it, Elias had scrawled: The anchor lies below, where the cold does not reach. Destroy it, and the tether will break.

Eleanor slammed the book shut. The crypt beneath the manor�"she had to find it.

That night, Eleanor prepared to search for the crypt. She waited until Peter was asleep, bundling herself in her thickest coat and gloves. The journal was tucked under her arm, the lantern in her hand.

The house seemed more alive than ever, every creak and groan echoing in the silence. As she passed a mirror in the hall, she saw movement again�"a flicker of something dark, just beyond her reflection.

“Leave us alone,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The mirror fogged slightly, as if something cold and unseen had exhaled against it.

Eleanor turned away and pressed on. She wouldn’t let fear stop her. Not when Peter’s safety was at stake.

Chapter Four: The Crypt

The journal’s cryptic instructions replayed in Eleanor’s mind as she made her way through the labyrinthine halls of the manor. The storm battered the windows, the wind’s mournful wail accompanying her every step. She tightened her grip on the lantern, its flickering light casting jagged shadows against the walls.

The crypt was mentioned only briefly in Elias’s writings, described as “below, where the cold does not reach.” Eleanor’s first assumption was the cellar, though she had yet to explore that part of the house. She pushed open a door near the kitchen and found herself at the top of a narrow, spiraling staircase. The air here was thick and damp, carrying the faint scent of earth and mildew.

Lantern in hand, she descended slowly. The steps groaned under her weight, each creak echoing in the enclosed space. She tried to steady her breathing, but the oppressive darkness seemed to press in on her from all sides.

At the bottom of the stairs, the air grew noticeably warmer, a sharp contrast to the icy chill above. She found herself in a long corridor, its stone walls lined with sconces that hadn’t held a flame in decades. The floor was uneven, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed somewhere in the distance.

Eleanor explored cautiously, her lantern’s light barely reaching the edges of the cavernous space. The corridor opened into a larger chamber, its walls adorned with faded tapestries depicting ravens and thorny vines. In the center of the room stood a stone altar, draped in a crumbling cloth.

Her eyes fell on the object resting atop the altar�"a small figurine carved from black stone, its shape unmistakably that of a raven. Its eyes were inlaid with tiny rubies, which glinted eerily in the lantern’s glow.

She stepped closer, her breath catching. This had to be the anchor Elias mentioned. Destroying it would sever the bond, freeing the house�"and Peter�"from Agnes’s restless spirit. But as she reached for it, the room seemed to grow darker, the shadows deepening unnaturally.

A low, guttural noise broke the silence. Eleanor froze, her hand hovering above the figurine.

From the far corner of the chamber, a figure emerged, barely discernible in the dim light. It moved with an unnatural, jerking motion, its limbs too long, its head tilted at an odd angle. Eleanor’s blood ran cold as she realized it wasn’t entirely solid�"its form flickered like smoke, its edges dissolving and reforming with every step.

The figure’s face was gaunt, its hollow eyes fixed on her. It raised one skeletal hand and pointed directly at the raven figurine.

“You mustn’t take it,” a voice hissed, echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Eleanor staggered back, her heart hammering in her chest. “Who are you?”

The figure tilted its head, a horrible crack echoing through the chamber. “You know who I am. He trapped me here. He thought he could contain me.”

“Agnes,” Eleanor whispered. The name tasted bitter on her tongue.

Agnes moved closer, her form flickering in and out of focus. “He took everything from me. My life. My freedom. Do you think you can defy him? Do you think you can save yourself?”

Eleanor’s courage faltered, but she clenched her fists, her resolve hardening. “I’m not here for myself. I’m here for my son.”

Agnes paused, her hollow eyes narrowing. “The boy. He is pure. Innocent. He can take my place.”

“No!” Eleanor shouted, stepping between the spirit and the altar. “You can’t have him.”

The chamber shook violently, dust and debris falling from the ceiling. Agnes shrieked, a sound like a thousand nails scraping against glass, and lunged toward Eleanor. The shadows around her seemed to reach out, coiling like tendrils of smoke.

Eleanor acted on instinct. She grabbed the raven figurine and hurled it to the ground. The sound of stone shattering filled the chamber, and a sudden blast of energy knocked her off her feet. The lantern flew from her hand, the light extinguished as it hit the floor.

When the dust settled, the chamber was eerily quiet. Eleanor scrambled to her feet, her hands searching for the lantern. She found it and managed to reignite the flame, its weak light revealing the shattered remains of the figurine.

Agnes was gone.

The oppressive weight in the air had lifted, though the chamber still felt unsettling. Eleanor steadied herself and made her way back toward the stairs, her legs trembling with each step.

When she returned to the main house, Peter was waiting for her in the parlor, his small frame silhouetted against the firelight. He looked up as she entered, his face pale but calm.

“Did you find her?” he asked.

Eleanor knelt beside him, pulling him into a tight embrace. “She’s gone now. She can’t hurt us anymore.”

Peter nodded, resting his head on her shoulder. “I heard her say goodbye.”

Eleanor closed her eyes, a mixture of relief and exhaustion washing over her. But even as she held her son, a nagging thought lingered in the back of her mind: spirits like Agnes didn’t disappear so easily.

Chapter Five: A Haunting Legacy

Eleanor woke to an unnatural stillness. The wind had ceased its howling, and the muffled quiet of snow-laden isolation pressed against the walls of the manor. Morning light seeped weakly through the frost-covered windows, but it brought no warmth to the house. For the first time since they had arrived, Ravenswood Manor felt empty, its oppressive weight lifted. Yet the memory of Agnes’s voice still echoed in Eleanor’s ears.

Peter was already awake, seated at the small table near the parlor fireplace. He was unusually quiet, his toy soldiers forgotten in a scattered line across the floor. His gaze seemed distant, fixed on the flames that licked at the charred logs.

Eleanor approached cautiously, her own exhaustion evident in the sluggishness of her movements. She hadn’t slept much after her return from the crypt, her mind replaying the confrontation with Agnes again and again.

“Good morning, darling,” she said softly, brushing a hand through Peter’s unruly hair. “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged but didn’t look up. “She’s really gone, isn’t she?”

Eleanor hesitated. “Yes,” she said finally. “She can’t hurt us anymore.”

Peter nodded, but his lips pressed into a thin line. He didn’t seem convinced.

Eleanor spent the day sorting through the manor’s cluttered rooms, trying to keep her mind busy. The events of the previous night had left her drained, but she knew they couldn’t linger here much longer. The storm had calmed, and she needed to prepare for their departure.

She decided to return to the library to search for more of Elias’s journals. She hoped they might offer some explanation of what had truly transpired�"or reassurance that Agnes’s spirit was gone for good.

The library was colder than usual, the faint scent of old paper and damp wood filling the air. Eleanor worked methodically, stacking books and papers on the desk as she combed through the shelves. Hours passed without incident, and she began to relax, her initial tension ebbing away.

But as she reached for a book on a high shelf, she heard it�"a faint whisper, barely audible over the creak of the house.

“Eleanor…”

She froze, her hand gripping the edge of the shelf. The whisper came again, soft and insistent.

“Eleanor…”

Her breath caught in her throat. She turned slowly, the lantern in her hand casting long shadows across the room. It was empty.

“Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

The whisper didn’t answer, but the air grew colder. A mirror on the far wall caught her attention. Its surface, once tarnished and opaque, now gleamed unnaturally, as though freshly polished. She approached it cautiously, her reflection wavering in the flickering light.

Then she saw it.

Behind her reflection, faint and translucent, stood Agnes. Her hollow eyes locked onto Eleanor’s, and her lips curled into a cruel smile.

Eleanor stumbled back, nearly dropping the lantern. When she looked again, the mirror was empty.

That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Eleanor shared what she had seen with Thorne. The caretaker listened in silence, his expression grim.

“She’s not gone, is she?” Eleanor asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Thorne shook his head. “Spirits like Agnes don’t leave easily. The bond may be broken, but her anger lingers.”

“What do we do now?” Eleanor demanded. “I can’t let her take Peter.”

Thorne hesitated. “You’ve already done the hardest part by destroying the anchor. Without it, she can’t harm you directly. But her presence will haunt this place for as long as it stands.”

Eleanor’s heart sank. “So we’re trapped?”

“No,” Thorne said firmly. “You and the boy can leave. But the manor will remain cursed.”

Eleanor looked toward the parlor, where Peter sat drawing quietly by the fire. “If we leave, will she follow us?”

Thorne hesitated again. “Spirits are tied to places. Agnes may be strong, but without the mirrors to bind her, she’ll fade. Slowly, but surely.”

It wasn’t the reassurance Eleanor had hoped for, but it was enough. She resolved to leave the manor as soon as possible.

The next morning, Eleanor packed their belongings. The storm had subsided, and the roads would be passable again. Peter seemed lighter, more cheerful, though he occasionally glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting to see Agnes lurking in the shadows.

As they prepared to leave, Thorne handed Eleanor a small package wrapped in cloth. “Take this,” he said. “It’s a charm. An old one, but it might offer you some protection.”

Eleanor accepted it with a nod. “Thank you, Mr. Thorne. For everything.”

Thorne tipped his hat, his weathered face unreadable. “Be careful, Mrs. Ravenswood. Some shadows don’t fade as quickly as we’d like.”

They left Ravenswood Manor as the first light of dawn touched the snow-covered hills. The house stood silent behind them, its dark windows watching their departure like unblinking eyes.

Peter turned in his seat as the carriage pulled away, his small face pressed to the glass. “Do you think she’ll be lonely now?” he asked softly.

Eleanor hesitated, unsure how to answer. “Perhaps,” she said at last. “But we gave her peace. That’s what matters.”

Peter nodded, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. “She said thank you.”

Eleanor froze, her gaze snapping to Peter. “What did you say?”

Peter shrugged. “She told me before we left. She said, ‘Thank you for setting me free.’”

Eleanor’s blood ran cold, but she forced herself to smile. “I’m glad,” she said, though her hands trembled in her lap.

As the carriage carried them away, the outline of Ravenswood Manor disappeared into the mist, its secrets buried in snow and silence. But Eleanor couldn’t shake the feeling that Agnes wasn’t finished with them�"not entirely.

And when Peter glanced at his reflection in the window, he thought he saw a faint, familiar shape�"thin and pale, with hollow eyes that seemed to smile.