The cotton had died years ago, but the ghosts of Oakhaven Manor still worked the fields in Evelyn's dreams. She stood at the gate, looking up at the decaying Victorian facade, and felt the weight of a century pressing down on her shoulders.
The house had been in her family for four generations. Each one had died within its walls. Each one had left something behind — letters, journals, paintings — all of them pointing to a secret that no one in the family had ever been brave enough to speak aloud. Her grandfather Silas had been the last to speak of it. On his deathbed, his voice barely a whisper, he had told her: "The house is a...
0 Comments 0 Shares 9 Views 0 Reviews