The existence of the second entity, the Shadow Man, recontextualized everything. Eleanor’s terror, her frantic energy, wasn’t just the residual pain of her death. It was a reaction to a persistent, predatory presence. Was she a trapped soul, or was she, in some twisted way, a guardian? We found more of my uncle’s journal, pages he had hidden behind a loose brick in the fireplace. His later entries described the shadow in chilling detail. It calls itself The Keeper. It claims it was here before the house, that the land is its own. It feeds on sorrow. Eleanor’s grief is a feast. It tries to wear Thomas’s face to torment her. It tries to draw me in, to feed on my loneliness. It is the source of the anger. It twists her love into madness.
The pieces of the haunting snapped into a horrifying new picture. The Shadow Man, The Keeper, was the true malevolence in Blackwood Manor. Eleanor’s spirit was its primary source of sustenance, a well of eternal grief it would never relinquish. Our presence, our pity, our attempt to help her, had threatened its food source. And now it was turning its attention to us.
The atmosphere in the house became a toxic cocktail of opposing energies. Eleanor’s presence was a whirlwind of cold air, whispers, and the smell of lilies. The Keeper’s was a stagnant, freezing cold, a pressing silence, and a feeling of being watched with vile intent. They were at war, and Leo and I were on the battlefield.
One afternoon, I was in the library alone when the temperature plummeted. The light from the window seemed to dim. I turned slowly. The Shadow Man stood in the doorway, a pillar of darkness that blurred the edges of the room. This time, its form was more defined. I could make out the suggestion of a wide-brimmed hat and a long coat, styles from a century past. It was mimicking a form it had seen, a form from its time.
The whisper filled my mind, oily and insistent. You will stay. You will feed the sorrow. I was frozen, trapped by its gaze. From down the hall, the rocking chair in the nursery began to rock violently, the creak-creak-creak a frantic, angry rhythm. A vase on the mantelpiece shattered.
The shadow flickered, its attention divided. It was a distraction. A chance. I broke my paralysis and ran, fleeing the library and the oppressive cold. I found Leo, and we retreated to our bedroom, the only place that felt remotely safe. That night, we made a decision. We couldn’t live like this. We couldn’t win a war against a thing that fed on fear. We would leave. We would abandon Blackwood Manor to its ghosts. It was a surrender, but it was also an escape.
As we packed a hurried bag, a single, clear whisper, feminine and close, brushed my ear. It wasn't a sound of sorrow or anger. It was a warning.
He will not let you.
