A sliver of moonlight speared through a cracked window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the stale air. Lucian coughed, the scratchy sound echoing in the oppressive silence of Blackwood Manor. Sleep clung to him like cobwebs, but a sound – a distant creak, like aged floorboards groaning underfoot – had ripped it away.
He sat up, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Blackwood Manor held its breath at night, a place where shadows danced and whispers seemed to emanate from the very walls. The power had been out, plunging the house into an inky blackness that swallowed everything whole.
Another creak, closer this time, followed by the unmistakable thud of a footstep. Boy froze, knuckles white as he gripped the book. Who could it be at this ungodly hour? The staff, all but him, had fled after the… incident. The old master, Mr. Blackwood, was confined to his room, a prisoner of his own frailty.
A voice, raspy and low, sliced through the silence. "Is someone there?" It came from below, from the grand foyer. Curiosity warred with a primal fear in boy's' chest. He shouldn't go. He shouldn't –
But something, a morbid fascination perhaps, propelled him forward. He tiptoed to the door, the old hinges screaming their rusty protest as he cracked it open a sliver. The air from the hallway was thick with a metallic tang, sending a shiver down his spine.
"Hello?" he called out, voice barely a whisper. The only answer was the same raspy voice, closer now. "Come… closer…"
Panic choked boy's' throat. The voice, closer now, had a chilling quality, a hunger that scraped against his nerves. He took a hesitant step forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Suddenly, a flickering light danced at the end of the hallway, casting grotesque shadows that writhed on the walls.
He whipped his head back and forth, heart hammering against his ribs. There, in the sliver of illumination, stood a figure. But it wasn't human. Its translucent form shimmered like heat haze, its face obscured by a ragged veil of darkness. A single, skeletal hand reached out, and boy's' blood ran cold.
His survival instincts kicked in. He didn't scream, didn't hesitate – he turned and bolted. His bare feet slapped a frantic rhythm against the cold wood as he raced for the safety of his room. He slammed the door shut behind him, throwing his meager weight against it. The wood shuddered against the force on the other side.
A bloodcurdling shriek ripped through the house, the sound of pure, unadulterated rage. Claws scraped at the door, the wood splintering under the assault. Lucian sank to the floor, back pressed against the cold wood, chest heaving. He coughed, a metallic tang filling his mouth. A warm sensation spread across his chest – blood. He had been hurt.
Through the shattered remnants of the door came a voice, no longer raspy, but clear and chilling.
"Wake up," it hissed, the words dripping with malice. "Wake up and play with me."
"Wake up..."
"Lucian..."
The ghost mumbled, "Wake up... The movie's over, wake up."
Lucian jolted awake.
"Aghhh! A real ghost!" he stammered.
"Huh! Where is it?" The old man ghost freaked out.
"Huh?"
"Huh!"
"Huh?"
"Why are you freaking out, you dumb ghost?"
"But! You screamed about a real ghost!"
"That was a dream, you idiot!"
Sigh... "Seriously, why am I stuck with this dumb ghost?"
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