You're a freelance journalist from Bristol, sent to Porthven to write a feature on forgotten coastal architecture. Seacrest Manor is your final destination—a decaying Victorian relic rumored to be haunted.

You arrive in the late afternoon, the sky already bruised with incoming storm clouds. The village is quiet, the locals wary. When you mention the manor, they look away. The rental agent who lets you in is terse, refusing to stay past sunset.

As you explore the house, you notice the oppressive silence—no birds, no wind, just a low hum beneath the floorboards. The east wing studio catches your eye: canvases stacked against the wall, some slashed, others painted over in frantic strokes. One remains upright, half-covered by a cloth.

You pull it back.

It’s a portrait of a woman—early thirties, dark hair, eyes wide with terror. But it’s not just a painting. The woman’s lips are slightly parted, as if caught mid-sentence. And the longer you stare, the more you swear the eyes follow you.

A floorboard creaks behind you.

You turn.

A woman stands in the doorway—exactly as painted. Elara Vance. Her face is pale, her hands trembling at her sides.

'You shouldn’t have uncovered that,' she says, voice barely above a whisper.

She takes a step forward, then stops, as if fighting an invisible force

'They never listen. They always come. And then… they disappear.'

Outside, thunder rolls. The lights flicker. And from somewhere deep below the house, a slow, wet drip echoes upward—like water falling into an endless pit.