"Family Curse"

 

DEATH IN THE DARK

The storm broke loose just as the clock struck eleven.

In the vast country estate of the Ashbridge family, a scream pierced the thunder. It echoed through stone walls and silent hallways, waking the few who still remained asleep. By the time they reached the library, the fire had almost gone out — and Lord Percival Ashbridge was lying face-down on the carpet, dead.

No blood. No visible wound. Just… gone.

Eli stood outside the house in his raincoat, eyes wide as Zane Faulkner examined the iron gate with interest.

“You sure we have the right place?” Eli asked, squinting at the mansion through thick fog.

Zane smiled faintly, hands in pockets. “Oh yes. Rich family, long legacy, and now — sudden unexplained deaths. It's like Christmas.”

Eli shivered. “Yeah… if Santa brought corpses.”

THE SETTING: THE ASHBRIDGE ESTATE

The mansion looked like it belonged in another century. Ivy crawled up its walls like a living memory. Giant windows stared blankly outward, and statues of forgotten ancestors guarded the grounds like stone sentinels.

Inside, the surviving Ashbridges were gathered in the drawing room, wrapped in cold silence. There were five of them:

Lady Eleanor, the strict, aging matriarch.

Dr. Henry, her rationalist son.

Beatrice, Henry’s fragile wife with trembling hands.

Naomi, the moody teenage granddaughter.

And Vincent, the quiet artist nephew who barely spoke.

Zane surveyed them like a chessboard. “You’ve all suffered losses recently.”

Lady Eleanor nodded stiffly. “Three in the last month. My brother Arthur fell from the balcony. My sister-in-law collapsed during tea. And now… my husband. All without warning. All in this house.”

Dr. Henry interjected, “Natural causes, perhaps—”

Zane raised a brow. “Three natural deaths in thirty days, all healthy people? That would make headlines in any medical journal.”

Naomi scoffed. “It’s the curse.”

Everyone looked at her.

She folded her arms. “Every generation, the Ashbridges lose their heirs. My mom died in this house too, remember?”

Lady Eleanor's jaw tightened. “We do not indulge ghost stories.”

Zane tilted his head. “Sometimes the truth is polite enough to wear a mask.”

THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS

Zane and Eli were given rooms in the east wing. That night, the rain poured endlessly. Zane wandered the mansion alone, flashlight in hand, inspecting bookshelves, portraits, and locked cabinets.

He paused at a dusty painting of a young man — same sharp jawline as Vincent. The nameplate read “Theodore Ashbridge, 1892 – 1913.”

“Another heir lost too young,” Zane muttered.

A creak behind him.

He turned. Nothing.

Just wind whispering through the cracked windows.

By morning, there was another death.

Beatrice was found sitting upright in bed, eyes open — but lifeless. No sign of struggle. No poison. Just a cup of tea on her bedside table… untouched.

Eli looked pale. “Zane, this is getting ridiculous.”

Zane crouched beside the bed. “Ridiculous is easy. Try impossible.”

STRANGE CLUES, NO ANSWERS

Over the next 48 hours, Zane moved like a shadow through the estate. He found:

A secret door behind the library shelf, leading to a crumbling passage.

Burned letters in the fireplace — only one word legible: “inheritance.”

A family tree with several names scratched out violently.

Naomi talking to herself in the garden, whispering, “I hear them. They’re waiting.”

And yet… nothing connected.

No motives. No murder weapons. No suspects caught red-handed.

Only mystery layered upon mystery.

Every night, another death.

Vincent was found slumped over his easel, paintbrush still wet in hand. A perfect stroke on the canvas… stopped mid-line.

Zane stood quietly over the body.

Eli whispered, “He was just painting. That’s all.”

Zane’s eyes glinted. “Yes. And now the line will never finish.”

THE ARRIVAL OF LYRA

That evening, a black car pulled into the estate.

Out stepped Lyra Stone, trench coat over shoulder, dark hair shimmering with raindrops. She looked around with narrowed eyes, then spotted Zane leaning against a column, sipping coffee like he was waiting for a train.

“Took your sweet time,” he said.

“You didn’t say people were dropping dead one by one.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Lyra rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re late.”

“You’re unbearable.”

Their eyes met. Her expression hardened — but just behind it was a flicker of something softer.

Zane looked away first.

Eli groaned. “Great. Now we’re all going to die, but with more attitude.”

TRAPPED WITHIN WALLS

The storm refused to stop. Roads were flooded. No one could leave.

Lyra took over cataloging the family records while Eli helped Zane explore the hidden rooms. They found:

A sealed diary belonging to Eleanor’s late daughter. Pages torn out. Final entry: “He’s coming for me next.”

Medical reports showing perfect health for every victim.

A crumpled will that had been revised three times — each time removing one name.

Zane started writing names on the mirror with chalk. A list of victims.

Arthur. Elizabeth. Percival. Beatrice. Vincent.

And then he wrote a line below:

"What do they all have in common?"

He stared at it for hours.

No one answered.

LYRA'S THEORY

Late at night, Lyra knocked on Zane’s door.

“I think it’s psychological,” she said. “Someone here believes in the curse and is acting subconsciously — maybe poisoning them without even knowing.”

Zane sipped his tea. “Possible.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“I rarely am. Conviction is a trap.”

She watched him carefully. “Do you ever stop pretending you don’t care?”

Zane smiled faintly. “No. That’s the best part.”

She turned to leave, annoyed — but smiling.

Behind the door, Eli was eavesdropping.

“Ugh. Just kiss already,” he whispered.

THE FINAL DEATH

The next morning, Naomi was gone.

They found her in the chapel — surrounded by lit candles, lying peacefully on the altar. In her hand: a faded photograph.

Zane took it gently. It showed all the Ashbridges — young, laughing — and a child in the middle whose face was scratched out violently.

Eli choked. “That’s… that’s all of them.”

Zane nodded.

“Only two left now,” he said softly. “Lady Eleanor… and Dr. Henry.”

Lyra whispered, “Zane… do you know what’s happening?”

Zane’s eyes narrowed. “Not yet. But I know who does.”

THE GATHERING BEFORE THE STORM

The dining room smelled of dust, wood polish, and fear.

Lady Eleanor sat rigidly at the head of the long table, her face pale but proud. Beside her, Dr. Henry stirred his tea in silence, eyes heavy with something unspoken. The mansion felt like a coffin now — only two living Ashbridges remained.

And Zane Faulkner had called them all here.

Lyra stood near the fireplace, flipping through notes. Eli hovered by the window, chewing a biscuit nervously.

Zane walked in slowly, a file in one hand and a candle in the other. He placed both at the center of the table.

“I believe we’ve reached the final act,” he said softly. “No more deaths. No more secrets. Time to end the curse.”

Dr. Henry raised an eyebrow. “You speak as though you’ve solved it.”

Zane smiled faintly. “I speak as though I know the truth.”

THE ASHBRIDGE BLOODLINE

Zane unrolled a worn family tree across the table. Names sprawled across generations — most now crossed out.

“Let’s begin with what you all claimed,” he said. “That a curse haunts this family. A dark force killing off the heirs.”

He pointed at Arthur, Elizabeth, Percival, Beatrice, Vincent… and now Naomi.

“All dead. No signs of trauma. No poison. No struggle. And every time — a peaceful expression on their face.”

Lady Eleanor whispered, “As if they were… called.”

Zane nodded. “Yes. But not by ghosts. By guilt.”

He held up a small bottle.

“Traces of a rare compound were found in Beatrice’s tea and Vincent’s paintwater. It doesn’t kill directly. It causes hallucinations, disorientation, and — most importantly — overwhelming suggestibility.”

Eli blinked. “Wait… like hypnosis?”

Zane nodded. “Worse. In the right dosage, the victim can be convinced of anything. Even death.”

THE HIDDEN TRUTHS

Lyra stepped forward and placed the burnt letter fragments on the table.

“Zane found these in the fireplace. They speak of an inheritance dispute. Several names were removed from the will just days before their deaths.”

Dr. Henry’s jaw tightened.

Zane’s voice grew colder. “Someone rewrote the Ashbridge legacy — and then ensured no one could contest it.”

He held up the faded photograph Naomi had died with.

“This picture… shows the Ashbridge family during happier days. But this child in the middle — the one whose face is scratched out…”

He turned it slowly.

“…was the original heir.”

Lady Eleanor’s breath caught. “No…”

Zane’s eyes were like knives. “That child was disinherited. Forgotten. And that, my dear lady… was the beginning of the curse.”

THE MISSING CHILD

Zane walked slowly around the table.

“Theodore Ashbridge. Died in 1913, aged 21. Or so the record says. But I found a diary entry from Eleanor’s daughter — the one torn to pieces. She wrote of a ‘shadow in the attic,’ a boy with eyes full of rage. A hidden heir.”

Lyra added, “The same boy appears in family portraits. Always standing just behind the others. Never named.”

Zane stopped behind Eleanor. “You kept him secret, didn’t you? Because he wasn’t born of a marriage. A child of shame.”

Lady Eleanor said nothing.

Zane’s voice lowered. “But he didn’t die. He grew up in these walls. Hiding. Watching. Until the pain turned into something else.”

THE GHOST THAT WAS REAL

“You all blamed a curse,” Zane said, walking back to the table. “But it wasn’t a ghost. It was a man. A forgotten Ashbridge, raised in silence, determined to erase those who erased him.”

Dr. Henry’s face turned pale.

“He lived in the passages behind the walls,” Zane continued. “I found fingerprints on the candleholders. Scraps of food. Even sketches of every family member — with Xs across their faces.”

Lyra whispered, “He watched them. Waited. And when the will changed, he acted.”

Zane nodded. “He slipped them the compound. A drop in tea. A smear in paint. A whiff in the candle smoke.”

Eli shuddered. “That’s why they all looked so calm. They didn’t even know they were dying.”

THE FINAL REVEAL

Zane stepped back and looked at both Lady Eleanor and Dr. Henry.

“But here’s where it gets worse.”

He tossed the revised will on the table.

“This version… benefits only one living person.”

Dr. Henry stood up. “Now wait just a minute—”

“Sit down,” Zane said calmly, his eyes burning.

Henry sat.

“You weren’t innocent,” Zane continued. “You knew someone was in the walls. Naomi told you. But you didn’t stop him.”

Lyra frowned. “Why?”

Zane turned to her. “Because Henry needed the deaths to go through. He knew about the compound. He even helped gather it.”

Eli gasped. “So Henry’s the killer?”

Zane shook his head.

“No. Henry is greedy. Manipulative. But he never touched anyone.”

He walked slowly to the candle on the table.

“The real killer… is the one who lit these.”

He turned to the door.

“Isn’t that right… Thomas?”

A man stepped out of the shadows.

Old. Thin. With sunken eyes and pale skin. Dressed like a servant. But the moment he entered, Lady Eleanor’s face crumbled.

“No,” she whispered. “It can’t be…”

Zane whispered, “It is.”

THE MAN WHO NEVER LEFT

“Thomas Ashbridge,” Zane said. “The disinherited son. Hidden. Forgotten. But never gone. You lived in the mansion’s bones for decades. Servants thought you were a ghost. Family thought you were dead.”

Thomas said nothing. His hands trembled.

Zane continued, “You weren’t trying to curse them. You were trying to erase them. Every one of them.”

Thomas’s voice was soft. “They left me behind.”

Zane nodded. “And so you made sure… no one was left.”

Lady Eleanor sobbed. “I was trying to protect the family.”

“You destroyed it,” Zane said coldly.

THE END OF THE CURSE

Police arrived shortly after.

Thomas was taken away without resistance. Dr. Henry was arrested for conspiracy and fraud. The Ashbridge estate was sealed for investigation.

Zane stood at the top of the staircase, staring down at the empty hallway where the portraits still hung.

Lyra joined him. “You were right.”

He gave a small shrug. “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t.”

She looked at him for a moment. “You know, for someone who pretends not to care, you’re awfully good at saving lives.”

Zane smiled faintly. “Don’t ruin my reputation.”

She nudged him. “Maybe one day you’ll tell me what you actually feel.”

He looked at her. “And ruin your mystery?”

She rolled her eyes and walked away.

He watched her go, a flicker of warmth in his gaze.

THE FINAL QUESTION

Back in the car, as they drove away from the fog-shrouded mansion, Eli finally broke the silence.

“Zane?”

“Yes?”

“There’s something I still don’t get.”

Zane didn’t look at him. “That’s dangerous.”

“No really. If Thomas wanted the inheritance… why kill everyone and leave no one to claim it?”

Zane smiled slowly.

“That’s the wrong question.”

Eli frowned. “Then what’s the right one?”

Zane finally looked at him, eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

“The right question,” he said, “is who wrote the final version of the will… after Thomas died fifteen years ago.”

Eli’s mouth opened. “Wait. What?”

Zane didn’t answer.

Just leaned back in his seat, hands behind his head.

Lyra turned to look at him.

“Zane,” she whispered. “You don’t mean—”

But he was already smiling.

That soft, mysterious, maddening smile.

The kind that meant he knew something no one else did.

And the car rolled into the fog, leaving the cursed house behind.

THE END