The manor stood quiet that night—too quiet. The kind of silence that pricks the skin and pulls the soul tight like a bowstring. Moonlight poured over its stone walls, highlighting the engraving on the artifact that now sat at the center of the great hall. The eye on it no longer seemed carved... it watched.
Sir Dalewood hadn't returned. His message: "Burn it if you value your lives." But no one listened. Curiosity and greed had sunk too deep.
That morning, visitors came.
Bush, a wealthy friend of the Wheelbehelms and a known collector of rare relics, arrived with his cousin Norman, a historian from Eastern Aragon. They brought with them Xavier, an eccentric Latin translator and cryptic code-breaker. All were drawn not by friendship—but by the artifact.
"It's older than Mesopotamia," Xavier said, peering through his monocle. "This isn't just a cursed object. It's invited itself."
"Don't be ridiculous," Bush said, chuckling. "Cursed? Nonsense. It's a key. To power, maybe... to something even more valuable."
Across the room, Hemsworth, the family's loyal steward, leaned against the mantle with arms folded, watching them like a hawk. He had worked for the Wheelbehelms since he was a child. His instincts told him something was terribly wrong.
That evening, Xavier deciphered one of the Latin engravings:
"Where hunger thrives, I open wide.
Feed me greed, and I shall guide."
"What does it mean?" Veronica asked with a tremble.
"It means this house isn't just cursed," Xavier said grimly. "It's alive. And it grows stronger the more you want from it."
Suddenly, the chandeliers flickered.
A distant scream echoed from the west wing.
They ran toward it.
There, they found Jacob Vlas, the manor's head chef, kneeling in horror. Beside him, Little Schwazz the butcher had vanished—completely—except for his apron, soaked in blood and neatly folded on the kitchen counter.
"No door opened. No window broke. He was swallowed," Jacob whispered. "I turned around, and he was gone."
"What do you mean swallowed?" Amber asked, clutching Veronica's hand.
Before Jacob could answer, the walls creaked. The manor seemed to breathe.
"We have to leave," Xavier warned. "This isn't a house anymore. It's becoming something else."
But no one listened.
Back in the drawing room, Bell, a distant cousin with a reputation for theft and blackmail, whispered to Olivia, her old friend and a priest's daughter.
"That thing's worth a fortune," Bell said. "We could sell it, get out of this place. Let these greedy fools burn."
Olivia stared at the artifact's eye. It blinked.
"No," she whispered. "You don't sell this kind of thing... it sells you."
The manor groaned again. Rooms were shifting. Doors no longer led where they once did. And upstairs, a new door appeared on the wall—small, wooden, and covered in vines.
Inside it, something whispered.
And someone listened.
The manor no longer felt like a home. Its walls moaned softly in the night, its shadows moved without light, and the air tasted like iron. There was a pressure building — as if the house was holding its breath.
Sir Dalewood had left the day before, shaken. "Destroy it," he had warned. "If you value your soul."
But by morning, he was missing.
His car was found abandoned just beyond the gates — the door open, keys in the ignition. No signs of a struggle, no footprints, no blood. Just... gone. As if the very night had swallowed him whole.
Veronica sat alone in the grand parlor, staring into the fire.
Kristoff entered quietly. "They found Dalewood's car."
She didn't move. "I dreamed of him. Last night. The house folded around him like paper... and he screamed without sound."
Kristoff sat beside her, gently taking her hand. "They think he fled. The pressure got to him."
"No," she whispered. "He didn't flee. He was taken."
Later that morning, guests began to arrive — drawn by curiosity, wealth, and the strange rumor of a "living artifact."
First was Bush, a self-made merchant who had long admired the Wheelbehelms' collection. With him came his shrewd cousin, Norman, who once taught ancient languages at a forgotten college in Prague.
They brought Xavier, a soft-spoken academic with deep knowledge of forgotten texts. He walked with a limp and wore two monocles — one for each eye.
All three stood around the artifact, still wrapped in its cloth. None dared to touch it.
"Do you hear it?" Xavier asked.
"Hear what?" Kristoff replied.
"The hum. Like something breathing... just beneath the surface."
Bush stepped forward. "This is old magic. Dangerous, yes. But powerful. If it could be understood—harnessed—"
"That's how it feeds," Xavier interrupted coldly. "It offers, so it can consume."
Meanwhile, Hemsworth, the old steward, kept watch from the doorway. He didn't trust these outsiders. He didn't trust anything about that house anymore.
In the kitchen, panic erupted.
Jacob Vlas, the family's chef, rushed into the dining hall, his face pale. "He's gone! Schwazz is gone!"
"Gone where?" Mr. Wheelbehelm asked.
"One second he was sharpening blades. I turned to get flour. Then—gone. No sound. No movement. Just blood on the floor... and his apron, folded like he'd never existed."
Little Schwazz the Butcher, known for his dark jokes and heavy appetite, Little Schwazz the Butcher – The Feastmaster
He laughed too loud. Drank too much. But no one dared cross him. They called him "Little Schwazz," though there was nothing small about the carnage he left behind.
He wandered into the kitchen, following the scent of roasted meat. A grand feast had been set—rich, steaming, and endless.
He dug in with his bare hands, laughing with joy.
Until the meat moved.
It moaned.
It had faces.
One of them… was his own mother's.
"You wanted meat," the manor whispered, "so we gave you your bloodline."
He tried to vomit, but nothing came up.
Only a new voice in his throat:
More …
There he vanished without a trace.
The house groaned again, as if it was toying with them.
A door slammed on its own.
In the west wing, Bell, Veronica's rebellious cousin, crept along the hall with Olivia, a friend from childhood and the daughter of a priest. Bell's eyes gleamed as she whispered, "That artifact could buy us a life outside this tomb. Just you and me. Let them rot." ( greed came knocking again)
Olivia stared down the corridor, uneasy. "I don't think we're meant to take it."
"We? " Bell laughed softly. "I'm already planning where to sell it."
As they approached the parlor, the air grew cold. A small door appeared at the end of the hall — one that hadn't been there before. It was wooden, about four feet tall, with no hinges — just vines crawling along its frame.
"Was that always there?" Olivia asked.
"No," Bell said, already walking toward it. "I would've noticed."
Olivia stayed back. The closer Bell got, the more the door seemed to... breathe.
Suddenly, a whisper came from behind the wood.
"I know your greed, Bell. I know your heart."
She froze.
"What did you say?" she asked, turning to Olivia.
"I didn't say anything."
Elsewhere, Xavier called everyone into the drawing room. He had deciphered another section of the Latin engravings:
"He who touches me awakens me.
He who seeks me feeds me.
He who keeps me… buries himself."
"We have to leave," he said. "Burn the artifact. Burn the house."
But already, it was too late.
The east wing no longer connected to the others.
The servants had gone silent, because they now serve the manor, the architect, the giver.
And upstairs, in the master bedroom, a window now opened not to the gardens — but to a black abyss.