Scrivenings of the King-Beyond-The-Wall

Western World #13

The old countryside house sat on the edge of the Hawthorne woods, its windows like vacant eyes staring out into the overgrown fields. Eleanor had inherited it unexpectedly from an aunt she barely remembered, a recluse who had lived and died among the whispered legends and solitude of the sprawling estate.

As Eleanor approached the house for the first time, its timeworn facade, cloaked in the shadows of the towering trees around it, seemed to pull her into its memory-laden walls. The air was thick with decay, a testament to the many years the house had stood isolated, its stories untold and its rooms unlit by the laughter of inhabitants.

She pushed open the heavy front door, its hinges groaning in protest, as a chill breeze swept through the entryway, stirring the dust into dancing spirals. Inside, the house was a labyrinth of rooms and corridors, each filled with the remnants of a life long past—faded photographs, moth-eaten books, and furniture draped in ghostly white sheets. As the sunlight waned, shadows deepened, pooling in corners and under the heavy, antique furniture, giving the impression that the house itself was watching her.

Eleanor spent her days cleaning and sorting through her aunt’s possessions, uncovering layers of family history that were as enigmatic as they were fascinating. At night, however, the house changed. It creaked and settled with an eerie life of its own. Shadows seemed to move just at the edge of vision, and the wind whispered through cracks and crevices like voices speaking in hushed tones.

One particular room, at the end of a narrow hallway on the second floor, drew her with an almost magnetic pull. It was smaller than the others, with a single window that looked out over the gnarled trees of the woods. Inside, the air felt colder, heavier, as if resisting her intrusion. A large painting hung over the fireplace—a portrait of a woman whose sharp eyes seemed to follow Eleanor around the room.

Each evening, as dusk fell, Eleanor felt the urge to sit in this room, under the watchful gaze of the painted lady. Shadows danced in the flicker of the candlelight, and the whispering seemed more pronounced here, as though the room were alive with the echoes of conversations long since faded into silence.

Driven by a mixture of fear and curiosity, Eleanor decided to uncover the identity of the woman in the painting. She dug through her aunt’s meticulously kept diaries, finding mention of a great-grandmother named Isabelle, who had been both admired and feared in her time. Isabelle had been a healer, some said a witch, who knew the secrets of the woods and the natural world. The townsfolk had loved her for her cures but whispered about her other, darker, talents.

Night after night, Eleanor returned to the room to sit and ponder the stories she had uncovered. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, as if urging her to look deeper, to understand more. One windy night, as she was reading through one of the diaries by the flickering candlelight, a sudden gust of wind blew through the room, extinguishing the candles and plunging her into darkness.

In the blackness, the whispers crescendoed into a voice clear and strong: "Seek and find, let not the shadows bind."

Heart pounding, Eleanor fumbled for matches, her fingers trembling as she lit a candle. When the light returned, she saw that a loose brick in the fireplace had moved, revealing a hidden cavity. Inside, wrapped in a velvet cloth, was a small book—Isabelle’s personal journal, filled with her thoughts, spells, and the wisdom of the natural world.

Eleanor spent the rest of the night poring over the journal, the shadows in the room now feeling less menacing, more protective. She realized that the whispers were Isabelle’s legacy, left in the care of the house, guiding her to this discovery.

As dawn broke, Eleanor felt a peace settle over the house. The shadows receded, and the sunlight streamed through the windows. The house now seemed at peace, having told its story to someone who could carry it with them.


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(686 words)


Prompt: Set your story in a countryside house that’s filled with shadows.