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When Naomi Sinclair moves to Blackwood Hollow, she expects a quiet town and a fresh start. Instead, she finds a house filled with secrets, a curse that won't let go, and a boy who seems to know more about her past than she does. Elliot Blackwood is a mystery-dark, distant, and impossible to ignore. From the moment Naomi meets him, she feels an unexplainable pull, as if they've met before. But when eerie whispers start calling her name, doors unlock on their own, and the shadows in the manor begin to move, she realizes she's caught in something far more dangerous than just a ghost story. Naomi is marked, bound to a history that refuses to stay buried. With each passing day, she slips further into visions of another life-one where she wasn't Naomi, and Elliot wasn't just a stranger. The past is clawing its way into the present, and if she doesn't uncover the truth behind the Hollow's curse, she might not survive long enough to escape it. But some love stories were never meant to have a happy ending. And some souls were never meant to be free.
Chapter 1 The town that time forgot
Whispers of the Hollow
Chapter 1: The Town That Time Forgot
The road to Blackwood Hollow twisted like a serpent through a dense forest of towering oaks, their skeletal branches clawing at the overcast sky. Naomi sat in the back seat of her mother's car, watching the trees blur past, each mile taking her farther from the life she had known.
She hated moving. Again.
"This is a fresh start," her mother, Evelyn Mercer, had said when she accepted a restoration project at Blackwood Manor, the decaying Victorian estate that loomed over the town like a silent god. "A new place, new people, new beginnings."
Naomi had stopped believing in new beginnings a long time ago.
The first sign of Blackwood Hollow appeared on the roadside: a rusted iron plaque, half-buried in ivy, its letters barely legible.
WELCOME TO BLACKWOOD HOLLOW
"A town of history, a town of legacy."
Beneath it, someone had spray-painted in dripping black letters:
"AND A TOWN OF SECRETS."
A chill crept down Naomi's spine. She tore her gaze away from the sign, but the unease settled deep in her bones.
The town was small-too small. Narrow streets wound between centuries-old buildings, their rooftops heavy with moss and age. Gas lamps lined the sidewalks, their flickering glow giving the streets an eerie, dreamlike quality, even in daylight.
People moved slowly, their eyes shadowed and watchful. They whispered to one another as Naomi's car passed.
She locked eyes with an old woman standing by a fruit stall. Her skin was paper-thin, stretched over sharp cheekbones, but her eyes were the strangest shade of silver-like moonlight reflected in water.
The woman's lips moved, though Naomi couldn't hear the words. But she knew what they were.
"You shouldn't have come."
The estate was worse than Naomi imagined.
It stood atop a lonely hill, its blackened iron gates hanging open like a mouth waiting to swallow her whole. The mansion's windows were dark, empty, yet Naomi felt something watching her from within.
"Isn't it incredible?" her mother breathed as she stepped out of the car, taking in the towering spires and intricate Gothic details. "This place has history, Naomi. Real history."
That was what her mother loved most-bringing old places back to life.
But some places weren't meant to be revived.
Naomi ran a hand over the stone pillars at the gate, shivering at how cold they felt. Colder than winter.
Then, she saw it.
Etched into the stone, nearly worn away by time, was a name.
Eleanor Blackwood.
And beneath it, in smaller script, a warning:
"Gone, but not forgotten. Forever waiting."
Naomi's heart pounded.
Who was Eleanor Blackwood?
And why did it feel like she was waiting for her.
The inside of Blackwood Manor was no better.
The floors creaked with every step, the wallpaper peeled like ancient skin, and the chandeliers overhead swayed as though moved by an unseen hand.
Her mother had insisted they stay in the east wing, the only part of the house still livable. The west wing-the oldest part of the mansion-was sealed off, too dangerous to enter.
That night, Naomi lay awake, staring at the intricate carvings on the ceiling. The wind outside howled through the trees, but it wasn't the wind that kept her awake.
It was the whisper.
A soft, aching voice, just at the edge of hearing.
"Naomi."
She sat up so fast her vision blurred. The room was empty. The door was locked. The windows were shut tight.
Still, the whisper came again.
"Naomi, you have to leave... before it's too late."
And then-the sound of footsteps.
Not from the hallway.
From inside the walls.
Naomi's breath caught in her throat as she pressed her ear against the wooden panel beside her bed.
The footsteps stopped.
And then a soft knock.
From the other side.
Naomi's blood ran cold.
Because the west wing was supposed to be empty.
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