In the heart of the Old Town, where the cobblestone paths wound like ancient vines, lay the desolate Waverly Manor.
The house was shrouded in an aura of neglect, yet whispers of its grandeur dulled none of its oppressive gloom.
It was said to be haunted, a tale passed down from one wary tongue to another. But Lucy, an inquisitive thirteen-year-old, found allure in the mystery.
It was a pitch-black night when Lucy decided to explore the manor, cradling her grandmother's old flashlight—a clunky relic from a bygone era.
With her faithful black cat, Mister Whiskers, trailing behind, Lucy pushed open the creaking door.
A gust of musty air greeted her, smelling of damp wood and old paper.
"Mister Whiskers, you be my eyes," Lucy whispered to the feline silhouette blending into shadows.
Inside, every corner hummed with whispers, and the temperature dropped as if icy fingers traced Lucy’s skin.
She traversed the long corridor, where portraits hung askew, their occupants’ eyes following her every move.
“Mew,” Mister Whiskers meowed at a door slightly ajar—a room bathed in an unnatural flickering light.
A strange compulsion pushed Lucy forward. She peeked inside, her breath hitching at the inexplicable sight: a delicate ballet of ghostly figures swirled, their outlines like smoke in the wind.
Suddenly, one spirit turned its opalescent gaze towards Lucy, its sorrowful eyes fixing on Mister Whiskers.
The room chilled even further. Far from retreating, Mister Whiskers padded softly toward the specter.
Lucy hesitated, her every instinct screaming to flee, yet the spectral dance was hypnotic.
She reached out, and the flashlight blinked, casting erratic shadows that seemed to warp reality.
The figures paused, their movement arrested by Lucy's presence. Silence swept the air, so profound it felt deafening.
Информация по комментариям в разработке