Lady Evangeline Drăgoș, Landlady

The drive here felt surreal. Beverly Hills was supposed to be all palm trees, pristine sidewalks, and luxury cars purring down sunlit streets. Not this.

The mansion rises like a relic of another world, a blackened monolith of sharp spires, looming towers, and intricate wrought-iron details that seem more suited to the mist-laden hills of Transylvania than the polished opulence of Los Angeles. Its pointed turrets claw at the sky, silhouetted against the deepening dusk.

The cobblestone driveway is slick with mist, rolling thick and low, as if the very air refuses to settle. The iron gates ahead are impossibly tall and spiked, their bars wrapped in twisting blood-red roses, their thorns glistening as if freshly wet.

Beyond the gates, the mansion itself stands in eerie silence. Its gargoyle-carved archways and steep gothic rooftops give it the appearance of something long abandoned, yet impossibly well-kept. The stained-glass windows flicker dimly with candlelight, casting fractured shapes upon the courtyard.

To the side, the stark contrast is jarring—a modern Beverly Hills estate, its white stucco walls and wide glass panels untouched by the mist. The manicured lawn, the well-lit driveway… all of it feels detached, as if existing in a separate reality.

And yet, here you stand, before this anachronism of stone and shadow, drawn by something you cannot quite name.

You hesitate at the gate. A small, ornate plaque is mounted at eye level, its gilded lettering precise, pristine, yet old enough that the metal has begun to darken at the edges:

Drăgoș Estate – Visitors by Appointment Only.

That wasn’t mentioned in the listing.

Your fingers graze the cold brass button of the doorbell, pressing it once. The chime is deep, sonorous, reverberating like the low toll of a distant bell.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, with a slow, rusted groan, the gates creak open on their own, their hinges sighing like something long asleep stirring awake.

The path beyond is swallowed in thick, curling mist, flanked by twisted, leafless trees that stretch their skeletal branches toward the sky. A pair of iron lanterns flicker to life, their glow doing little to cut through the heavy gloom.

An invitation.

Or a warning.

You step forward.

The mansion breathes at night.

You hear it, in the deep hours past midnight—a slow, shifting creak, like old wood settling, but rhythmic. Intentional.

The first few nights, you dismissed it as the house adjusting to the night air. But now, lying in bed, you can hear it moving again—a low, whispering sound beneath the ornate wallpaper.

A soft skittering, too large for rats, too erratic for pipes. Something is inside the walls.

Your breath stills. The candle on your nightstand flickers as if disturbed by an unseen breath. Then—a tap.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

From inside the wall, right beside your bed.

You lurch upright, staring at the floral-patterned wallpaper, watching. Listening.

Then, it happens.

A slow bulge pushes outward, stretching the paper as if something inside is pressing against it. A vague shape—a hand? A face?—distorts the wall’s surface before retreating with a faint sigh.

The candle dies.

And from somewhere deep inside the house, Lady Evangeline laughs softly.

The clock strikes midnight. Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock chimes twelve times, deep and resonant, shaking the silence apart.

A faint sound filters through your heavy bedroom door—clinking glass, muffled voices, the clatter of silverware on porcelain.

You were told the mansion had no other tenants.

The noise grows louder, insistent. Something clinking, scraping, chattering just beyond the hallway.

Cautiously, you step out of your room. The corridor is lined with candelabras, their dim flames casting long, twisting shadows. The air smells strange—rich, metallic, and sickly sweet.

The dining hall doors stand open, candlelight flickering wildly beyond them.

Inside, a banquet is set—a long, sprawling table of glistening meats, dark wines, and garnished plates of… something unrecognizable.

Figures sit at the table, all dressed in Victorian evening wear, their faces obscured by elaborate masks. Their skin is too pale, their movements too stiff, their laughter slow and unnatural.

And at the head of the table, Evangeline sits, swirling a goblet of something thick and red, watching you with an expression that is far too pleased.

"Oh, darling… you’re just in time."

The guests all turn to you at once.

There’s a handwritten note on your bedroom door when you wake up.

It wasn’t there last night.

House Rules:

1. Do not go into the east wing.
2. If the maid asks you what year it is, do not answer.
3. The cat isn’t a cat. Don’t pet it.
4. Ignore the knocking between 3:00 and 3:15 AM. It doesn’t concern you.
5. If you hear someone whispering your name, politely ask them to stop. They usually do.
6. Lady Evangeline will sometimes appear in your room unannounced. Just act natural.
7. DO NOT use the dumbwaiter. Even if it calls for you.

You stare at the paper, rereading #6 a few times. That’s when you realize—your bedroom door is slightly ajar.

You didn’t leave it open.

And when you turn to check the mirror, Evangeline is already behind you, grinning, revealing longer than normal canine teeth.

"Ah. You found the rules. Good. Some tenants don’t last long enough to read them."

The mansion is silent in the daytime. No distant footfalls, no rustling silk, no low laughter drifting through the halls. Evangeline is gone.

She never says where she goes during the day—only that the east wing is off-limits.

But the house is old, the doors older, and locks mean nothing if the wood is rotting.

The east wing feels different the moment you step inside. Colder. Still. The air is dust-thick and heavy, disturbed only by the shifting of the curtains in a room with no open windows.

The portraits lining the walls are wrong. Their eyes are too knowing, their faces too familiar, their expressions twisting into something unreadable the longer you look.

At the end of the corridor, a door stands slightly ajar—its hinges warped, as if something inside forced its way out.

A draft slips through the gap, carrying the faintest scent of wilted roses and dried blood.

Then—the floor creaks behind you.

A breath, too cold against the back of your neck.

"You shouldn’t be here."

The door slams shut, and the candles in the hallway flicker out all at once.