The town library had a small archive section tucked behind rows of dusty shelves and forgotten periodicals. It wasn't much, but Evelyn hoped it would have something — anything — about the Hawthorne Mansion. She spent hours combing through old newspapers, brittle property records, and faded maps, the smell of aged paper heavy in the air.
Eventually, she found it.
An article dated March 1907, yellowed and fragile, headlined:
> "Tragedy at Hawthorne Estate – Heiress Disappears Without a Trace"
Beatrice Hawthorne. The name struck a strange chord in Evelyn's chest. According to the article, Beatrice was the only daughter of Gregory Hawthorne, a wealthy man known for his reclusive lifestyle and rumored fascination with spiritualism. On the night of her twenty-first birthday, Beatrice vanished during a private celebration at the mansion. No one saw her leave. No body was found. Just whispers of candles, chanting, and a séance gone wrong.
The article ended with a chilling quote from a former maid:
> "She was never quite right after her mother passed. And after that last night… it was like the house swallowed her whole."
Evelyn sat back in the creaky wooden chair, goosebumps rising on her arms. Could the figure in her photographs be Beatrice?
The idea seemed absurd — and yet, it explained the gown, the posture, the timeless sadness etched into the shape of the figure. Evelyn's fingers tightened around the edge of the newspaper. This was more than a ghost story. There was something left behind, something unfinished.
That night, she returned to the mansion — not with a camera, but with a flashlight and the old floorplan she'd copied from the archive. There was a part of the house she hadn't explored: the attic. The article had mentioned strange noises coming from above the ballroom after Beatrice disappeared. And if she wanted answers, she knew she had to go there.
The grand staircase groaned beneath her feet. The flashlight's beam danced across cracked walls and broken chandeliers. The entire house felt heavier in the darkness, as if it remembered things she didn't.
She found the narrow staircase leading to the attic tucked behind a concealed panel near the master bedroom. The wood was rotting, and the air smelled of dust and secrets. She climbed slowly, heart thudding louder with each step.
At the top, a trapdoor. She pushed it open, and the attic greeted her with silence. Moonlight streamed in through a broken circular window, casting a pale glow across the floorboards. The space was filled with sheet-covered furniture and stacks of crates. Evelyn stepped forward, her flashlight sweeping across old trunks, yellowed dolls, and stacks of papers.
Then the temperature dropped.
She froze.
A soft creaking sound echoed from behind one of the tall covered mirrors. She turned slowly — and there it was.
The figure.
No longer just a shape in her lens, but real. Standing across the attic, draped in the same flowing dress, her face partially hidden beneath dark hair. The ghost's eyes, hollow and endless, locked onto Evelyn's.
Evelyn's breath hitched.
The figure took a step forward — not aggressive, but slow, mournful. The air shimmered around her as if reality itself couldn't hold her in place. Evelyn couldn't move, couldn't speak. Her feet were rooted to the spot.
"Beatrice?" she whispered.
The ghost stopped.
And then — the room changed.
The sheets on the furniture vanished. The light shifted, and for a moment, Evelyn stood not in a decaying attic, but in a vibrant room lit by candlelight. She saw Beatrice alive, dressed in her birthday gown, surrounded by shadowy figures chanting in a language Evelyn didn't recognize. A circle of salt. A mirror. A flash of panic in Beatrice's eyes as something went wrong.
Then — darkness.
The vision snapped away. Evelyn fell to her knees, gasping. The attic was back to its ruined state. The ghost was gone.
But on the floor before her, something remained: a locket, tarnished and cracked, with the initials B.H. carved delicately on the back.
Evelyn picked it up with trembling hands.
Beatrice hadn't just vanished.
She had been trapped.