Hawthorn Estate: Bound by Shadows

Table of Contents

The Old Estate: Echoes of the Damned

Rain hammered the windshield as Mark Turner navigated the winding forest road. His GPS blinked erratically, protesting the remoteness of his destination. The message from the law firm still echoed in his head—he had inherited an estate from a great-aunt he never knew existed. Hidden deep in upstate New York, the house was known locally as Hawthorn Estate.

He pulled up to iron gates choked with ivy, the mansion looming in silhouette through the mist. He stepped out into the drizzle and pushed the creaking gate open. The path to the front door was overgrown, the air thick with the scent of moss and decay. With each step, the estate seemed to watch him.

Inside, the house was trapped in time. Dust coated the furniture, and ancient portraits glared down at him with eyes that seemed to follow. Mark dropped his duffel bag and scanned the foyer. A staircase curved upward like a spine, and a chandelier above swayed as if disturbed by unseen hands.

He laughed nervously. “It’s just old air currents, Mark. Chill.”

That night, the fireplace hissed as he read through the papers left on the ornate desk. A note in his aunt’s handwriting read: “If you hear the bells, do not answer. They are not for you.”

“What the hell?” he muttered, turning the paper over. Nothing. Just an old woman’s cryptic warning—or dementia. But that night, as wind rattled the windows, he did hear them. Bells, faint, like from a child’s bicycle, coming from somewhere upstairs.

He froze. His phone had no signal, and the lights flickered. Against better judgment, he climbed the stairs, flashlight in hand. The bells stopped. Silence fell like a shroud.

At the end of the hall, a door stood ajar. He pushed it open to reveal a nursery—untouched, eerily clean. Rocking horse. Broken dolls. Wallpaper peeling like old skin.

Then the flashlight died.

In the pitch black, something whispered: “You’re not him.”

He ran, heart pounding, not stopping until he reached the front door. But it wouldn't budge. Not locked—just… immovable, like the house itself wouldn’t let him leave.

Days passed. Or maybe just hours. Time bent in Hawthorn Estate. Mark rationed food from the old pantry and refused to go upstairs again. But the whispers continued. And then he found the journal—his aunt’s final entries. The last one read:

“I tried to bury him. The boy in the walls. But he was never truly dead.”

Walls?

That night, Mark pressed his ear to the parlor wall. Silence. Then: a soft knock. One knock. Then two. Then frantic scratching, as if someone—or something—tried to claw its way out.

He stumbled backward. The air turned frigid. A shape moved in the corner—a small figure, child-sized, head tilted unnaturally to the side.

“Help me,” it said.

Mark blinked. Gone.

“I’m losing it,” he muttered. “Just stress. Old house, old ghosts.”

But he couldn’t ignore the knocking, growing louder each night. He followed it one morning to a bricked-up section of the basement wall. The mortar looked fresh—too fresh. With trembling hands, he grabbed a rusted crowbar and began to chip away.

Inside was a small chamber. And within… bones. Child-sized. Wrapped in a tattered sailor outfit. A locket rested beside it, bearing the name “Julian.”

“Jesus,” he whispered, stumbling back. He ran upstairs, heart racing, and tripped over something in the hallway. A doll. Eyes blackened. Mouth sewn shut.

He threw it down the stairs. Then a voice, cold and close: “That was mine.”

Mark turned slowly. There stood a boy, no more than seven, translucent skin stretched thin over sharp cheekbones, eyes like empty wells. The child smiled with broken teeth.

“You’re not him,” Julian said. “But you’ll do.”

“What… what do you want?” Mark backed against the wall.

“To come back.”

Mark ran. Upstairs, through the halls, into the attic—he slammed the door behind him. Panting. Light spilled from a broken window. Then footsteps on the stairs. Not hurried. Deliberate.

He armed himself with an iron rod. “Stay away from me!”

The door creaked open. But it wasn’t Julian. It was an old man—stooped, gray-eyed, familiar. Mark stared, stunned.

“Uncle Robert?”

The man nodded. “I came here once too. Thought I could resist him. But the house… it chooses.”

“Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Because I thought I could destroy it. But now, it’s your turn.”

Then the man’s skin cracked like porcelain. His form faded, becoming smoke. Gone. Just like that.

Mark screamed. He smashed the window with the iron rod, cutting his hands, and leapt. Branches broke his fall. He landed hard, dazed—but alive.

He didn’t stop running until he reached the road. A passing truck screeched to a halt. The driver jumped out. “Holy hell, you okay?!”

Mark turned, looking back. The estate stood still and quiet behind the trees. No lights. No movement. As if it never happened.

But in his pocket, something moved. He reached in—and pulled out the black-eyed doll.

Its stitched mouth had come undone.

Back in the city, Mark tried to move on. Therapy. Research. Sleep aids. But the dreams never stopped. The halls of Hawthorn, the whispers, the bells. Always the bells. At 3:17 a.m. every night.

One day, desperate, he returned to the law firm that had sent the original letter. “There has to be a mistake. I never had a great-aunt,” he told the receptionist.

The woman frowned. “What letter?”

“From here. It said I inherited the estate.”

She shook her head. “We’ve never handled an estate like that. Are you sure you have the right firm?”

Mark pulled out the now-faded letter. The firm’s name was smudged. The address didn’t exist anymore—demolished years ago. Confused and chilled, he left.

That night, he received a package on his doorstep. No return address. Inside: the sailor locket. Inside it, a photo of Julian. Next to Julian… a boy who looked exactly like Mark.

He dropped it. Heart hammering. He’d never seen that photo before. Yet it stirred something—a memory not his own.

In a dream that night, he stood at the gates of Hawthorn again. This time, the boy was beside him, holding his hand. “You’re ready,” Julian whispered. “We can finish what she started.”

“What did she start?”

“The sealing. But she failed.”

When Mark woke, the words burned in his mind. He had to go back—not to escape, but to end it. For good.

He returned with salt, firewood, and a ritual he pieced together from his aunt’s journal and ancient books. The estate welcomed him this time—doors swinging open, shadows silent but expectant.

In the nursery, he built the circle. The doll sat at the center. He lit the candles. The air thickened. Bells rang. Loud now. Clear.

“This house is not yours,” he shouted. “Return to the void!”

Julian appeared. But not alone. Others—children with sunken faces, hollow eyes—crowded the room. Whispers in dozens of voices filled the air. Begging. Accusing. Crying.

Mark held the locket high. “You are remembered. But you must rest.”

The flames rose. The dolls screamed. The house shook, groaning like it was alive. Cracks formed in the walls. And then… silence.

The sun rose. For the first time in decades, light touched the floors of Hawthorn Estate without bending strangely.

Mark walked out alone. The house behind him crumbled slowly, dust to wind, as if it had never been there at all.

In his hand, the locket glowed briefly… then cracked in two.

And for the first time in weeks, Mark slept through the night.