"A Journey of Words, Together with Zee"
In every beat, a story’s told,
Of fleeting time and dreams grown bold.
Through rise and fall, the rhythm flows,
A pulse of life that ever grows.
It sings of joy, it hums of strife,
The constant dance of fragile life.
Listen close, in stillness, be,
For in the heart, we truly see.
The Past Awakens
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 Eleanorโs voice, her struggles, and her secrets.
Today, Aileenโs goal was clear: to find the garden Eleanor had so painstakingly described in her writingsโa place that seemed to hold not only memories but answers.
Eleanorโs words had etched vivid imagery in Aileenโs mind. She could almost hear Eleanorโs laughter mingling with Damienโs deep voice in the garden, hidden beneath the years of neglect. Aileenโs heart raced as she brushed aside the tangled branches, imagining the once-pristine stone pathways now cracked and consumed by nature. The echoes of Eleanorโs 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.
โDamien spoke of this place as a sanctuary,โ Aileen murmured, reading aloud from the journal. โA place where the world couldnโt reach us.โ She flipped to another page, her fingers trembling. โAnd yet, even here, shadows crept in.โ
Her voice broke the silence, and the garden seemed to shiver in response. As she stood, Aileenโs gaze fell upon a glint of metal in the dirt by the fountainโs edge. She bent to retrieve it, brushing away the soil to reveal an ornate key. Its design matched the intricate patterns of the manorโs 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.
Following is the link https://givealittle.co.nz/cause/words-into-print-help-bring-my-book-to-life
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. Aileenโs 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 couldnโt decipher.
On the desk lay a portrait. Aileenโs 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 eyesโpiercing and full of secretsโgazing 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.”โ
As she read the words aloud, the roomโs 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 Eleanorโs 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.”
Eleanorโs 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 couldnโt stop now. The manorโs 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 Eleanorโs words and the manorโs 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 admiredโwealthy, 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 Eleanorโs 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 estateโthe 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 fatherโs 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 strangerโa 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.
โEnter,โ 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.
โEleanor,โ he said, crossing the room in long strides. โWe donโt have much time. Your father knows.โ
Her heart sank. โKnows what?โ
โAbout us. The servants are talking. Heโs furious.โ
Eleanorโs breath caught. โWhat will he do?โ
Damien reached for her hands, his grip firm. โIt doesnโt matter. Weโre leaving. Tonight.โ
She shook her head, panic flooding her chest. โDamien, heโll never let me go. You donโt understand the lengths heโll go toโโ
โI do understand,โ Damien interrupted, his voice low and fierce. โBut I wonโt let him keep you here. Weโll run, Eleanor. To the coast, to Paris, to anywhere but this cursed place.โ
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.
โWeโll be free,โ he said, climbing in beside her. โI promise.โ
But as the carriage began to move, a loud, piercing scream shattered the night. It came from the direction of the manor.
Eleanor froze. โItโs my father,โ she whispered.
โNo,โ Damien said firmly. โItโs the house. Ignore it. Itโs trying to stop us.โ
The scream came again, louder and more anguished. Eleanorโs hands flew to her ears, her resolve crumbling. โI canโt, Damien. I canโt leave him.โ
Damien grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. โEleanor, listen to me. Your father doesnโt own you. This house doesnโt own you. If you go back now, youโll never escape.โ
Tears streamed down her face. โYou donโt understand. Itโs not just my fatherโitโs something else. Something dark. Itโs in the walls, Damien. Itโs in the mirror.โ
He stared at her, his expression a mixture of confusion and desperation. โEleanor, please. We have to go.โ
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.
โGoing somewhere, Eleanor?โ he spat, his voice dripping with venom.
โLeave her alone,โ Damien said, stepping out of the carriage to face him.
Harold sneered. โAh, the painter. Did you really think you could steal her away from me?โ
Eleanor climbed out after Damien, her knees weak. โHarold, please. Just let us go.โ
Haroldโs eyes gleamed with something dark and dangerous. โYou think you can shame me? You think you can run away with thisโthis nobody?โ
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.
โThe house,โ Eleanor whispered.
โItโs angry,โ Damien said, his voice low.
Harold took a step back, his bravado faltering. โWhat is this?โ
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.
โEleanor,โ Damien said, grabbing her hand. โWe have to go. Now.โ
But Eleanor couldnโt move. The house was calling her, its voice a siren song that wrapped around her mind and refused to let go.
โEleanor!โ Damien shouted, shaking her.
She tore her gaze away from the manor and looked at him, her eyes wide with fear. โI canโt. It wonโt let me.โ
Harold, now pale and trembling, muttered something under his breath and took off running into the darkness.
Damien tightened his grip on her hand. โThen weโll fight it. Together.โ
But as they turned to flee, the ground beneath them split open, and the night swallowed them whole.
Whispers of the Unseen
Aileen awoke to the sound of tappingโsoft, 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 wasnโt caused by the wind or a branch swaying against the glass; it was deliberate, as though someoneโor somethingโwanted her attention.
Her pulse quickened as she pulled the covers tighter around herself. She lay still, listening, hoping it would stop. But it didnโt.
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 sheโd found the day before. The journalโs 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 somethingโa faint memory from the old town gossip sheโd 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 Aileenโs 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 womanโs reflection. Was this Eleanorโs journal? Was she the woman trapped in the mirror, or was there something else entirely?
Aileen decided she needed to investigate. Armed with her phoneโs 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.
โGet a grip,โ she whispered to herself.
She stood before the mirror, staring at her reflection. For a moment, there was nothing unusualโjust her pale face, wide-eyed and cautious. Then, the surface rippled.
Aileen stepped back, gasping. A figure emergedโa woman in an old-fashioned gown, her face obscured by a black veil. The room grew colder, and Aileenโs breath formed small clouds in the air.
โWho are you?โ Aileen demanded, her voice trembling.
The woman raised a gloved hand and pointedโfirst 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.
โYou shouldnโt be here.โ
The voice came from the shadows, deep and male. She spun around, searching for its source.
โWhoโs there?โ she demanded.
A figure stepped forwardโa man, his face obscured by the dim light. He wore a long coat, the collar turned up, and a hat that shadowed his eyes.
โThe house doesnโt like trespassers,โ he said, his tone both warning and resigned.
โIโm not trespassing,โ Aileen said, her voice firmer than she felt. โI own this place now.โ
The man chuckled, low and mirthless. โNo one owns this house. Not really. It owns you.โ
Aileenโs mind raced. Who was this man? How had he entered the house?
โI found the journal,โ she said, holding it up as if it were a shield. โEleanorโs journal. I know something happened here, and Iโm going to find out what.โ
The man tilted his head, his expression unreadable. โBe careful what you dig up. Some things are buried for a reason.โ
โWho are you?โ Aileen demanded. โHow do you know about the house?โ
He didnโt 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 storyโwhispers 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.
โI know youโre there,โ she said, her voice steady. โEleanor, if you can hear me, I want to help.โ
The mirror remained still. But as Aileen turned to leave, she heard a faint whisper:
โLove is the greatest rebellion…โ
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 themโno matter the cost.
#StarCrossedLovers#LoveInShadows#ForbiddenRomance#CursedDestiny#EternalLoveAndLoss#TangledFates
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DonateDonate monthlyDonate yearlyI 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.
https://fundraise.mentalhealth.org.nz/zoebali
Love Against the Shadows
The year was 1925, and the Rothschild estate stood in its primeโa beacon of wealth and influence, yet shrouded in whispers of misfortune. The manorโs 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 unplannedโa 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.
โForgive me,โ she said, startled by his presence. โI didnโt mean to disturb you.โ
Damien looked up, his expression softening. โYouโre not disturbing me, Miss Rothschild. The garden belongs as much to you as the stars belong to the night.โ
Eleanor blushed, unused to such straightforwardness. She lingered, asking about his work, and soon their conversation flowed effortlessly. There was something about Damienโs voiceโa steadiness, a warmthโthat 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 Eleanorโs father, Charles Rothschildโa man as calculating as he was powerful.
One evening, Charles confronted Eleanor in the library.
โDo you take me for a fool?โ he demanded, his voice cold.
Eleanor stood her ground, her chin held high. โIโve done nothing wrong, Father.โ
โNothing wrong?โ Charles sneered. โYouโve been seen cavorting with that… that laborer. Do you understand the disgrace you bring to this family?โ
โHeโs more honorable than anyone in this house,โ Eleanor shot back.
Charlesโs expression darkened. โYou will end this nonsense, or I will ensure Damien Carter regrets ever setting foot on this estate.โ
Eleanor and Damien met that night under the cover of darkness. She relayed her fatherโs threats, her voice trembling with anger and fear.
โWe canโt stop,โ Damien said firmly. โWhat we have… itโs worth the risk.โ
โBut heโll ruin you,โ Eleanor whispered, tears brimming in her eyes. โHeโll ruin us both.โ
Damien took her hands in his. โLet him try. I would face a thousand storms for you, Eleanor.โ
Moved by his resolve, Eleanor made a decision that would alter the course of their lives. She told Damien about the whispers sheโd heard growing upโthe stories of a curse tied to the house. How the manor demanded loyalty and punished betrayal.
โI never believed it,โ Eleanor admitted. โBut now… itโs as if the house knows. It watches us.โ
Damien frowned but didnโt dismiss her fears. โThen weโll find a way to outsmart it,โ he said. โWhatever it takes, Eleanor, weโll find a way to be together.โ
Their rebellion began in secret. Eleanor smuggled books from the family library, poring over anything that might shed light on the manorโs 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.
โItโs not just a curse,โ Eleanor realized one evening, her voice trembling. โThe house… itโs alive.โ
Damien was skeptical but supportive. โThen weโll confront it,โ he said. โTogether.โ
Their resolve was tested when Charles announced Eleanorโs engagement to a wealthy suitor. The suitor, a man named Harold Ashcroft, was cold and calculatingโa perfect match for the Rothschild legacy.
โI will not marry him,โ Eleanor declared.
โYou will,โ Charles said, his tone final.
The house seemed to echo his decree. That night, Eleanor heard whispers in the walls, faint but insistent:
โObey the house… or suffer its wrath…โ
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 motherโa woman who, Eleanor now suspected, had also suffered under the houseโs 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.
โThe house…โ 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.
โWhat have we done?โ she whispered.
Damien gripped her hand. โWe fight. Whatever happens, Eleanor, we fight.โ
Writers notes/prompts:
Please do like and share my work. If you have any feed back please comment and if you would like me to shape the story as per your liking I will try to incorporate your ideas as well and credit with your name where possible.
If you want me to like, read or comment on any of your posts please do write me in your comment or ask for my email address or subscribe to my blog. Thank you for your time and support. – Zoeb Ali A.K.A Zee.
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This is my poem about various emotions and feelings of failure and success ๐ and a journey of life. Please read and like, share and comment. Please do tell me what you like or dislike about this poem.
What if success was a fleeting breeze,
Not meant to stay, but to teach and tease?
Would you chase it still with all your might,
Knowing the journey births the light?
What if failure was not the end,
But a quiet guide, a patient friend?
Would you embrace its tender sting,
And rise anew with strengthened wings?
What if setbacks paved the way,
To brighter dawns and bolder days?
Would you see them as stepping stones,
Not weights that drag, but seeds well sown?
What if goals were stars so far,
Glinting hope in the midnight’s jar?
Would you dare to dream despite the night,
Trusting effort turns dark to light?
What if achievements were just the start,
A fleeting triumph, a work of art?
Would you rest or push for more,
Knowing growth lies beyond the shore?
What if effort was the truest prize,
The sweat, the tears, the endless tries?
Would you cherish the toil, the climb,
Each step a rhythm, each stumble a rhyme?
What if you believed in your heart’s refrain,
That every loss feeds future gain?
Would you stand tall, steadfast and free,
Knowing the best is yet to be?
What if, dear soul, you chose today,
To walk the path, come what may?
With dreams as your guide and courage your sword,
Youโll find success your grand reward.
#WhatIf
#SuccessAndFailure
#DreamBig
#KeepGoing
#RiseAbove
#InspirationDaily
#EmbraceTheJourney
#GoalsAndGrowth
#PositiveMindset
#EffortAndAchievement
#OvercomeSetbacks
#FailureIsFeedback
#DreamsToReality
#MotivationMatters
#SuccessMindset
#PersonalGrowthJourney
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The following morning, Aileen awoke to a house enveloped in an eerie stillness. The usual creaks and groans of the old manor had subsided, replaced by a silence so profound it felt oppressive. Sunlight filtered weakly through the heavy curtains of her room, casting long, wavering shadows on the walls.
The journal from the night before lay on her bedside table, its presence both a comfort and a burden. Unable to shake the lingering images of the mirror and Eleanor’s sorrowful face, Aileen dressed quickly and decided to explore the house further.
As she wandered through the manorโs labyrinthine corridors, she felt the weight of unseen eyes. The ornate wallpaper, faded and peeling, bore patterns that seemed to shift when she looked away. She paused at a grand staircase, its bannister polished smooth from decades of hands sliding across it.
Descending the stairs, Aileen found herself in the main hall, where a series of portraits lined the walls. Each depicted a member of the Rothschild family, their expressions varying from serene to severe. At the far end of the row was a portrait of Eleanor, her face painted with a haunting melancholy.
โWho were you?โ Aileen murmured, her gaze lingering on the womanโs painted eyes.
As if in answer, a soft rustling sound drew her attention to a nearby door. She hesitated before stepping toward it, her heart pounding. The door creaked open under her touch, revealing a narrow staircase leading downward.
The basement was colder than she expected, the air heavy with the scent of damp stone and aged wood. At the center of the room stood a wooden trunk, its surface carved with intricate designs that seemed to pulse faintly in the dim light.
Aileen knelt and unlatched the trunk. Inside, she found an assortment of items: a bundle of yellowed letters tied with a crimson ribbon, a tarnished locket, and a small, leather-bound book. Unlike the journal, this book appeared more like a ledger, filled with names, dates, and strange symbols.
One name caught her eye: Damien Rothschild.
The name was accompanied by a series of cryptic notations: a crescent moon, an hourglass, and what appeared to be a shattered heart. Below his name was another: Eleanor Rothschild. Her notations were differentโa flame, a key, and an infinity symbol.
The sound of a door slamming above jolted Aileen from her thoughts. She clutched the book to her chest and hurried back upstairs.
In the main hall, the air felt charged, as though the house itself was alive. The mirror from the library had been moved, now resting against a wall where it reflected the portraits. The glass shimmered faintly, and for a moment, Aileen saw Eleanorโs reflection staring back at herโnot from her own position, but standing among the painted family members.
โWhy are you showing me this?โ Aileen whispered, her voice trembling.
The mirror didnโt respond, but a faint whispering filled the room. It wasnโt a single voice but a cacophony of murmurs, overlapping and indistinct. Aileen strained to listen, catching fragments of words.
โ…love is the key…โ
โ…the curse binds us still…โ
โ…she must find the truth…โ
The whispers grew louder, converging into a single phrase: โThe past will not be silenced.โ
Determined to learn more, Aileen returned to the library and delved into the letters from the trunk. They revealed a tragic story: Eleanor had fallen in love with Damien, a man her family disapproved of. Their union was not just forbidden by societal norms but by the very house they lived in.
One letter, written in Eleanorโs delicate script, stood out:
“My dearest Damien,
The house watches us, its walls whispering warnings I cannot fully understand. It demands sacrifice, yet I will not surrender our love to its will. If there is a way to free us, I will find it. Whatever it takes.”
Aileen sat back, her mind spinning. The house was not just a settingโit was a force, an entity that had shaped the lives of those within it. And now, it seemed, it had turned its gaze on her.
As night fell, Aileen decided to confront the mirror once more. Armed with the journal and ledger, she stood before the glass, her reflection barely visible in the dim light.
โI donโt know what you want from me,โ she said aloud, her voice echoing in the stillness. โBut Iโm not afraid of you.โ
The mirror rippled, and Eleanorโs face appeared again. This time, she wasnโt alone. Behind her stood Damien, his expression a mixture of anger and sorrow.
Eleanor raised a hand, pointing toward the ledger in Aileenโs grasp. The pages fluttered open, stopping at a page marked with the symbol of an infinity loop intertwined with a heart. Beneath it was a single sentence:
“Only love can break the cycle.”
Aileenโs heart raced. What did it mean? Before she could ask, the mirror darkened, the figures disappearing into the void.
Unable to sleep, Aileen spent the rest of the night poring over the ledger and the journal. She began to piece together a timeline of events:
In 1925, Eleanor and Damien had attempted to defy the houseโs will, resulting in their ultimate downfall. The curse wasnโt just a punishmentโit was a cycle, repeating itself across generations. Each attempt to break it had failed, leaving only echoes of their struggles within the manorโs walls.
As dawn broke, Aileen realized she wasnโt just uncovering the pastโshe was becoming part of it. The house had chosen her, just as it had chosen Eleanor.
What remained to be seen was whether she could succeed where others had failed.
Aileen sat cross-legged on the dusty floor of the locked room, the journal open before her like an illicit treasure. The flickering light of her lantern cast erratic shadows on the walls, and the mirror in the corner seemed to shimmer faintly, as though waiting for somethingโor someone.
Her fingers trembled as she turned the pages. Each entry was dated, but the handwriting varied, suggesting that the journal had passed through multiple hands. It wasnโt just a diaryโit was a ledger of the houseโs strange and sorrowful history.
“February 14, 1925.
He warned me that love in this house is never simple. The manor has its own will, its own desires. But how can a house desire anything? Itโs just stone and wood, isnโt it?
And yet, I feel it watching me. It knows my heart better than I do.”
The name signed below the entry was Eleanor Rothschild. Aileenโs breath hitched. Rothschild. The name carried weight in Everspringโs history. The Rothschilds had been the original owners of Solace Manor, their wealth and influence unmatched. Yet their legacy was marred by whispers of betrayal, loss, and disappearances.
Aileen traced the faded ink, her mind racing. Could the woman in the mirror be Eleanor? And if so, what had happened to her?
As though answering her thoughts, the mirror rippled again. She looked up, her pulse quickening. The surface smoothed, and once more, the womanโs face appearedโEleanor, as Aileen now suspected. Her features were delicate, framed by dark curls, and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
Aileen rose cautiously, clutching the journal as she approached the mirror. โWho are you?โ she whispered.
The figure in the mirror didnโt speak, but her expression grew more desperate. She raised a hand and placed it against the glass. Instinctively, Aileen did the same, her fingers brushing the cold, smooth surface. A jolt of energy surged through her, and for a moment, the room around her vanished.
Aileen found herself standing in the manor, but it wasnโt the decayed shell she knew. The walls were vibrant with fresh paint, the chandelier above her glittered like a constellation, and laughter echoed from unseen rooms.
She turned in awe, her heart pounding. This was the house as it had been in its prime. Servants bustled through the halls, their faces unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. Music drifted from the ballroom, a hauntingly beautiful melody played on a grand piano.
Aileen followed the sound, drawn like a moth to a flame. In the ballroom, she saw herโthe woman from the mirror. Eleanor sat at the piano, her fingers dancing over the keys, her expression a mix of sorrow and determination.
Before Aileen could approach, a man entered the room. He was tall and striking, with dark hair and an air of authority. Eleanor looked up at him, her hands faltering on the keys.
โDamien,โ she said, her voice trembling.
โYou shouldnโt be here,โ he replied, his tone sharp. โYou know what this house demands.โ
Eleanor rose, defiant. โI wonโt let it take him. Heโs my son, Damien. Ours.โ
Aileenโs breath caught. A son? The conversation continued, but the words grew faint, drowned out by the sound of the wind howling through the room. The scene began to blur, and before she could process what she had heard, she was pulled back into the present.
Aileen gasped as she stumbled back, the journal slipping from her grasp. She was back in the locked room, the mirror still shimmering faintly. Her reflection stared back at her, but it felt like somethingโor someoneโelse was looking through her.
The journal lay open on the floor, its pages fluttering as though turned by an invisible hand. It stopped on an entry dated several months after the last.
“May 10, 1925.
I can no longer fight it. The house has claimed him, just as it claimed the others. Damien was rightโwe were foolish to believe we could outwit it. But I will not surrender. If there is a way to break this curse, I will find it, even if it costs me everything.”
The air in the room grew colder, and the lantern flickered violently. Aileen felt a presence behind her, and every instinct screamed at her to run. But she didnโt. Instead, she turned slowly, her heart hammering in her chest.
No one was there, but the door to the room was now wide open.
Aileen swallowed hard and stepped into the hallway. The house felt alive in a way it hadnโt before, as though it were aware of her presence. She clutched the journal tightly as she descended the stairs, determined to uncover more.
In the library, she found what she was looking forโa collection of ledgers and personal letters, all covered in a thick layer of dust. She began sorting through them, piecing together fragments of the Rothschild familyโs history.
The more she read, the more she realized the curse Eleanor had written about wasnโt just a metaphor. It was tied to the manor itself, its origins shrouded in mystery. There were references to a Rite of Union, a ritual conducted by the original owners to bind their fates to the house in exchange for power and wealth. But the ledger also hinted at a terrible priceโa bloodline cursed to suffer loss and betrayal for generations.
Aileenโs blood ran cold. If what she suspected was true, the curse didnโt end with the Rothschilds. Her grandmotherโs insistence that she was the only one who could uncover the houseโs truth now seemed less like a request and more like a responsibility she couldnโt escape.
As she sat back, exhausted but resolute, the lantern flickered again. The mirror in the corner of the library caught her eye, its surface rippling once more.
This time, she didnโt hesitate. She rose and approached it, ready to face whatever truth awaited her on the other side.
Introducing first chapter of my new Novel. Hope you will enjoy. Please like and comment if you like my work.
The wind clawed at Aileenโs coat as she stood at the iron gates of Solace Manor, a place spoken of in hushed tones and hurried whispers. The last light of day cast long shadows across the overgrown grounds, making the trees seem like twisted sentinels guarding secrets that time refused to bury. The gate creaked as she pushed it open, a sound that seemed to echo for miles.
No one in Everspring dared to approach this place after darkโor during daylight for that matter. Yet here she was, Aileen Whitaker, clutching the deed to the crumbling estate her grandmother had inexplicably left her. The lawyerโs words still echoed in her mind. โMiss Whitaker, your grandmother was quite clear. This house is yours now, but with it comes responsibility. She believed you wereโฆ the only one who could uncover its truth.โ
The path to the front door was a tangled mess of weeds and roots, forcing her to tread carefully as the setting sun painted the sky in hues of crimson and gold. The manor loomed above her, its broken windows like hollow eyes, its faรงade a crumbling testament to forgotten grandeur.
She pushed open the heavy wooden door, the sound of its groan sending a shiver down her spine. The air inside was thick, tinged with the scent of damp wood and decay, but beneath it lingered a faint trace of lavender. Her grandmotherโs scent. It shouldnโt have been thereโit couldnโt have been thereโbut it was unmistakable.
The grand foyer was a cavernous space, its once-polished floors now scuffed and covered in dust. A broken chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, its crystals dull and lifeless. Aileenโs footsteps echoed as she ventured deeper, each step a mixture of fear and defiance. She wasnโt going to let ghost stories stop herโnot when this house held the answers to the questions her grandmother had taken to her grave.
In the parlor, she found the journal. It rested on a carved wooden table, its leather cover untouched by time, as if it had been waiting for her. The strange symbol embossed on its coverโa pair of intertwining circles split by a jagged lineโsent a prickle of unease through her. She opened it cautiously, the pages yellowed with age but the ink sharp and vivid.
“December 3, 1924.
They warned me not to love him, but how does one deny the call of the heart? If love is a curse, then I welcome it willingly. For love, even in its pain, is the only truth I have known.”
The words resonated, as though they were meant for her eyes alone. She turned the page and found sketchesโcrude but compelling. One was of a woman, her features hauntingly familiar, staring out from the page with eyes that seemed to see too much. Below it, a hastily scribbled note read: โThe price of love is always paid in blood.โ
The sudden sound of footsteps shattered her focus. She froze, the journal clutched in her hands.
โWhoโs there?โ Her voice barely rose above a whisper.
The footsteps grew louder, deliberate, as though someone wanted her to hear. Her pulse raced as she peered into the hallway, where the shadows seemed to shift and writhe.
Then he appearedโa man emerging from the darkness like a phantom. His features were sharp and unyielding, his eyes dark as the void, yet alive with something unreadable. He moved with a predatory grace, his presence filling the space as if he belonged here more than she did.
โYou shouldnโt have come,โ he said, his voice low, almost a growl.
โThis is my house,โ Aileen countered, forcing herself to stand her ground despite the fear coiling in her stomach.
He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. โYour house,โ he echoed, his tone mocking. โAnd yet you know nothing of it. Nothing of what itโs seen. What itโs taken.โ
โWhat do you mean?โ
His smirk faded, replaced by something darker. โLeave, Aileen. While you still can.โ
Before she could respond, he stepped back into the shadows, vanishing as though heโd never been there.
Aileenโs knees felt weak, but she refused to let fear take hold. She returned to the parlor, her eyes falling on the journal once more. She flipped through the pages, her heart pounding as fragments of a story began to emerge.
“To whoever finds this, know that the curse begins with love and ends with betrayal. What you see, what you feelโitโs only the beginning.”
A sudden gust of wind blew through the room, extinguishing the dim light of her lantern. She gasped, stumbling as the room plunged into darkness. Her breaths came in shallow bursts as she fumbled to relight it, but the matches trembled in her grasp.
Then, faintly, she heard a sound. A melody. Soft and sorrowful, it drifted through the air like a lament. It seemed to come from upstairs. Against all reason, she followed it, her footsteps hesitant but determined.
The melody grew louder as she ascended the creaking staircase, her lantern casting eerie shadows on the walls. It led her to a locked door at the end of the hall. The music stopped abruptly as she reached for the doorknob.
She tried to open it, but it wouldnโt budge. Frustrated, she leaned closer, pressing her ear to the wood. Thatโs when she heard the whisper, so close it felt like it was inside her mind.
โThe past cannot be undone, Aileen. But it can be rewritten.โ
A chill ran down her spine as the door creaked open on its own. The room beyond was filled with moonlight, illuminating a single object in the center: a mirror. Its surface rippled like water, and for a brief moment, she saw not her own reflection but the face of the woman from the journal sketch.
And then the vision was gone, leaving Aileen staring at her own wide-eyed reflection.
The wind outside picked up, howling like a wolf in the night. She stepped back, clutching the journal to her chest, knowing that whatever she had just witnessed was only the beginning.
I reckon youโre off to a great start, particularly loved the descriptions. gave me a good sense of the place and what she was experiencing.
However, I had to put aside my logic and go with the flow when it came to her not being scared by the apparition. Anyone in their right mind would have been.
however this is fiction so anything can happen.
of all I think youโre a great writer, keep going!
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Thank you Sue, you are right. It would have been a good idea to cover all emotions. I am glad I have a great reader like you who can join the dots and give me ideas of how to improve without criticizing my work. I have more work that needs a proof reader like you. Thank you for your support.
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"A Journey of Words, Together with Zee"
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