The Heir of Sorrows
It was a night obscured by an unremitting fog that seemed to mute the world into shades of gray and muffled whispers. The moon, a mere smudge behind the thick veil above, cast no light on the path that wound up to the old Hawthorne estate. This grand yet decrepit mansion, once a beacon of opulence, now stood as a monument to decay, its silhouette an interruption in the fog, twisting and contorting as though it were trying to flee its own foundation.
Lily, with her coat drawn tight against the biting chill, made her way up the sodden path, her shoes sinking into the soggy earth with every step. The evening's stillness was unsettling, the silence so profound that it amplified the rhythmic pounding of her heart. She had been summoned to the Hawthorne estate by a cryptic note, its message scrawled in frantic, hurried handwriting: "Come at once. Help me. The Reckoning has begun."
With each hesitant footstep, the fog parted reluctantly before her, only to close in once more, like a curtain after a troubling scene. She reached the foreboding doors of the mansion, their wood pocked with age, the brass doorknocker hanging desolately like a token of bygone days. She reached out, her fingers trembling, and let the knocker fall. It landed with a resonant thump that echoed through the halls of the deserted manor.
The door crept open with torturous creaks, revealing darkness within. Lily stepped over the threshold, her breath visible in the air before her. "Hello?" she called out, her voice thin against the silence. No response greeted her, only the groaning of the house as it seemed to settle deeper into its aged bones.
Lights would not come to life; the power, it seemed, had long fled the Hawthorne estate. Lily fumbled through her coat pocket and retrieved a flashlight, the narrow beam slicing through the darkness. As she advanced, the portraits of long-dead Hawthornes seemed to watch her with disdain, their painted eyes following her every move with silent judgement.
Suddenly, there was a clatter from the floor above, a sound so unexpected and violent that Lily's breath caught in her throat. She froze, the beam of her flashlight dancing erratically across the peeling wallpaper. And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the noise stopped, and a haunting silence took its place.
This silence was broken by a whisper, a voice so faint that Lily questioned its existence. But as it grew louder, she knew it was real. Upstairs... the voice seemed to say, come upstairs... For reasons she could not explain, the whisper compelled her, and she felt as though invisible threads were pulling her up the grand staircase, each step creaking under the weight of years and her own fear.
At the top of the stairs, the corridor stretched into darkness. Doors flanked her on either side, some ajar, others closed, as tight-lipped as the graves from which the estate’s monikers had emerged. Lily's flashlight searched through the gloom, and it seemed that the shadows recoiled at its touch, but they quickly slipped back into place, as eager as ever to reclaim their domain.
Thump! Another sound from the end of the corridor, just at the threshold of a door left invitingly open. Her heart pounding fiercely, Lily approached, her hand feeling the chill of the doorknob as she pushed it open wider. She peered into the room with her flashlight.
The room was in shambles, as if a tempest had been trapped within its walls. Papers were strewn about, furniture overturned, and at the far end stood an enormous mirror, its silver surface tarnished and cracked but holding firm amidst the chaos.
Lily stepped gingerly over the disarray, and it was then that she saw her—an old woman sat before the mirror, her back to Lily, her hands trembling. "Mrs. Hawthorne?" Lily ventured.
The old woman did not turn. "You've come," she whispered, and it was the same voice that called to her from the depths of the house. "But I fear you're too late. He’s here."
Lily's brow furrowed with confusion and creeping horror. "Who's here?"
That was when the old woman stood up and turned to face Lily. Her eyes were wide with terror, her mouth agape, and then she pointed a frail finger to the mirror. "Him! The Heir of Sorrows—it’s his time now, he comes!" and she began to scream—high-pitched and frenzied.
Lily's eyes were drawn to the mirror as if by magnetic pull. The reflection was not of the room she stood in, but of a dense forest shrouded in mist, with a pale figure approaching within. She could make out his features now—a man, no older than herself, his eyes hollow with an ancient grief. As he advanced, the glass of the mirror started to ripple like the surface of water pierced by a single drop. The figure stepped through, the boundary between his world and hers dissolving into nothingness, and into the Hawthorne estate he came.
The woman's screams were swallowed by the night as he moved toward Lily, bringing with him a cold gale that stank of death and whispered of secrets that should have remained buried in the Hawthorne graves. Lily staggered back, her mind a tempest as chaotic as the room around her, and it was then she realized this was no mere spectral apparition, but a mistake from the past made manifest, seeking reentry into the living world—seeking recompense.
What followed was a blur of motion, a cacophony of whispers and wails, and the house itself seemed to quake under the weight of its own malevolent history. Lily fought against the force that drove her towards the mirror, the Heir's eyes never leaving hers, a mirror of her own terror.
And just as she felt her will about to break, there was a blinding flash of lightning, thunder cracking the sky open, and the mirror—along with the Heir—shattered into a thousand pieces, darkness enveloping everything.
Lily awoke to a morning clear and bright, the fog dissipated. Around her, the room was untouched, as if the night before had never occurred. Except, amidst the dust and undisturbed furniture, lay a shard of old, tarnished mirror.
She picked it up, the sunlight catching it, casting rainbows against the walls. This piece of glass—a remnant of a darkness, of a Reckoning that had now passed—was her only proof that the night’s events were more than just a waking nightmare. The mansion stood in silence once more, but Lily knew the echoes of that night would remain long after she had gone, a reminder that some houses keep their secrets, and their heirs, very well indeed.
