Upon the jagged cliffs of strife, Where failure whispers, halting life, The weary soul begins to climb, Through storms of doubt and sands of time.
Each stumble bears the weight of pain, Yet seeds of strength take root again. For in the shadow of defeat, Resilience blooms beneath our feet.
The sweat of toil, the price we pay, Transforms the night into the day. With calloused hands and spirit worn, We shape the dreams for which we’re born.
Success, a beacon, far but near, Calls through the echoes of our fear. It waits beyond the path so steep, Where courage wakes from failure’s sleep.
And when at last the summit’s nigh, We see the world through clearer eyes. Each scar becomes a badge we wear, A testament to trials we bear.
The rewards of labor, sweet and true, Are not just gold or skies of blue— But strength, unyielding, forged by fire, And the heart that braved its own desire.
So climb, though falls may steal your breath, For triumph lies beyond regret. Through failure’s veil, success shall gleam, The hard-won crown of every dream.
This is the plant that I got as a Secret Santa gift. Before I write more details I would like to start with a poem for this gift
Ode to the Peace Lily
In the quiet corner, soft and still, Stands the graceful Peace Lily,
bending at will. A gift of life, wrapped with care, A symbol of love, beyond compare.
Its leaves, a lush and emerald hue, Whisper of growth, of skies so blue. Its blooms, like flags of truce they rise, A beacon of hope beneath my skies.
A humble guardian of the air, Filtering toxins, beyond repair. It breathes fresh life into my space, A constant reminder of gentle grace.
Oh, how it soothes my weary mind, A friend so loyal, ever kind. In its quiet presence, peace I find, A bond of nature and soul entwined.
This gift, a treasure, simple yet deep, A memory to hold, forever to keep. From Secret Santa, thoughtful and true, A gesture of warmth that endlessly grew.
It reminds me daily, in its serene way, To nurture the moments, come what may. To find beauty in life, even in strife, For the Peace Lily whispers the essence of life.
So here it stands, my leafy friend, A story of kindness that will never end. A symbol of care, a reminder to see, The magic of gifts and what they can be.
Support My Creative Journey At Pen by Zee, I share stories, poetry, and heartfelt reflections to inspire and connect with readers like you. Your donation helps me continue creating meaningful content while supporting causes close to my heart, like the Auckland City Mission. Together, we can make a difference! ❤️
Supporting My Blog Through Affiliate Links As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases made through the affiliate links on this blog. These commissions come at no extra cost to you and help me cover the running costs of maintaining this blog, including web hosting, domain fees, and essential tools needed to create valuable content for you. Your support means a lot and allows me to keep sharing useful insights, tips, and recommendations. Thank you for being part of this journey!
Have you ever received a gift so meaningful that it instantly became a part of your daily life? That’s exactly how I felt when I unwrapped a beautiful Peace Lily plant during our office Secret Santa exchange. It was love at first sight! Out of all the possible gifts, this one was not only thoughtful but also filled with life—quite literally.
Now, I can confidently say it’s one of the best gifts I’ve ever received. Let me take you on a little journey through the world of Peace Lilies, why they’re so special, and why you might want to add one to your own space.
Meet the Peace Lily: A Green Companion
The Peace Lily (Spathiphyllum) isn’t just any plant. With its glossy green leaves and elegant white blooms resembling a flag of surrender, this plant is the epitome of grace and simplicity. Contrary to its name, it isn’t technically a lily but belongs to the Araceae family. Here are some quick facts about the Peace Lily:
Native Habitat: Tropical regions of the Americas and Southeast Asia. Blooming Cycle: Produces its signature white blooms multiple times a year, with each flower lasting for several weeks. Low Maintenance: Ideal for busy folks (like me!) because it thrives with minimal care. Why the Peace Lily is Pure Magic
Peace Lilies aren’t just pretty to look at—they come with a host of benefits that make them a true gem for your home or office.
Air Purification Superstar Did you know the Peace Lily is one of NASA’s top-rated plants for improving indoor air quality? It filters toxins like benzene, formaldehyde, and carbon monoxide, making the air fresher and healthier.
Humidity Hero If your space feels dry, a Peace Lily can work wonders. It increases humidity levels, which is great for your skin and respiratory health.
Stress-Relieving Aesthetic There’s something inherently calming about having a Peace Lily around. Its serene white flowers and lush greenery can instantly brighten your mood and create a peaceful ambiance.
Symbol of Peace and Hope In many cultures, the Peace Lily symbolizes peace, hope, and prosperity. It’s often gifted to convey wishes of harmony and goodwill.
Why This Gift Means So Much to Me
Receiving this Peace Lily was more than just getting a plant—it was a reminder of thoughtfulness and the small ways we can bring joy to each other’s lives. Every time I water it or see a new leaf sprouting, I’m reminded of the person who chose it for me.
How I will Care for My Peace Lily
Caring for a Peace Lily is as easy as it gets:
Light: It thrives in indirect sunlight. I’ve placed mine near a window where it gets soft, filtered light.
Watering: It will tells me when it’s thirsty by drooping slightly, and after a quick drink, it perks right back up. (How cool is that?)
Repotting: Peace Lilies love space, so I’ll be repotting mine soon to let its roots stretch.
A Little Challenge for You
Have you ever considered adding a plant to your space or gifting one to someone special? Trust me, it’s a gift that keeps on giving. Whether it’s for a friend, family member, or even yourself, a Peace Lily is the perfect choice to bring a touch of nature indoors.
What’s your favorite plant, and why? Or if you’re a proud Peace Lily parent like me, what’s your favorite thing about it? Let’s share our plant stories below—I’d love to hear from you!
Here’s to more gifts that bring peace, joy, and greenery into our lives!
The storm Eleanor had cryptically mentioned was not far off—Aileen could feel it in her very bones. The day was unusually still, with the kind of silence that pressed against her ears, amplifying the smallest sounds: the creak of the manor’s old wood, the faint rustle of leaves outside, and her own shallow breaths. The journal and the newfound key felt heavier than ever in her hands, as though they carried the weight of lives long past.
Aileen decided she needed clarity, and the only way to get it was to confront the lingering specters of the manor head-on.
The Mirror’s Echo
The mirror in the study had taken on a foreboding presence since Eleanor’s ghostly appearance. Something about it now called to Aileen, as though it held not only her reflection but also the fragments of a deeper truth. Armed with a flickering candle and the journal tucked under her arm, she returned to the room.
The mirror’s surface was once again undulating faintly, a ripple breaking across its silvery depths. This time, as she stepped closer, Eleanor’s figure emerged more sharply, as if waiting. Her lips moved, and though no sound escaped the glass, Aileen felt the words resonate in her mind:
“The garden was where it began… and where it must end.”
The connection severed abruptly, and the mirror turned flat once more. But not before something else flickered into view: a shadow behind Eleanor’s spectral figure, broad-shouldered and menacing, with eyes that glinted like cold steel. Aileen stumbled back, gripping the journal tightly, her pulse roaring in her ears.
Unearthing the Past
Determined to follow Eleanor’s clue, Aileen returned to the garden, where the neglected fountain stood sentinel over the overgrown remains of a once-beautiful sanctuary. The ornate key now felt like an extension of her, its cool metal grounding her as she approached the fountain.
She bent down, tracing the carvings of angels once more. One cherub’s outstretched hand seemed to point toward the fountain’s base. Digging through the soft earth, Aileen uncovered a latch—rusted, but still intact. The key fit perfectly.
With a groan, the stone base shifted, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside was a weathered wooden box, its hinges fragile but functional. Aileen’s fingers trembled as she lifted the lid to reveal its contents: a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon, a gold locket, and a small vial of what looked like dried blood.
The letters were addressed to Eleanor, penned in a hand both elegant and urgent. The ink spoke of love, betrayal, and despair, the words heavy with Damien’s desperation. One letter, however, stood out. It was unsigned, the handwriting jagged and frantic:
“The storm will not forgive. Neither will I. This house will be your tomb, Eleanor, and his too.”
Confrontation in the Halls
Aileen felt the cold embrace of fear as she returned inside. The manor seemed alive, the shadows growing deeper, the walls pulsing faintly as though the house itself was reacting to her discoveries. As she climbed the staircase, footsteps echoed behind her. Turning sharply, she saw no one, yet the sound persisted, closing in.
She broke into a run, her heart pounding as she reached her room and slammed the door shut. The candle flickered violently, then extinguished, leaving her in darkness. A whisper, faint but chilling, curled around her like smoke:
“You’ve seen too much.”
The air turned frigid, and Aileen felt a presence behind her. Whipping around, she faced an empty room—save for the journal, which had fallen open on the floor. The ink on its pages was bleeding, the words shifting and reforming:
“The truth lies beneath the ballroom.”
The Ballroom’s Secrets
The ballroom had always been locked, its grand doors adorned with gilded handles that spoke of elegance long past. Aileen hadn’t dared to approach it until now. With the journal clutched to her chest and the newfound locket hanging around her neck, she descended the stairs, her steps echoing ominously.
The doors swung open effortlessly, as though the house itself was inviting her in. The room was breathtaking even in its decay: a massive chandelier hung precariously, its crystals casting fragmented light across the cracked marble floor. Faded murals adorned the walls, depicting scenes of celebration that seemed to watch her with sorrowful eyes.
At the room’s center was a large circular panel on the floor, its design matching the carvings on the fountain. Aileen knelt and ran her fingers over the edges, finding the faintest groove.
The key fit once more, and the panel shifted, revealing a staircase spiraling down into darkness. Aileen hesitated, the weight of Eleanor’s words echoing in her mind. “The garden was where it began… and where it must end.”
Descent into Shadows
As Aileen descended, the air grew colder, the scent of damp earth and mildew filling her nostrils. The faint sound of water dripping echoed in the dark. Her candle barely illuminated the path, its flickering light casting monstrous shadows on the stone walls.
At the bottom, she found herself in a cavernous chamber, its walls lined with alcoves holding dusty relics: masks, jewels, and weapons, all seemingly untouched for centuries. At the room’s center was a stone pedestal, upon which rested a book bound in black leather, its cover engraved with a symbol she had seen before—on the locket around her neck.
As she reached for the book, a voice rang out, low and commanding:
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
A figure stepped out from the shadows, his face obscured by a hood. He held a torch, its flame illuminating sharp features and eyes that bore an unsettling resemblance to Damien’s portrait.
“Who are you?” Aileen demanded, her voice trembling but firm.
The man tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “The one who has been waiting.”
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2 cups lettuce (Romaine or butter lettuce, chopped)
1 large carrot (shredded or julienned)
1 small cucumber (thinly sliced)
1 tablespoon fresh mint leaves (chopped)
Juice of 1 lemon1 tablespoon olive oil
Pinch of salt and pepper
My apologies for interrupting the post but I think it is essential to disclose this.
Supporting My Blog Through Affiliate Links As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases made through the affiliate links on this blog. These commissions come at no extra cost to you and help me cover the running costs of maintaining this blog, including web hosting, domain fees, and essential tools needed to create valuable content for you. Your support means a lot and allows me to keep sharing useful insights, tips, and recommendations. Thank you for being part of this journey!
If you are looking for some cool accessories to help you prepare your salads please visit the below link.
In a bowl, combine lettuce, carrots, and cucumber. Sprinkle chopped mint over the vegetables.Whisk together lemon juice, olive oil, salt, and pepper in a small bowl.Pour the dressing over the salad and toss gently. Serve immediately for a fresh, hydrating, and digestion-friendly salad.
Benefits:
Carrots provide fiber, and mint soothes the digestive tract.Lemon juice stimulates digestive enzymes.
The morning air was thick with the scent of damp earth and roses as Aileen stepped into the overgrown garden behind the manor. The fog clung to her boots, swirling around her as if reluctant to release her to the day. The journal, its cracked leather cover warm from her touch, was tucked securely under her arm. Since discovering it, she had devoured its pages late into the night, unable to tear herself away from Eleanor’s voice, her struggles, and her secrets.
Today, Aileen’s goal was clear: to find the garden Eleanor had so painstakingly described in her writings—a place that seemed to hold not only memories but answers.
Eleanor’s words had etched vivid imagery in Aileen’s mind. She could almost hear Eleanor’s laughter mingling with Damien’s deep voice in the garden, hidden beneath the years of neglect. Aileen’s heart raced as she brushed aside the tangled branches, imagining the once-pristine stone pathways now cracked and consumed by nature. The echoes of Eleanor’s joy and heartbreak resonated through her mind like whispers on the breeze.
At the center of the garden, she found it: the fountain. Though cracked and dry, it bore the faint outlines of angels carved into its stone base, their wings spread wide as though protecting the secrets buried here. The sight struck a chord within her, and she knelt to trace her fingers over the carvings, her breath catching in her throat.
“Damien spoke of this place as a sanctuary,” Aileen murmured, reading aloud from the journal. “A place where the world couldn’t reach us.” She flipped to another page, her fingers trembling. “And yet, even here, shadows crept in.”
Her voice broke the silence, and the garden seemed to shiver in response. As she stood, Aileen’s gaze fell upon a glint of metal in the dirt by the fountain’s edge. She bent to retrieve it, brushing away the soil to reveal an ornate key. Its design matched the intricate patterns of the manor’s doorknobs, and the thought sent a chill down her spine.
Please help me publish my book ‘Repent to Repair’ I need funds to get it published from a publishing company. I am looking forward to sell this book on e-market and book shops.
This book is my heartfelt message to everyone who is wanting to live mindfully and wants to make amends to their wrong doing and past mistakes.
I have set up a donation page for this purpose and would love to get help and love from fellow writers and readers alike. If you have any questions, feedback or suggestions please do not hesitate to contact me.
Back inside, the air seemed heavier, the walls pressing closer as Aileen carried the key through the halls. She had long since stopped dismissing the peculiar occurrences in the house. The flickering lights, the faint strains of music echoing from empty rooms, and the unshakable feeling of being watched were no longer mere figments of her imagination.
Her destination was clear: the locked door on the third floor, the one she had attempted to open countless times. The key fit perfectly, turning with a soft click. The door groaned as it swung open, revealing a room preserved as if time had simply stopped.
Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through stained glass windows. Aileen’s breath caught as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, taking in the sight of a grand writing desk, its surface cluttered with parchment, quills, and a tarnished inkpot. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books bound in leather and gold leaf, their spines bearing titles in languages she couldn’t decipher.
On the desk lay a portrait. Aileen’s hand hovered over it, hesitant, before finally picking it up. The painting was of a woman, unmistakably Eleanor, her dark hair cascading over her shoulders and her eyes—piercing and full of secrets—gazing out at her. But there was something off. In the corner of the painting, faint but discernible, was the silhouette of a man. Damien, perhaps? Or someone else entirely?
Aileen set the portrait down, her pulse quickening. Something compelled her to search the desk. She opened drawers, revealing more journals and loose letters, their ink faded but legible. The writing spoke of forbidden meetings and whispered plans, but one phrase stood out:
“The storm will come, and with it, the truth will rise.””
As she read the words aloud, the room’s temperature plummeted. The stained glass cast fractured rainbows across the floor, but the colors dimmed as if the light itself recoiled. Aileen turned sharply, the hair on her neck rising as the mirror on the wall seemed to ripple, its surface undulating like water.
From within, Eleanor appeared. Her face was pale, her expression one of sorrow and urgency. Aileen stumbled backward, clutching the journal to her chest as Eleanor’s lips moved, forming words that carried no sound. Yet, Aileen understood.
“The key is not just to the door but to the past. To me. To him.”
Eleanor’s apparition vanished, leaving Aileen trembling in the empty room. Questions flooded her mind: Who was the “him” Eleanor spoke of? Was it Damien, or was there someone else tangled in this web of love, betrayal, and destiny? And what storm was coming?
Aileen knew she couldn’t stop now. The manor’s secrets were unraveling, pulling her deeper into its embrace. She glanced back at the journal, her fingers tracing the faded ink. The answers were here, hidden in Eleanor’s words and the manor’s shadows. All she had to do was listen.
The year was 1925, and spring had arrived in Rothschild Manor with deceptive gentleness. The sun painted the stone walls in warm hues, and the garden bloomed with wild abandon, a riot of roses and ivy that threatened to overrun the estate. Yet, for Eleanor, the beauty of the season only sharpened her despair.
Her engagement to Harold Blackthorn had been announced weeks earlier. The news was delivered with pomp and celebration, but to Eleanor, it felt like a sentence. Harold was everything her father admired—wealthy, influential, and rigidly traditional. But to Eleanor, he was a stranger cloaked in propriety, his intentions as cold and sharp as the winter winds that had only just passed.
Her heart, however, belonged to Damien Carter.
Damien was no match for Harold in the eyes of society. A painter with little to his name but his talent and a fierce, restless soul, Damien represented everything Eleanor’s family despised. His love for her was raw, unpolished, and free of the suffocating expectations that weighed on her every moment.
They met in secret, in the forgotten corners of the estate—the overgrown gazebo near the woods, the hidden passages beneath the house, and occasionally, beneath the great willow tree where Damien often sketched her.
But the walls of Rothschild Manor had ears. The whispers of their forbidden love grew louder, carried by servants too loyal to her father’s strict authority to keep silent.
April 20, 1925
Eleanor sat in her bedroom, her reflection in the gilded mirror distorted by her tears. The woman in the mirror no longer looked like her. She was a stranger—a prisoner draped in fine silks and jewels, with sorrow etched into every line of her face.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Enter,” she called, quickly wiping her eyes.
The door creaked open, revealing Damien. He looked disheveled, his dark hair tousled and his hands smudged with charcoal. He closed the door behind him, his expression both urgent and tender.
“Eleanor,” he said, crossing the room in long strides. “We don’t have much time. Your father knows.”
Her heart sank. “Knows what?”
“About us. The servants are talking. He’s furious.”
Eleanor’s breath caught. “What will he do?”
Damien reached for her hands, his grip firm. “It doesn’t matter. We’re leaving. Tonight.”
She shook her head, panic flooding her chest. “Damien, he’ll never let me go. You don’t understand the lengths he’ll go to—”
“I do understand,” Damien interrupted, his voice low and fierce. “But I won’t let him keep you here. We’ll run, Eleanor. To the coast, to Paris, to anywhere but this cursed place.”
Eleanor wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that their love could outlast the wrath of her father and the shadows of the manor.
But the house had other plans.
As night fell, the manor seemed to come alive. The walls groaned as if resenting their plans, and the air grew heavy with an unspoken warning. Eleanor and Damien met by the old willow tree, where a carriage awaited them.
Damien helped her into the carriage, his touch steady despite the tension that crackled between them.
“We’ll be free,” he said, climbing in beside her. “I promise.”
But as the carriage began to move, a loud, piercing scream shattered the night. It came from the direction of the manor.
Eleanor froze. “It’s my father,” she whispered.
“No,” Damien said firmly. “It’s the house. Ignore it. It’s trying to stop us.”
The scream came again, louder and more anguished. Eleanor’s hands flew to her ears, her resolve crumbling. “I can’t, Damien. I can’t leave him.”
Damien grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “Eleanor, listen to me. Your father doesn’t own you. This house doesn’t own you. If you go back now, you’ll never escape.”
Tears streamed down her face. “You don’t understand. It’s not just my father—it’s something else. Something dark. It’s in the walls, Damien. It’s in the mirror.”
He stared at her, his expression a mixture of confusion and desperation. “Eleanor, please. We have to go.”
But the carriage jolted to a sudden stop. The horses reared, their eyes wild with fear. The coachman jumped down, shouting something neither of them could hear over the howling wind that had risen out of nowhere.
The door of the carriage flew open, and a shadow loomed outside.
Eleanor screamed as a figure stepped into the moonlight. It was Harold Blackthorn. His face was pale with rage, his fists clenched at his sides.
“Going somewhere, Eleanor?” he spat, his voice dripping with venom.
“Leave her alone,” Damien said, stepping out of the carriage to face him.
Harold sneered. “Ah, the painter. Did you really think you could steal her away from me?”
Eleanor climbed out after Damien, her knees weak. “Harold, please. Just let us go.”
Harold’s eyes gleamed with something dark and dangerous. “You think you can shame me? You think you can run away with this—this nobody?”
He lunged at Damien, and the two men grappled in the mud, their shouts and grunts filling the night.
Eleanor stood frozen, her heart pounding. She wanted to intervene, but terror rooted her in place.
Suddenly, the ground beneath them began to shake. The wind howled louder, and a low, guttural sound rumbled from the direction of the manor.
Both men stopped fighting, their faces turning toward the house. The windows of the east wing glowed with an eerie, flickering light, as though flames were dancing behind the glass.
“The house,” Eleanor whispered.
“It’s angry,” Damien said, his voice low.
Harold took a step back, his bravado faltering. “What is this?”
No one answered. They could only stare as the light in the windows grew brighter, the rumbling louder. The night seemed to close in around them, the air thick with menace.
“Eleanor,” Damien said, grabbing her hand. “We have to go. Now.”
But Eleanor couldn’t move. The house was calling her, its voice a siren song that wrapped around her mind and refused to let go.
“Eleanor!” Damien shouted, shaking her.
She tore her gaze away from the manor and looked at him, her eyes wide with fear. “I can’t. It won’t let me.”
Harold, now pale and trembling, muttered something under his breath and took off running into the darkness.
Damien tightened his grip on her hand. “Then we’ll fight it. Together.”
But as they turned to flee, the ground beneath them split open, and the night swallowed them whole.
Aileen awoke to the sound of tapping—soft, rhythmic, and insistent. It was coming from the window of her bedroom, a room she had deliberately chosen far from the crumbling east wing where the mirror stood. The tapping wasn’t caused by the wind or a branch swaying against the glass; it was deliberate, as though someone—or something—wanted her attention.
Her pulse quickened as she pulled the covers tighter around herself. She lay still, listening, hoping it would stop. But it didn’t.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Summoning courage, she swung her legs off the bed, the wooden floorboards cold beneath her feet. The window overlooked the garden, shrouded in fog. She drew the curtain aside, and for a brief, chilling moment, she thought she saw the shadow of a figure standing in the mist. But as she blinked, it was gone.
The morning brought little comfort. Aileen poured herself a cup of coffee, her hands trembling slightly as she stared at the journal she’d found the day before. The journal’s cover, worn leather embossed with a faint floral pattern, seemed to pulsate with secrets.
She flipped it open again, her curiosity outweighing her apprehension. The handwriting inside was elegant, slanted, and unmistakably feminine.
April 15, 1925 Today, Damien brought me a flower from the garden. A simple daisy, but to me, it was more precious than diamonds. The house knows. I feel its eyes on us, but I will not surrender to its will. We have a plan. We will leave.
Aileen frowned, rereading the passage. The name Damien sparked something—a faint memory from the old town gossip she’d overheard as a child. The Rothschild family, she remembered, had been plagued by tragedy, though specifics were always vague.
She continued reading.
April 18, 1925 Father has announced my engagement to Harold. I cannot bear it. Damien and I will leave this place. I will not be a prisoner, not to Father, not to this cursed house.
April 19, 1925 I saw her again in the mirror. The woman. Her face was veiled, but her presence was suffocating. She whispered to me, her voice like broken glass: “You cannot escape.”
The journal slipped from Aileen’s hands, landing with a dull thud on the table. The mention of the mirror sent a shiver down her spine. She had avoided the east wing since the night she first saw the woman’s reflection. Was this Eleanor’s journal? Was she the woman trapped in the mirror, or was there something else entirely?
Aileen decided she needed to investigate. Armed with her phone’s flashlight and a cautious resolve, she made her way to the east wing.
The corridor was as she remembered: cold, damp, and heavy with an inexplicable sense of dread. The mirror stood at the end, its ornate frame tarnished with age.
As she approached, her flashlight flickered. The closer she got, the harder her heart pounded.
“Get a grip,” she whispered to herself.
She stood before the mirror, staring at her reflection. For a moment, there was nothing unusual—just her pale face, wide-eyed and cautious. Then, the surface rippled.
Aileen stepped back, gasping. A figure emerged—a woman in an old-fashioned gown, her face obscured by a black veil. The room grew colder, and Aileen’s breath formed small clouds in the air.
“Who are you?” Aileen demanded, her voice trembling.
The woman raised a gloved hand and pointed—first at the mirror, then at the journal Aileen clutched to her chest.
The house groaned, as though alive. Aileen turned and fled, her footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Back in the safety of the library, she tried to steady herself. She flipped through the journal again, hoping for answers.
April 22, 1925 Damien says we must leave tonight. The house grows angrier, its whispers louder. I fear we may not succeed. But if anyone finds this journal, know that we tried. We loved. And love is the greatest rebellion against the dark.
The words struck Aileen like a blow. What had happened to Eleanor and Damien? Had they managed to escape?
As if in answer, the library door slammed shut. Aileen jumped, her pulse racing.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The voice came from the shadows, deep and male. She spun around, searching for its source.
“Who’s there?” she demanded.
A figure stepped forward—a man, his face obscured by the dim light. He wore a long coat, the collar turned up, and a hat that shadowed his eyes.
“The house doesn’t like trespassers,” he said, his tone both warning and resigned.
“I’m not trespassing,” Aileen said, her voice firmer than she felt. “I own this place now.”
The man chuckled, low and mirthless. “No one owns this house. Not really. It owns you.”
Aileen’s mind raced. Who was this man? How had he entered the house?
“I found the journal,” she said, holding it up as if it were a shield. “Eleanor’s journal. I know something happened here, and I’m going to find out what.”
The man tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Be careful what you dig up. Some things are buried for a reason.”
“Who are you?” Aileen demanded. “How do you know about the house?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into silence.
Aileen spent the rest of the day poring over the journal and researching the Rothschild family. She discovered fragments of their story—whispers of forbidden love, an engagement broken, and two deaths on the same night. Damien Carter had been found hanging in the stables, while Eleanor Rothschild had vanished without a trace.
But the details were murky. Official records were incomplete, and the local archives offered little more than speculation.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Aileen stood before the mirror again.
“I know you’re there,” she said, her voice steady. “Eleanor, if you can hear me, I want to help.”
The mirror remained still. But as Aileen turned to leave, she heard a faint whisper:
“Love is the greatest rebellion…”
Her heart raced. The words from the journal.
Aileen knew one thing for certain: the house held its secrets tightly, but she was determined to uncover them—no matter the cost.
I wanted to make a little update/announcement for all my readers and this is completely voluntary for you to act or not to act on this one but please do donate to my cause that is close to my heart and this is for Mental Health. You might or might not live in New Zealand but you would agree and you would have known at least some one who would be going through a Mental Illness or hard time in life would have made them prone to Mental Health Issues. To help my community and country I am fundraising for Mental Health please do donate anything you can. No help is too small every penny helps. Below is the link. Thank you so much for your time to read my blogs.
The year was 1925, and the Rothschild estate stood in its prime—a beacon of wealth and influence, yet shrouded in whispers of misfortune. The manor’s sprawling grounds were meticulously maintained, its grand halls hosting the elite of society. Eleanor Rothschild, the youngest daughter of the family, was the epitome of grace, her every movement shadowed by the expectations of her lineage.
Yet, beneath the polished exterior, Eleanor was a woman at odds with her world. She despised the suffocating propriety of high society and the cold indifference of her family. Her solace came in the form of books and late-night walks along the estate’s wooded paths, where she could breathe without the weight of the Rothschild name pressing down on her.
It was on one such walk that she first met Damien.
Damien Carter was a man of humble origins, the son of a local craftsman who had worked for the Rothschild family for decades. Unlike the men Eleanor was accustomed to, Damien carried himself with quiet confidence, his hands calloused from hard labor, his dark eyes full of intensity.
Their first encounter was unplanned—a chance meeting near the garden’s edge. Eleanor had wandered off, seeking solace in the moonlight, when she stumbled upon Damien repairing a stone bench.
“Forgive me,” she said, startled by his presence. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Damien looked up, his expression softening. “You’re not disturbing me, Miss Rothschild. The garden belongs as much to you as the stars belong to the night.”
Eleanor blushed, unused to such straightforwardness. She lingered, asking about his work, and soon their conversation flowed effortlessly. There was something about Damien’s voice—a steadiness, a warmth—that drew her in.
Over the months, their meetings became deliberate. Eleanor would find reasons to visit the gardens, and Damien would ensure he was working nearby. They shared stolen moments among the roses, their whispered conversations laced with a growing intimacy.
Damien was unlike anyone Eleanor had known. He spoke of dreams untainted by wealth, of a world where people were valued for their character rather than their status. Eleanor found herself falling for him, her heart yearning for a life far removed from the confines of her gilded cage.
But the manor had eyes everywhere. Servants began to whisper, their words reaching Eleanor’s father, Charles Rothschild—a man as calculating as he was powerful.
One evening, Charles confronted Eleanor in the library.
“Do you take me for a fool?” he demanded, his voice cold.
Eleanor stood her ground, her chin held high. “I’ve done nothing wrong, Father.”
“Nothing wrong?” Charles sneered. “You’ve been seen cavorting with that… that laborer. Do you understand the disgrace you bring to this family?”
“He’s more honorable than anyone in this house,” Eleanor shot back.
Charles’s expression darkened. “You will end this nonsense, or I will ensure Damien Carter regrets ever setting foot on this estate.”
Eleanor and Damien met that night under the cover of darkness. She relayed her father’s threats, her voice trembling with anger and fear.
“We can’t stop,” Damien said firmly. “What we have… it’s worth the risk.”
“But he’ll ruin you,” Eleanor whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. “He’ll ruin us both.”
Damien took her hands in his. “Let him try. I would face a thousand storms for you, Eleanor.”
Moved by his resolve, Eleanor made a decision that would alter the course of their lives. She told Damien about the whispers she’d heard growing up—the stories of a curse tied to the house. How the manor demanded loyalty and punished betrayal.
“I never believed it,” Eleanor admitted. “But now… it’s as if the house knows. It watches us.”
Damien frowned but didn’t dismiss her fears. “Then we’ll find a way to outsmart it,” he said. “Whatever it takes, Eleanor, we’ll find a way to be together.”
Their rebellion began in secret. Eleanor smuggled books from the family library, poring over anything that might shed light on the manor’s dark history. Damien sought out old-timers in the village, listening to their tales of strange happenings on the estate.
One story struck a chord:
Decades earlier, a maid and a stable boy had fallen in love. When their affair was discovered, the maid disappeared, and the boy was found hanging in the stables. It was said that the house itself had played a role, its malice extending beyond the reach of human cruelty.
“It’s not just a curse,” Eleanor realized one evening, her voice trembling. “The house… it’s alive.”
Damien was skeptical but supportive. “Then we’ll confront it,” he said. “Together.”
Their resolve was tested when Charles announced Eleanor’s engagement to a wealthy suitor. The suitor, a man named Harold Ashcroft, was cold and calculating—a perfect match for the Rothschild legacy.
“I will not marry him,” Eleanor declared.
“You will,” Charles said, his tone final.
The house seemed to echo his decree. That night, Eleanor heard whispers in the walls, faint but insistent:
“Obey the house… or suffer its wrath…”
Determined to defy both her father and the house, Eleanor and Damien made a plan to escape. They would leave the estate under the cover of darkness, abandoning the wealth and privilege that had chained Eleanor for so long.
On the night of their planned escape, Eleanor packed her belongings, including a locket containing a picture of her late mother—a woman who, Eleanor now suspected, had also suffered under the house’s control.
But as she waited by the garden gate for Damien, a chilling wind swept through the trees. The house seemed to hum with energy, its windows glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Damien arrived, his face pale and his hands trembling.
“The house…” he began, but before he could finish, a deafening crash echoed from within the manor.
Eleanor turned, her heart pounding. The house loomed behind them, its presence more menacing than ever.
“What have we done?” she whispered.
Damien gripped her hand. “We fight. Whatever happens, Eleanor, we fight.”
Writers notes/prompts:
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