In the dimly lit parlor of the abandoned manor, the rifle stood against the faded, floral wallpaper giving the vibe of tragedy. The wallpaper had peeled and yellowed with age, curling at the edges like an ancient map forgotten by time. The decorative panels were cracked and pale. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and dust, dominating the atmosphere of the whole house. As if the house itself refused to let go of its memories.

The blood, though dried long ago, had left a dark crimson stain on the wooden floorboards that seemed to seep into the wood. It was irregular in shape, as though it had poured quickly, spreading out before time froze it in place. The stain was a silent, evident witness to the violence that had unfolded in this room, a reminder of a moment that no one alive could recount but everyone in the village whispered about.

Nobody in the village dared to enter the estate anymore. The whispers that drifted through the restaurants and shops painted a picture of horror and mystery. Some claimed the blood had been spilled during a lovers' contention that erupted into deadly rage; others swore it was the spoils of a betrayal among thieves who had once used the manor as their hideout. But no one could deny the frightening truth: the rifle had been left exactly where it was found, standing upright as though placed deliberately, untouched by scavengers or the passage of time.

Clara, a young historian with an endless curiosity for forgotten places, was the first to step foot in the manor in years. She had grown up hearing the rumors, the chilling tales passed down from generation to generation, but she had always dismissed them as folklore exaggerated by time. Now, standing in the living room, her boots disturbing the thick layer of dust that blanketed the floor. The air seemed heavier here, pressing down on her chest as though the house itself disapproved of her presence. She approached the rifle cautiously, her eyes drawn to the dark stain beneath it.

She knelt beside it, her knees creaking against the worn-out floorboards. The silence in the room was broken only by the faint creak of the house settling around her. Her fingertips moving above the edge of the stain, reluctant to touch it but unable to pull away. She could feel the weight of history pressing against her skin, a deep feeling of sorrow that tremble.

Suddenly, a strong and sudden wind blustered through the room. The rifle, which had stood undisturbed for decades, fell onto the ground with a loud clatter that echoed through the empty house. Clara jumped, her hand covering her mouth to muffle a scream. Her wide eyes looking around the room, searching for an explanation, but there was nothing. No sign of movement, no source for the sudden breeze.

As her breathing slowed, the floor where the rifle had been grabbed her attention. And then she saw it. Engraved faintly into the wood beneath the weapon, almost unreadable because of the stain, was a name: "Eleanor". The letters were jagged, as though carved in haste, their edges darkened with age.

She had come heard about the name before in her research. A brief mention in a newspaper article about a woman who had disappeared from the village nearly fifty years ago. Eleanor had been described as beautiful and confident, a woman who had captivated everyone she met. But the article had concluded with a chilling note: she had disappeared without a trace, leaving behind nothing but unanswered questions.

The pieces began to connect. The rifle, the bloodstain, the name. Clara's fingers trembled as she reached out to touch it. But as her hand hovered over the carved name, an icy chill flew through her fingers, feeling like she had plunged her hand into freezing water. She pulled back instinctively, her heart beating in her chest rapidly. The air around her seemed to grow colder, the shadows in the room lengthening abnormally, creeping toward her like living things.

The rifle laid on its side, its presence oppressive and heavy, as though it carried the weight of a thousand untold stories. Clara could almost hear them whispering at the edges of her consciousness. She knew she had to leave. The house was no longer just a place. It was alive, watching her, waiting for something.

As she turned to go, the silence was broken by a faint whisper, barely audible but unmistakable: "Remember me."

Clara froze, her blood turning to ice. The voice was soft, feminine, and filled with a sorrow so profound it made her chest ache. She didn’t look back. She ran away, her footsteps echoing through the empty halls as she scrambled out of the manor and into the cold night air.

But the name “Eleanor” haunted her dreams for years. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the rifle, the stain, the jagged letters carved into the floor. And in the silence of the night, she would sometimes hear the faintest whisper, carried on the wind like a desperate plea from a soul long forgotten: “Remember me.”

Some mysteries, Clara realized, were better left unsolved. Yet the weight of Eleanor’s story stayed longer than usual, a shadow she could never quite escape.

After Clara escaped the manor, its shadowy presence hung heavy over the village, deeper than before. Her story, though she told only some parts of it, spread like wildfire among the townsfolk. Whispers of her encounter added to the already chilling beliefs about the house. Some believed Eleanor’s spirit had tried to reach out to Clara, hopeless to share her story. Others claimed that Clara’s visit had awakened something darker, something that had stayed dormant within the manor for decades.

The villagers avoided the place even more intensely, crossing the street if they found themselves too near the overgrown property line. Children dared each other to approach the rusted gates but never made it farther than the crumbling stone wall that encircled the estate. Even the bravest among them swore they could hear faint whispers or see flickering lights in the upstairs windows, though no one lived there.

Months turned into years, and the manor’s decay accelerated. The roof began to collapse, and roses crept further up the walls, killing what little life remained in the structure. But the rifle stayed exactly where it had fallen, untouched by time or the elements. No one dared to retrieve it, and no one dared to remove what was believed to be Eleanor’s final mark on the world. Her name carved into the floorboards.

One stormy evening, lightning struck the manor. The dry wood of its beams and walls ignited instantly, and the fire roared through the house, consuming it with unnatural ferocity. Villagers gathered at a distance, watching as flames licked the sky, illuminating the skeletal remains of the grand estate. Some swore they could hear a woman’s voice crying out in the crackle of the fire, but no one dared get close enough to confirm it.

By morning, nothing remained but a charred foundation. Among the ashes, villagers found something strange: the rifle, blackened but still intact, lying in the exact spot where it had fallen. Next to it, the name "Eleanor" had burned deeper into the floorboards, as though the fire had been drawn to it, preserving it while consuming everything else.

The rifle was taken to the town’s small museum, where it was displayed behind thick glass. A plaque beneath it read: "The Tragedy of Eleanor ,a Mystery Unsolved." But even there, it seemed to exude an unsettling aura. Employees reported strange occurrences such as: lights flickering, sudden drafts in closed rooms, and whispers that seemed to come from nowhere. Some claimed to see fleeting shadows in the reflection of the glass case.

Eventually, the museum director ordered the rifle removed, citing the unease it caused among the staff. It was locked away in a storage room, its story left to fade into obscurity. But the villagers knew better. They knew that while the manor was gone, its curse or perhaps its guardian stayed alive.

Clara, now far from the village, often dreamed of the rifle and the name "Eleanor." In her dreams, the manor stood intact, its windows glowing faintly with an otherworldly light. She would hear the same whisper, faint but persistent: "Remember me."

And though she tried to move on, she could never quite shake the feeling that somewhere, somehow, Eleanor was still waiting for someone to tell them her story.