XGost

Chapter One: The Letter
The rain had not stopped for two days when Eleanor received the letter. It arrived in an envelope yellowed at the edges, with handwriting that seemed older than the ink used to write it. The wax seal bore the crest of a raven with its wings outstretched.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it—not from fear, she told herself, but curiosity. It was from a solicitor named Mr. Greaves, who informed her that she had inherited a property in Northumberland: a long-forgotten estate called Drellinghurst Manor, buried deep in a region once known as Black Vale.
Eleanor had no family to speak of, not anymore. Her parents had died in a car crash when she was ten, and she had been raised by her cold, distant aunt, who passed three winters ago. No one had ever mentioned Drellinghurst. But the name clawed at some primal place inside her, like something she had heard in a dream.
“You are the last living heir. The estate is yours, should you choose to claim it.”
She did.
---
Chapter Two: Arrival
It was dusk when she arrived. The driver who brought her refused to go up the long drive.
“They say the forest don’t grow right there,” he muttered, not meeting her eye. “Things move when they shouldn’t. Sounds come from the house at night. If you hear a woman singing, don’t follow it. No matter what.”
Eleanor laughed, but it sounded hollow in her throat.
The drive was lined with ash trees—tall, skeletal things whose limbs reached like arms across the narrow path. The sky was low and gray, and she could hear the wind murmuring secrets to itself as it curled through the vale.
Drellinghurst rose before her like a wound in the land. Tall, with sagging eaves and shuttered windows, its roof was slick with moss. It looked not abandoned but left behind, like something people had chosen to forget.
She stepped through the creaking door.
The air was cold and tasted faintly of copper.
---
Chapter Three: The Portrait
The house seemed to breathe with its own rhythm. The floorboards whispered underfoot, and the shadows were slow to recede. She lit no more than a few candles that night, keeping to the parlor where the fireplace groaned but gave no heat.
Above the mantel was a massive portrait, half-faded with time. It showed a woman in a dark blue gown with eyes that were just slightly too large for her face. Her mouth was small, almost pursed, and her hands were folded delicately over a book with no title.
There was something wrong with the painting, but Eleanor couldn’t say what.
She turned from it, but hours later, when she passed through the room again, the book in the portrait was gone. The woman’s hands now hung empty.
She stared at the painting, cold rising in her chest like floodwater.
The next morning, the painting was unchanged. The book was back.
---
Chapter Four: The Whispering Room
On the third night, Eleanor was awoken by a scratching sound. It came from beneath her bed. She froze. Then slowly leaned over the edge, holding her breath.
Nothing.
But the noise was still there—scraping softly, like nails over old wood. She lit a candle and knelt. The flame flickered violently.
Etched into the floorboards beneath the bed were words. Hundreds of them, scratched in what looked like a fingernail or a knife. Some were in English. Others, in a language that made her vision blur just to look at.
She’s still in the walls. She walks when the moon is full. She sings when she’s lonely.
Then one line, in fresher scratches than the rest:
Eleanor, don’t sleep. She knows you now.
---
Chapter Five: The Singing
The house had a strange way of swallowing sound. Her own footsteps echoed as if someone followed, always just out of sight. The mirrors warped her reflection slightly. She began seeing herself blink a second too late, or smile when she had not.
One night, while rain struck the glass like fingernails, Eleanor heard it:
A woman’s voice.
Low, mournful, and eerily sweet.
It came from inside the walls.
She followed it, candle in hand, down corridors that hadn’t been opened in decades. The air grew colder as she descended to the east wing, long abandoned.
The singing stopped outside a door that had been nailed shut.
Her hand moved on its own to the handle. The nails groaned as she pulled them free. The door swung inward.
Inside was a nursery, untouched by time. Dust lay like a shroud over everything. A cradle, a wooden rocking horse, and a cracked music box.
Then she saw the figure in the corner—half-shadow, half-bone. It turned slowly.
And smiled.
---
Chapter Six: The History
Mr. Greaves arrived unannounced the following day.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said bluntly. “The Drellings were not... kind people. The manor was built on old ground. Pagan, some say. They found bodies in the foundations.”
He handed her a journal—weathered, pages brittle. It had belonged to Isadora Drelling, the woman in the portrait.
Isadora had lost her child, a daughter, under mysterious circumstances. It was said she went mad with grief. She sealed herself in the nursery and began practicing rituals to bring the girl back.
“There were... sacrifices,” Greaves whispered. “And something answered her. But it wasn’t her child.”
The journal ended abruptly, but the last page had a drawing. A face with too-wide eyes and a mouth sewn shut.
Eleanor recognized it. It was the figure she had seen.
---
Chapter Seven: Possession
Eleanor tried to leave that night, but the manor would not let her. Doors closed themselves. Windows showed nothing but endless trees, even when she knew the road was near.
She found herself standing in front of the portrait again.
The woman’s eyes were now open wider. The book gone.
In the hallway mirror, Eleanor saw herself—but something was wrong.
Her reflection smiled, though she had not.
She heard the singing again, louder now. Closer.
“Come play with me,” it crooned.
---
Chapter Eight: The Wall
She fled to the nursery with a hammer and tore at the walls. Behind the plaster she found bones, small and brittle, wrapped in a child’s blanket. A locket lay among them, with a picture of Isadora and her daughter.
The eyes of the child had been scratched out.
The singing became a scream.
Behind her, the air twisted and something moved.
Isadora’s spirit stood there, no longer human—her face an echo of agony, her eyes bottomless.
“You broke the seal,” it rasped. “Now she’s free.”
From the shadows, the child stepped forward—her mouth sewn shut, hands clawed. She looked at Eleanor with dead, ancient eyes.
“Mother,” she croaked.
---
Chapter Nine: The Burning
Eleanor set fire to the nursery, chanting words from the journal. The house screamed. Every wall echoed with sobs and whispers. Shadows twisted and clawed at her as she stumbled outside.
The manor burned like a living thing. Faces appeared in the flames. The child’s scream pierced the sky as the roof collapsed inward.
The fire took all of it.
Or so she thought.
---
Epilogue: The Mirror
A year passed. Eleanor lived in London now, far from the cold and the whispers.
One evening, as she was brushing her hair, she noticed something in the mirror behind her.
A small figure. Watching.
Her mouth was sewn shut.
And she was still singing.
Faintly.
---

THE END

Disclaimer: It is just for entertainment.

$BNB

I first heard about it from a cab driver.

We were stuck in traffic near the old train station, and he pointed toward the crumbling alleyway beside the abandoned platform.
“You ever hear of the café that opens for thirteen minutes?” he said, eyes still on the road.

I laughed. “Sounds like something from a ghost story.”

He didn’t smile.
“It only opens on Fridays. No sign. No Wi-Fi. No power, even. But you walk in, and it’s warm. Real warm. Smells like your mother’s kitchen. Or whoever you loved most.”

I thought he was joking—until he said this:

“They give you an envelope. No return address. Always tells you something you need to know. But only if you get there before the door closes.”

---

I forgot about it for a while. Until last Friday.

I was on my way to a job interview—something corporate and soul-eating—and my train was delayed. While pacing, I glanced toward the alley.

The air was different. Still, but heavy.

I followed my curiosity into the alley, expecting nothing. Then I saw the door: wooden, cracked, glowing faintly from the seams.

I checked the time. 3:47 PM.

No one was around. I pushed the door open.

---

Inside, the room was dimly lit, but not dark. Golden. Cozy.

Bookshelves lined the walls. A gramophone played soft jazz. And there she was: the barista. Mid-thirties maybe, a gentle face like someone you swore you’d met in a dream.

“Welcome,” she said, pouring tea without asking for my order.

I sat. The cup was warm. Chamomile and something else—vanilla, maybe. It calmed my chest like a hand over my heart.

We didn’t talk.

After a few minutes, she slid an envelope across the table. My name was written in black ink, in handwriting I didn’t recognize.

Inside was a single sentence:
“Don’t take the 4:02 train.”

---

I stared at it. It made no sense.

I was supposed to be on that train. It would get me to the interview just in time.

I checked my phone. 3:57. Five minutes left.

“Why?” I asked.

The barista smiled sadly. “We don’t get to ask. We only listen—or we don’t.”

I stood. Torn.

What kind of place was this? Some strange psychological art exhibit? A prank? Or something else entirely?

I pocketed the note and left.

---

I didn’t board the train.

Instead, I sat outside the station with a pretzel from a street vendor, feeling like a fool. Then at 4:18 PM, my phone buzzed.

“Breaking: 4:02 commuter train derailed outside Norfield. Casualties reported.”

My chest went cold.

I read it twice, three times. The screen blurred.

I looked back toward the alley.

The door was gone.

---

One Year Later

I go every Friday now. I watch people walk past that alley without noticing. Sometimes I see someone stop and stare at the bricks, like they feel something but can’t name it.

The café only opens for thirteen minutes. You don’t get a second chance.

If you ever find it… go inside.

Just remember: you don’t choose the message. But if you listen, it might just save your life.

$BTC