Legend CXXXIX – The Secret of the Old Manor

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The people of Greynmoor said that the old manor on the hillside breathed even before the village itself had a name, and those who passed its windows at dusk sometimes thought they could hear a slow heart beating behind its walls, as if the house were not a building, but a sleeping beast with many memories beneath its skin of stone. No one knew for sure who it had once belonged to, but yellowed deeds mentioned the name of a family named Varell, who had supposedly vanished in a single winter, without carriages, without farewell letters, only doors that one morning stood open like mouths full of silence. Decades later, a young widow named Maren Lehnert moved in because the property was cheap and she believed a house couldn't be evil, but on her very first night she heard footsteps above her, even though the upper floor had been locked for years. In the parlor hung a large painting in a heavy gold frame, depicting a terrified woman and a dark figure with bony hands. The cracks in the varnish looked like real wounds from which the picture quietly breathed. Maren covered the painting with a cloth, but in the morning the fabric lay folded on the table, as if someone had carefully set it aside, and the woman's face seemed to be positioned slightly closer to the edge of the frame. The neighbors advised her to burn the painting, but the village antiquarian swore it was the work of an unknown master and bore a curse that would only grow stronger if it was destroyed. In the third week, Maren found a diary belonging to the old owner in the cellar. The writing had become increasingly hurried and told of a visitor who stepped out of the painting each night and asked for a new name. From then on, the widow herself began to write, first to muster courage, then to gather evidence, for she was certain that someone not made of flesh lived in the house. Once, in the lamplight, she saw the shadow move within the frame, even though there was no wind, and she thought she heard a dry scratching sound, like bone against canvas. The priest came, said prayers, and left the villa pale, without another word, and the village children claimed that a face, like mist with eyes, had grown out of the windows. Maren wanted to leave, but the sale kept failing, as if the house held her captive, and one evening she found her own name in the old diary, written in a script that wasn't hers. She began to talk to the painting, first angrily, then pleadingly, and vowed she would stay if only someone would tell her what needed to happen for the dead to find peace. That night, the lamp went out by itself, and a hand emerged from the painting like a cold branch, reaching for the woman in the painting and for Maren at the same time, as if searching for a bridge between two eras.