The moment she stepped into the old cottage, Eleanor felt a chill run down her spine. She wasn’t sure if it was the draft from the broken windows or something more sinister. The once white walls now bore a layer of grime and were shrouded in shadows that seemed reluctant to relinquish their hold. It was said that the cottage belonged to her ancestors — a line of women, revered but feared in her small village of Thorncroft. Though Eleanor had come for the sake of history, an unease crept around her as if fingers of darkness were tracing her back, urging her to leave.
Eleanor unslung her backpack and set to work, rummaging through her carefully packed provisions: a notebook, three pens, and a small camera. She had to document the remnants of her family’s past, even if the past seemed filled with irony and whispers of witchcraft. Growing up, she had listened to the villagers speak of the “Shadows of the Ancestors”, a myth turned into cautionary tales spun around fires: the women who called upon forces beyond comprehension, their shadows lingering long after they had departed.
She turned on her camera, its small lens capturing the dim light filtering through the dusty windowpanes. She moved through the cottage slowly, every creak of the floorboards echoing in the silence. In the corner, she spotted an ancient oak chest, its wood darkened with age. The latch was rusted but gave way under her persistent fingers. Inside lay a collection of pots and herbs, dried and brittle. Eleanor leaned closer, the musty odour filling her nostrils, carrying with it a hint of something else—wild rosemary, or perhaps sage, mixed with a bitter scent of something unidentifiable. The cottage seemed to breathe around her, holding its secrets close.
As she continued her search, Eleanor’s fingers grazed over various objects: tarnished spoons, faded photographs, and, most importantly, a leather-bound grimoire. Its spine cracked as she opened it, revealing pages inscribed with elegant symbols and incantations. Eleanor could hardly contain her excitement. This was her heritage, a piece of the past that linked her to the women who had come before her. Yet she hesitated, the weight of the tome heavy in her hands. What had these spells meant for them? Had they invited darkness into their lives?
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the floor, Eleanor decided to light the candles she had brought. She placed them strategically around the room, illuminating the corners that had been cloaked in darkness, if only for a moment. The flames flickered and danced, creating an otherworldly glow that made the shadows pulse with life.
She had intended to spend the night analysing the contents of her family’s past, but a sudden wind swept through the open window, extinguishing her candles and plunging her back into darkness. A shiver ran down her spine as the air thickened, and she felt something brush against her shoulder. Whirling around, Eleanor found herself alone — or so she thought.
In the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure, just a smudge against the far wall. The flickering of the candles had bewitched her imagination, or so she told herself. But the figure lingered, an outline that didn’t belong to her own. Curiosity overcame fear, and she approached, heart pounding fiercely against her chest. The moment she stepped into its space, an oppressive weight fell upon her, as if the very atmosphere shifted.
“Who’s there?” she called, her voice trembling slightly. The figure ebbed and flowed like smoke. It seemed to pulse in rhythm with Eleanor’s heartbeat — alive, yet absent. For a moment, she thought she heard a whisper, faint and distant, as though someone was trying to reach her from eternity.
But humouring herself for long wasn’t an option. She needed to get a grip. Perhaps it was just her tired mind playing tricks on her, or the drafts conjuring visions in shadow. Stepping back, she decided to return to her research, intent on dismissing whatever apparition lingered in that corner.
Hours passed in quiet unrest, the shadows once again lying thick over the earth outside. The pitter-patter of rain on the roof soon became a rhythmic lullaby, even as she scrawled down spells and truths that called to her from the grimoire. Still, her attention was pulled back to the shadow, which now seemed to swirl, as if gathering form. Dismissing it would no longer suffice.
“What do you want?” she questioned the darkness. Surprisingly, the words fell from her lips, not as a challenge but rather an invitation. The temperature dropped further. The air turned heavy with anticipation, and Eleanor felt a pull, an urge to delve deeper into the mysterious bond she had unknowingly initiated.
The shadow formed clearer, now appearing as a woman clad in flowing robes that shimmered like obsidian in the dim light. Eleanor stumbled back, gripping the table for support. Her heart raced, but rather than fear, curiosity ignited within her. “I’m Eleanor,” she said softly, attempting to communicate with the spirit. “Are you… are you one of my ancestors?”
“Eleanor,” the figure echoed, voice like a whisper through gritty silence. “You seek the truth, but truths carry burdens. The Shroud of Shadows demands a price.”
“Price?” Eleanor questioned, her voice stronger now, yet wary. “What price?”
“The weight of your bloodline,” the shadow replied, elongating like the shadows of twilight. Her visage wavered in and out of clarity, the soft glow of the newly lit candles flickering in tandem with her form. “Your women danced with power but walked on earth weighed with choices. To reclaim their wisdom, you must honour their pact.”
“I don’t understand,” Eleanor breathed, edging closer, feeling the warmth of the fire piercing through the chill. “What pact? I’m not like them. I only want to learn.”
“Knowledge comes at a cost. Are you willing?” The question hung in the air like a gathering storm, and Eleanor felt the electric tension of fate coil around her.
“I’ll do what it takes,” Eleanor declared, her ancestral pride igniting within her. She would not turn away from her lineage. She would confront whatever darkness lingered in her blood.
“In the shadows, a calling awaits. Face it, claim your right, and the truth shall unfold. Fail to do so, and the shadows will inherit you.” The figure began to dissolve, as if drawn back by an unseen tether. “The book is your guide. Remember, Eleanor, the past is not merely forgotten; it is alive.”
With that, the apparition vanished, leaving Eleanor alone in the cottage, heart racing and mind racing faster. She felt the tremors of a looming confrontation, a collision between light and shadow, calling her forth into the untold depths of her familial legacy. Outside, the storm gathered strength as her resolve deepened, drawing her closer to the heart of an ancient power long dormant. Shadows of the Ancestors had spoken, and now it was her turn to answer.
