Ivan adjusted the strap of his satchel as the last rays of the sun dipped below the horizon, casting an eerie glow over the dense woods. He glanced back at Natalya, who trailed close behind, her flashlight slicing through the growing darkness.
“This place feels… alive,” Natalya whispered, her voice carrying a nervous tremor.
“It’s just an old manor, nothing more,” Ivan replied, though even he didn’t believe his words. The tales about the abandoned Novgorod Manor were too vivid to dismiss—a house where the whispers of the past refused to stay buried.
They reached the wrought-iron gate, its rusted bars overgrown with vines. Beyond it, the manor loomed like a dark sentinel. Its windows, broken and gaping, seemed to watch them as they pushed through the gate.
“Ivan,” Natalya began, “why are we even here?”
“Curiosity,” Ivan said with a smirk. “And maybe a little boredom. Aren’t you curious why the villagers won’t come near this place?”
“I’m curious why we’re risking our necks to find out,” she muttered, but followed him to the front door nonetheless.
The heavy oak door groaned in protest as Ivan forced it open. Inside, the air was thick and stagnant, carrying the scent of mildew and decay. The once-grand foyer was littered with debris: shattered furniture, tattered drapes, and cracked tiles.
Natalya shivered. “This place hasn’t seen life in decades.”
“Or has it?” Ivan teased, winking at her as he stepped deeper into the house.
They explored room after room, their flashlights revealing faded murals and broken chandeliers. The stillness of the place was oppressive, as if the walls were holding their breath.
It wasn’t until they reached the grand hall that the atmosphere changed. Natalya stopped in her tracks, gripping Ivan’s arm.
“Do you hear that?” she whispered.
A faint murmur, like the rustle of distant voices, drifted through the air. Ivan nodded, his bravado faltering. The sound wasn’t coming from one direction; it seemed to echo from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“Maybe it’s the wind,” Ivan offered weakly.
“There’s no wind, Ivan.”
Suddenly, the voices grew louder, distinct. A woman’s voice called out, soft yet chilling.
“Ivan… Natalya…”
Natalya gasped, her flashlight trembling. “How does it know our names?”
Ivan’s heart pounded as he shone his light around the room. It landed on a massive portrait hanging above the fireplace—a man and woman in regal attire, their painted eyes cold and lifeless. Beneath the portrait, carved into the stone mantel, were the names: Ivan Sergeyevich and Natalya Ivanovna.
“That’s not funny,” Natalya said, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I didn’t do anything!” Ivan hissed, his pulse racing.
The whispers swirled around them now, louder, insistent. Shadows began to coalesce in the corners of the room, taking on faint, human-like shapes.
“Leave this place,” one voice rasped.
“Or stay,” another hissed, “and join us.”
Ivan grabbed Natalya’s hand. “We’re leaving. Now.”
They turned to run, but the door slammed shut with a deafening bang. The shadows advanced, their forms growing more defined—faces twisted in agony, hollow eyes fixed on the intruders.
“Who are you?” Ivan demanded, his voice cracking.
“We are the forgotten,” a woman’s voice replied. The shadows stilled, and from them emerged a translucent figure. It was the woman from the portrait, her ethereal form shimmering like smoke.
“This house remembers all who enter,” she said, her tone sorrowful. “And it never lets them go.”
Natalya screamed as hands—cold and invisible—grasped at her arms and legs. Ivan lunged to pull her free, but the shadows dragged her back.
“Ivan, help me!” she cried, her voice echoing in the cavernous room.
Desperation surged through him. He looked around wildly, his gaze landing on the fireplace. On the mantel was a silver key, glinting in the faint light. He grabbed it and shoved it into the lock of the nearest door.
With a click, the door swung open, and a blinding light spilled into the room. The shadows recoiled, their forms dissolving into the walls. Ivan pulled Natalya through the door, slamming it behind them.
They found themselves outside, gasping for air, the manor silent behind them. The whispers had ceased, but the oppressive weight of the place lingered in their chests.
Natalya looked back at the house. “We were lucky to escape.”
Ivan nodded, his hand still gripping the silver key. As they walked away, the faint sound of whispers followed them, carried on the wind like a haunting reminder: no one truly leaves the Novgorod Manor.
