Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition-Chapter 907 Story The Manor of the Forgotten
907: Story 907: The Manor of the Forgotten
907: Story 907: The Manor of the Forgotten
The road leading to the decayed manor twisted unnaturally, as if reality itself resisted their approach.
Draven and Mira stood before the iron gates, rusted and curled like skeletal fingers reaching toward them.
A full moon loomed overhead, casting an eerie glow on the gothic structure.
“This place shouldn’t exist,” Mira muttered, gripping her satchel.
The book they had taken from the Ghoul Trainmaster had whispered a single phrase before going silent: “Seek the Forgotten, lest you be Forsaken.”
Draven pushed the gate, and with a groan, it creaked open.
The moment they stepped inside, the air thickened—heavy with decay, sorrow, and something darker.
The mansion’s windows flickered with candlelight, despite its obvious abandonment.
They stepped onto the grand porch.
Draven ran a hand over the door’s intricate carvings—scenes of suffering, undead figures clawing at a shadowed figure that resembled the Hollow Man.
His jaw tightened.
“We go in, grab what we need, and get out,” he said.
Mira nodded.
But as Draven pushed open the door, the mansion breathed.
The candlelit foyer stretched impossibly long, lined with decayed portraits of nameless souls.
A massive chandelier swung slightly, as if disturbed by unseen movement.
The door slammed shut behind them.
“Welcome home,” a voice whispered through the halls.
Mira shivered.
“We are not staying.”
They moved cautiously, their footsteps muffled by a blood-red carpet.
Shadows twitched in the corners of their vision.
The deeper they went, the more the walls seemed to watch them—portraits shifting, eyes following their every move.
At the end of the hallway, a grand library awaited.
Books stacked high, many rotting, others pulsating as if breathing.
On the central desk, an open journal lay untouched, its ink fresh.
Mira leaned over it.
“It’s… a record.
Of everyone who has entered this place.”
She ran a finger down the last written name.
Draven Cross.
Mira Caldwell.
Her breath hitched.
“Draven… this recorded us before we even got here.”
Draven stiffened, shotgun raised.
The temperature dropped.
A whisper slithered through the air.
“A soul for a soul.”
The chandelier groaned as something descended from above—a figure wrapped in shadows, its elongated fingers stretching toward them.
Its face was half-rotted, flickering between different visages—an old man, a child, a woman’s tormented eyes—before settling into something unrecognizable.
Draven fired.
The blast ripped through empty air.
The creature lunged.
Mira grabbed the book, flipping pages wildly.
One passage glowed red:
“To break the curse, offer the name of one who should not be.”
The shadows closed in.
The air vibrated with unseen horrors.
Draven locked eyes with Mira.
She made her choice.
She spoke a name.
The manor screamed.
The walls cracked, reality fractured.
And the shadows remembered.
