The Shadow of Blackthorn House

The old Blackthorn House stood at the edge of the village, its crumbling stone walls covered in ivy, its windows like hollow, watchful eyes. No one had lived there for decades—not since the night Elias Blackthorn vanished without a trace.

The villagers whispered that the house was cursed. Some claimed to have seen a flickering light in the upper window at midnight, though no one dared to investigate. Others spoke of a shadowy figure that lurked in the overgrown garden, moving silently between the thorny bushes.

Then, one autumn evening, a stranger arrived in town—a historian named Clara Voss, researching forgotten local legends. She was drawn to Blackthorn House, convinced there was more to its story than mere superstition. The villagers warned her to stay away, but Clara was determined.

That night, under a full moon, she stepped through the rotting front door, her lantern casting long, trembling shadows. The air inside was thick with dust and the scent of dried roses. As she climbed the creaking staircase, she heard it—a faint, rhythmic scratching coming from behind a locked door at the end of the hall.

Her fingers trembled as she turned the rusted key, the lock groaning in protest. The door swung open to reveal a small study, its walls covered in strange symbols. And in the center of the room stood a writing desk, its surface etched with deep, frantic grooves—as if someone had clawed at it in desperation.

Then Clara saw the journal. Its pages were brittle with age, but the final entry was unmistakably fresh, the ink still glistening in the lamplight:

"It is here with me. It has been here all along. And now, it knows you’ve come."

A cold breath brushed against her neck. The lantern flickered—then went out.

By dawn, Clara Voss was gone. The only trace left behind was the journal, now blank, its pages filled with nothing but the faint, lingering scent of roses.

And in the garden, the villagers swore the thorny branches had grown just a little thicker overnight.