Chapter One
Aiden parked his car at the edge of the overgrown gravel path and stared at the old house through his windshield.
It sat at the base of a hill, half-shadowed by gnarled pines and wisteria vines that had long since claimed the porch railings. The building wasn't crumbling exactly, but it looked tired — the kind of tired that carried stories and secrets in its bones.
He exhaled, the sound filling the stillness around him. This was it — his grand retreat. A quiet place to work, to think, to finally finish the book his editor had been breathing down his neck about. He told himself the isolation was good for him, that this would be a clean break from the noise of the city, from deadlines and distractions.
But staring at the place now, with its shuttered windows and leaning chimney, he couldn't help thinking it looked more like the setting of a horror novel than the sanctuary of a struggling writer.
Still, it was peaceful. The air was clear here, laced with pine and distant rain. Somewhere beyond the trees, a stream murmured softly, and a pair of crows argued over a branch. It wasn't silence — it was alive in a way the city never was.
Aiden opened his car door, stretching the stiffness from his back before hauling out his bags and boxes. His muscles burned pleasantly under the weight. He'd always liked working with his hands, even if most of his job involved sitting behind a laptop, wrestling words into shape.
Inside, the house greeted him with the musty scent of old wood and disuse. Dust floated lazily in the afternoon light that filtered through gauzy curtains. The floors creaked with every step, groaning as if they resented being disturbed after years of quiet.
Aiden moved through each room, taking in the outdated furniture — heavy, carved oak, and faded upholstery — and the tall shelves that lined the study. Everything had a sense of being frozen in time. A ghost of another era.
He smiled despite himself. "Guess it's just you and me," he murmured to the empty air.
By the time he reached the basement, the sunlight outside had already started to fade into amber. The old stairs protested under his weight as he descended, flashlight in hand. The air was cooler down there, thicker somehow. Boxes were stacked in careless piles, and cobwebs hung like curtains in the corners.
Then he saw it.
A painting, propped against the far wall.
It was larger than the others scattered around — nearly his height — and wrapped in a thin film of dust. But even beneath the grime, something about it pulled at him. He wiped at the surface with his sleeve, revealing the faint shimmer of color beneath.
The image was of a man — or something close to one. His skin was pale as moonlight, his dark hair cascading over his shoulders. Behind him, faint scales caught the light, coiling down into shadows that suggested something serpentine and vast.
The figure's eyes, though painted, seemed almost alive — deep gold, glinting with a strange awareness that made Aiden's breath catch.
He stepped back, shaking his head with a nervous laugh. "Creepy," he muttered, forcing levity into the word. "Definitely not hanging that one in the living room."
Still, he couldn't look away for a long moment. The artistry was incredible — so vivid it almost seemed like the subject might move if he turned away.
Finally, Aiden pulled himself from the trance and went back upstairs, telling himself the chill running down his spine was just the basement air.
When he finally collapsed onto the couch later that evening, the weight of the long drive caught up with him. He stared at the blank page on his laptop screen, fingers poised over the keyboard, waiting for words that refused to come.
Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow he'd start. He'd find his rhythm, get his head clear, and meet that deadline like a responsible adult.
For now, all he could do was listen to the steady creak of the old house settling around him — like it was sighing awake after too long asleep.
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