Lornwick Hollow: A Haunted Victorian Mansion

The Botanist’s Glasswing Room

At the edge of the overgrown moor, the haunted Victorian mansion known as Lornwick Hollow waits beneath sinking dusk, its windows dim like tired eyes remembering too much. Dust drifts in slow spirals through the foyer as if stirred by unseen footsteps. Floorboards sigh under the weight of stories they refuse to release. The air smells of brittle paper, cold iron, and the faint sweetness of forgotten gardens. Even in silence, the house feels awake—listening, longing, mourning what time has taken. I stepped inside expecting mere ruin, but something in the shadowed hall suggested a memory still breathing, aching to be found.

Lornwick Hollow once sheltered Maribel Asterleigh, a reclusive botanist whose genius was matched only by her quiet sorrow. Her journals, scattered like fallen leaves across a warped desk, speak of hybrid roses that glowed faintly at dusk and fragile orchids that shivered when touched. A cracked teacup rests beside her last sketch—a translucent flower labeled Glasswing, never brought to bloom. The room holds its breath around her absence. Wilted roots cling to empty planters as if refusing to admit she is gone. I imagine her moving through this space in soft slippers, humming to her plants, nurturing them like fragile secrets. Every corner feels suspended in the moment she left it, as though the house itself cannot bear to disturb her unfinished dreams.

A Locked Corridor in the Haunted Victorian Mansion

I followed the velvet runner to that stubborn door, its iron latch stiff with age. Behind it, the air felt colder, weighted with a soft floral scent that did not belong to any living bloom. Maribel often wrote of a hidden project—one she feared, one the house seemed eager to conceal. The corridor hummed faintly, a near-musical vibration like distant wings. I sensed the walls remembering her footsteps, her hesitation, her hope. When I touched the door, a tremor passed through the floor, subtle but deliberate, as if warning me that some memories prefer to sleep undisturbed.

Remnants in the Atelier

Here, in Maribel’s private atelier, the house feels closest to speech. The pigments seem freshly stirred, though decades have passed. A whisper of movement brushes the back of my neck, gentle as a falling petal. I sense her unfinished masterpiece lingering in the dust, waiting for someone to understand the longing she left behind. As twilight deepens, Lornwick Hollow exhales softly, holding its stories like fragile blooms that refuse to wilt today.