The storm raged outside, fierce and unyielding, but within the confines of the old mansion, a different tempest brewed—one of sorrow and longing.
I glided through the majestic halls, my transparent fingers grazing the dusty furniture, each touch igniting a memory. I was the ghost of Eliza Monroe, bound by a curse that had shackled my family for generations. Forbidden love had given birth to the infernal curse.
With my heart racing and the rain drumming on the roof, I whispered to James on the night we eloped.
“Do you think they’ll ever find us?”
“We’ll make it, Eliza. Just you and me, far away from here,” he had said, his dark eyes glistening with hope.
The car was a rickety thing, but it was our vessel to freedom. We’d driven for mere minutes, the lightning illuminating our path, but fate had other plans.
The sudden thud of a flat tire shattered our dreams.
“Damn it!” I said, the words echoing in the storm's stillness. “What are we going to do now?”
“Stay calm,” he said, …