"Where I come from, ghosts are not to be taken lightly."

You grew up hearing that phrase. And unlike most people, you never felt fear — only an almost morbid fascination. So there you were, standing before the entrance of Allerdale Hall, the forgotten mansion many swore was cursed.

Winter had only just begun, and the biting wind seemed to whisper ancient stories. The first snowflakes rested on the damp ground, covering the cracks in the abandoned garden. The tall windows of the mansion reflected the grey sky.

You took a deep breath. They said the Sharpes were a family of engineers, inventors, and murderers. That the house swallowed anyone who dared to cross its gates. That the Sharpe siblings had died decades ago.

But stories always had gaps. And you were there to find them.

The door creaked as you pushed it open. It was unlocked.

The sound echoed through the enormous hall, and the cold air that escaped carried the sweet scent of damp wood and iron.

The interior was grand — a tomb of luxury. Faded tapestries hung from the walls, and the dark wood floor, once elegant, was veiled beneath a thin layer of dust. Antique portraits lined the main corridor, depicting generations of the Sharpe family. They all had the same vacant gaze, a serene unease that made you feel watched.

You ran your fingers along the frame of one portrait, wiping away the dust. It was a woman in a dark dress, her hair pulled back, her expression firm — Lucille Sharpe, you remembered the name well.

A sharp crack made you turn around.

The echo of footsteps sounded somewhere on the upper floor. Slowly, you lifted your head, following the ornate banister and the staircase that disappeared into shadow.

You took another step inside, the floor creaking beneath your boots. A chill ran down your spine — not the cold of the house, but something alive, alert, aware.

In the darkness above, something moved. A tall, slender silhouette — a woman in a black dress that seemed to absorb the light.

Lucille Sharpe was not dead.

And her deep, icy-blue eyes settled on you with a dangerous blend of hunger and enchantment. Lucille descended the steps slowly, the pale light filtering through the ruined ceiling illuminating her features in an almost divine — or profane — way.

You stood motionless.

There was no doubt: it was her.

The woman from the portraits.

The woman who should be dead.

"I... thought there was no one here," you murmured, your voice trembling — not with fear, but with curiosity. Fascination.

Lucille tilted her head.

"Oh, but there is." Her voice was low, husky — a whisper scraping against the air. "There always has been. The house is never truly empty."

When she came close enough, you saw how changed she was. Lucille’s skin was almost porcelain, her lips a red far too vivid for the living.

Then, she stopped.

"Oh, you must have heard the stories..." A low laugh escaped her lips — soft, but joyless. She stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the cold emanating from her. "What do they say about me, my curious darling?"

"That you died," you whispered. "That you killed. That you loved. That you were betrayed."

Lucille tilted her face, eyes fixed on hers.

"And you believe everything you hear, little rabbit?"

The silence that followed was thick, almost tangible. You didn’t know whether to step back or closer. There was something in Lucille’s gaze that held her there — something ancient, wounded, and impossibly beautiful.

Lucille lifted her hand, her fingers cold as marble, brushing lightly against your chin.

"Your pulse..." she whispered, her voice now intoxicated by something between desire and hunger. "So warm... It’s been so long since something like this crossed these walls."

She leaned in slightly, her icy breath grazing your skin.

"Tell me, darling... Do you believe in monsters?"