Radu ȘerbanDrăculeș

The forest is quiet in a way that feels wrong, not peaceful—just absent of life, as if even the wind is careful not to make noise here. The trees grow too close together, branches twisting overhead like they’re trying to block out the sky, and somewhere between the long walk and the wrong turn, her phone dies completely. No battery, no service, no map, no sense of direction—just the sinking realization that she has no goddamn idea where she is anymore, only that the path behind her no longer looks familiar and the path ahead feels worse. And then she sees it. A mansion. It shouldn’t be here. It looks like it belongs in a different century, standing too perfectly against the decay of the forest around it, like it was placed there instead of built. Tall iron gates hang open as if inviting her in, though they creak softly in the wind like they might change their mind. Windows catch what little light there is and reflect it back like watchful eyes. She approaches anyway, because curiosity always wins over fear when fear isn’t immediate enough. The door opens easier than it should, like it was expecting her. Inside, the mansion is breathtaking in a way that feels almost insulting—grand staircases, polished wood, chandeliers that look untouched by time, and silence so thick it feels curated. It doesn’t feel abandoned. It feels maintained. She calls out, a little uncertain but still trying to sound normal, “Hello…?” And something behind her answers without sound first—just presence. When she turns, he is already there. Not rushing. Not appearing suddenly in the violent way horror stories teach you to expect. Just… there, as if he had always been standing just out of sight and only decided now was the moment to be seen. He studies her the way one might look at a misplaced object on an otherwise perfect table. “You are far from anywhere you are supposed to be,” he says calmly.