The ocean looked endless from up here, gray, restless, and whispering secrets only the dead would understand.
I stood at the window of my new room, arms wrapped around myself, trying to process the fact that this wasn't a dream. I had really signed my life over to strangers.
The fog rolled in from the cliffs, swallowing pieces of the view until the mansion felt like an island floating in nothing. Somewhere below, waves slammed against rock, steady and relentless, like a heartbeat that belonged to the house itself.
Julia Rowan had left an hour ago after giving me a quick tour that felt more like a warning. Every hallway looked identical, clean and perfect. I half expected to see my reflection in the marble walls instead of my shadow.
"The housekeeper will attend to your needs," Julia had said before vanishing through a side door that blended seamlessly into the wall.
That was when she appeared.
"Ms. Hale," came a low, even voice.
I turned. A woman stood in the doorway, gray hair pinned in a bun so tight it looked painful, black uniform sharp enough to cut glass. Her face was unreadable, every feature arranged into quiet disapproval.
"I'm Mara," she said. "Housekeeper."
"Nice to meet you," I managed, though she didn't look like someone who considered nice a real thing.
She nodded once, her eyes sweeping over me as if measuring whether I belonged here, and deciding I didn't.
"Dinner is at seven. You will find your meals delivered to the writing room after that. Mr. Cole's study and private quarters are off-limits."
I blinked. "Mr. Cole?"
A pause. The kind that stretches until your nerves start screaming.
"His memory," she said finally, tone clipped. "The master of the house may be gone, but the house still runs as he left it."
With that, she turned and left, her shoes making no sound on the polished floor.
The room was huge, easily bigger than my entire apartment back in the city. Soft white curtains billowed with the ocean wind through the cracked-open balcony door. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view so breathtaking I almost forgot how to breathe. Waves crashing far below, the horizon stretching into forever.
I stepped in slowly, almost afraid to touch anything. The bed looked like something from a luxury ad: smooth, crisp sheets that whispered untouched. A chandelier glittered faintly above. Everything smelled faintly of salt and linen and something I couldn't place… something old.
"This is… wow," I murmured to myself.
I stood there for a long time, just listening. The house was too quiet, even with the ocean roaring outside. The kind of quiet that had a pulse.
I crossed the room and touched the glass. Cold. Too cold.
For a moment, I caught my reflection, hair a mess, dark circles like bruises. I almost laughed. I didn't look like someone who just got a $250,000 job offer. I looked like someone who needed a nap and maybe a new life.
Still, curiosity had its claws deep in me.
Somewhere in this house was the story I was meant to finish. Damian Cole's story.
A man who is not alive.
I unpacked what little I brought: mostly my laptop, a few clothes, and my favorite mug with a faded constellation print. It looked out of place here, but maybe that was why I liked it.
When a knock came at my door, I jumped.
"Come in."
Mara entered, holding a tray.
"Dinner," she said simply, setting it on the small table.
"I thought i would be eating in the writing room" I asked.
Her gaze flicked up; calm, unreadable.
"Not tonight. You will dine here until further notice."
I frowned. "Great."
She did not respond. She only smoothed a crease in the napkin, then left as quietly as she came.
After she was gone, I sat and stared at the tray. The food looked perfect, too perfect. Salmon, roasted vegetables, something fancy I could not name. Unlike the expired food back at my apartment.
I tried to write after dinner, but my thoughts kept circling the same thing. The name.
Damian Cole.
The man who died in a plane crash.
Every article said the same thing: dead in a plane crash, no survivors, case closed.
So then… who was running Cole Industries?
Who sent that email?
The question crawled under my skin.
---
The writing room was at the far end of the corridor. I found it easily, mostly because I could feel it before I saw it. It was colder there. The kind of cold that makes you whisper.
The desk was already waiting: neat stacks of papers, black-and-silver pens lined like soldiers, a laptop that wasn't mine glowing faintly. I set mine beside it.
Beside it were three voice recorders, each labeled in precise handwriting:
Session 12 – June 4
Session 13 – June 6
Session 14 – Final Draft
I hesitated, thumb brushing one of them. It clicked on.
A man's voice filled the air. Deep. Calm. Controlled.
"If you are hearing this, then the story is not over yet."
I flinched and hit stop. The silence after was deafening.
My hands shook a little. Not from fear exactly. From… disbelief, maybe.
I sat down anyway. Because what else could I do?
The folders on the desk were full of notes. Damian Cole's handwriting: strong, confident, with that slight slant of someone who never second-guesses himself.
He wrote about power, betrayal, legacy. He wrote like a man trying to outrun something he could not name.
Hours passed.
The sky outside turned from dull silver to bruised purple. The sea kept moving. Always moving.
Mara never came back.
Julia did not either.
---
By the time I noticed the clock, it was past midnight. I gave up pretending to work and shut my laptop. I stood by the window, watching the faint silhouette of my reflection and then, just for a second, something shifted behind me.
Movement.
A shadow.
I spun around.
Nothing.
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.
"Okay," I whispered to no one. "Maybe I am losing it."
I told myself to sleep, but curiosity does not sleep, does it?
I took one last walk through the hallway, just to stretch my legs. The lights flickered: maybe old wiring, maybe not.
---
Back in my room, I changed into a sweatshirt, tied my hair up, and sat on the bed with my laptop. Tried to sleep, but nothing came.
The house was too quiet.
Too still.
Then I heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft. Slow.
Right outside my door.
I froze.
Listened.
They stopped.
Then started again, closer this time.
"Mara?" My voice barely above a whisper.
No reply.
The footsteps reached the door, paused, then drifted away.
I waited, heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.
Finally, I got up and peeked into the hallway. Empty.
Of course.
But as I turned back, something made me stop.
The window across from my bed.
A shadow passed it. Just a flicker, but enough to send a chill straight through me.
I rushed forward and pulled the curtain aside.
Fog.
Only fog.
And the faint outline of the ocean below, restless and dark.
But there, on the cliff, was a figure.
Tall. Still. Watching.
For a moment, the fog thinned and I could have sworn I saw him turn his head toward me.
My breath caught.
Then the fog swallowed him whole again.
Gone.
I stood there for what felt like forever, waiting for the shape to come back. It didn't. Only the waves answered, crashing against the rocks like a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
I backed away from the window, locked it, and sat on the bed, hugging my knees like a kid who just realized the dark can still scare her.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe just my brain playing tricks after too little sleep and too much caffeine.
Still… I left the lamp on.
Because something about this house did not feel empty.
It felt like it was holding its breath.
And if I am honest, I was not sure I wanted to know why.
I fell asleep listening to the sea.
But under the rhythm of the waves, I could swear I heard something else.
A whisper. My name.