The Lord of Blackthorn Manor

The letter arrived without a return address.

Heavy cream paper.

Black wax seal.

My full name written in ink.

Inside was a short invitation from a man calling himself Adrian Vale.

He claimed to own an old estate in the Carpathian foothills and said he had recently purchased several paintings believed to have belonged to my great-grandfather.

I am an art restorer.

That explained how he might have found me.

At least, that is what I told myself.

Two weeks later, I was travelling through a mountain road so narrow that the driver refused to continue after sunset.

He left me beside an iron gate.

Beyond it stood Blackthorn Manor.

The house was enormous.

Not beautiful.

Beautiful houses invite you inside.

This one seemed to be waiting.

A tall man opened the door before I knocked.

“Mr. Sen,” he said.

Adrian Vale.

He looked perhaps forty.

Pale skin.

Black hair.

Perfectly still eyes.

He smiled.

“You have your grandfather’s face.”

“My great-grandfather.”

His smile widened.

“Yes. Of course.”

That should have bothered me more.

Dinner was served at nine.

There were two plates.

Only mine contained food.

Vale poured wine for himself but never drank it.

“You’re not eating?”

“I already have.”

There was something strange about the dining room.

Candles burned everywhere, yet there were no mirrors.

Not one.

The spaces where mirrors should have been contained paintings instead.

Portraits.

Dozens of them.

Men.

Women.

Children.

All from different periods.

Then I saw one that made me stop eating.

The man in the painting looked exactly like Adrian Vale.

Same face.

Same eyes.

Same small scar beside the mouth.

The plaque beneath it read:

ADRIAN VALE, 1874.

I laughed nervously.

“Ancestor?”

Vale looked at the portrait.

“Something like that.”

That night, I slept badly.

At around two, I woke to music.

A piano.

Slow notes coming from downstairs.

I followed the sound.

The house was dark except for moonlight.

Vale sat at the piano.

He was playing with his back towards me.

Then I noticed someone standing beside him.

A woman.

White dress.

Long black hair.

Vale stopped playing.

Without turning, he said:

“You should be asleep.”

The woman looked at me.

Her mouth was covered in blood.

I stumbled backward.

Vale turned.

The woman was gone.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

“Good.”

He smiled.

“Then we understand each other.”

The next morning, I tried to leave.

The gate was locked.

My phone had no signal.

The driver I had arranged never arrived.

Vale seemed unsurprised.

“The roads are difficult here.”

“I’ll walk.”

“In which direction?”

I looked outside.

Fog covered everything beyond the gate.

“You came to see the paintings,” he said calmly.

“You should at least do that first.”

He led me to a locked gallery on the second floor.

Inside were portraits wrapped in cloth.

The first belonged to my great-grandfather.

The second belonged to my great-great-grandmother.

The third made my hands shake.

It showed me.

Not someone resembling me.

Me.

Same face.

Same birthmark beneath my left eye.

Same crooked finger from a childhood fracture.

The clothing belonged to another century.

The date was 1891.

I stepped away.

“What is this?”

Vale stood near the door.

“You always ask that.”

“What?”

“The first time, you screamed.”

I stared at him.

“The second time, you tried to burn the house.”

He moved closer.

“The third time, you almost succeeded.”

I ran.

He didn't follow.

I reached the ground floor and found the front door open.

Outside, the fog had cleared.

I crossed the courtyard.

Then stopped.

There were graves beside the house.

Rows of them.

I found my family name immediately.

SEN.

One stone read:

ARJUN SEN 1868–1891

Another:

ARJUN SEN 1902–1925

Another:

ARJUN SEN 1941–1964

My name.

Again.

And again.

Every twenty or thirty years.

Behind me, Vale said:

“You never live very long.”

I turned.

“What are you?”

For the first time, his expression changed.

Sadness.

“I am the reason you keep returning.”

I ran towards the woods.

He did not chase me.

That frightened me more.

For almost an hour, I walked downhill.

Then the trees opened.

Blackthorn Manor stood in front of me.

I had gone in a circle.

I tried again.

Same result.

No matter which direction I walked, the house waited at the end.

Night arrived.

I returned because I had nowhere else to go.

Vale was sitting beside the fireplace.

“There is one thing I don't understand,” I said.

He looked up.

“Why me?”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then he opened an old leather book.

Inside was a handwritten diary.

The first page carried my family name.

“Your ancestor came here in 1847,” Vale said.

“He was dying.”

“From what?”

“Fear.”

I said nothing.

“He begged me to save him.”

Vale closed the book.

“I did.”

My stomach turned.

“What did you do?”

“I gave him my blood.”

The room suddenly felt colder.

“He lived,” Vale continued. “Longer than he should have.”

“And then?”

“He discovered the price.”

“What price?”

Vale looked directly at me.

“Nothing given by the dead remains entirely with the living.”

He explained that my ancestor had escaped the manor.

He married.

Had children.

But something remained in the bloodline.

Every few generations, one child was born carrying what Vale called “the return.”

Same face.

Same memories buried deep inside.

Same attraction to the house.

Me.

I laughed because the alternative was believing him.

Then he said something only I knew.

“When you were seven, you fell into the river.”

I stopped.

“My father told nobody that.”

“You remembered the water.”

He leaned forward.

“But it was not the first time you drowned.”

That night, the memories came.

Not dreams.

Memories.

I remembered wearing clothes I had never owned.

I remembered horses outside the manor.

I remembered stabbing Vale through the chest.

I remembered being buried alive.

I remembered waking inside a coffin.

And I remembered feeding.

When morning came, I was sitting on the floor.

There was blood on my hands.

Vale was gone.

The front door was open.

Sunlight filled the hallway.

I walked outside.

For the first time, the gate was unlocked.

I reached the nearest village before noon.

A woman saw me and dropped the basket she was carrying.

She crossed herself.

I asked for help.

She stared at my face.

Then whispered:

“Vale.”

I told her she was mistaken.

My name was Arjun Sen.

She shook her head.

“No.”

She pointed towards the window of a nearby shop.

There was a mirror inside.

I walked towards it.

The woman screamed.

Because she could see me.

And I could see her.

But where my reflection should have been—

there was only an empty road.

That was three months ago.

I no longer sleep at night.

Food tastes like ash.

Sunlight burns my skin within minutes.

And yesterday, a letter arrived at my apartment.

Heavy cream paper.

Black wax seal.

One sentence inside.

“The manor requires a new master.”

There was no signature.

There didn't need to be.

Because when I looked at the wax seal, I recognized the symbol.

I had been wearing the same symbol around my neck for three days.

I have no memory of putting it there.

And tonight, for the first time, I am hungry.

Not for food.