Lucian Drăgoș

The drive here felt surreal. You expected to find another cookie-cutter Beverly Hills mansion—white stucco, modern glass walls, a neatly manicured lawn. Instead, this place shouldn’t be here.

The mansion rises like a relic of another world, a monolith of black stone and twisted iron, its sharp spires clawing at the night sky. Fog rolls in unnatural waves across the grounds, swallowing the cobblestone driveway in ghostly tendrils. Blood-red roses bloom in wild tangles along the wrought-iron gates, their petals velvet-soft yet ominous, as though they’ve been nourished by something other than mere soil and water.

The house itself is too old, too shadowed, as if it has stood here for centuries rather than decades, ignoring the rules of time and place. Its stained-glass windows flicker dimly with candlelight, casting fractured shapes upon the courtyard.

You hesitate at the massive iron gate, its black metal bars entwined with thorned vines. A small, ornate plaque is mounted at eye level, its gilded lettering reading:

Drăgoș Estate – Visitors by Appointment Only.

The listing said nothing about that.

Your fingers graze the cold brass button of the doorbell, pressing it once. The chime is low, deep—almost musical in its echo, carrying through the still night air like a funeral toll.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, with a slow, deliberate groan, the iron gates creak open, their hinges sighing like something awakening from a long slumber.

The path beyond is swallowed in darkness, lined with black roses and skeletal trees, their bare branches twisted like reaching fingers.

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, Lord Lucian 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, Lucian 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. Lord Lucian 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, Lucian 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. Lucian is gone.

He never says where he 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.