Chapter 227 THORNE MANOR

Chapter 227 THORNE MANOR
Harper Vale didn’t believe in ghosts.

At twenty-three years old, with a sharp mind, a psychology degree, and a healthy dose of skepticism, she considered herself the most rational person in her entire friend group. So when her friends gathered at their usual bar and dared her to spend the entire night alone in the infamous Thorne Manor, the decaying Victorian mansion on the outskirts of town that locals had whispered about for over a century, Harper had simply laughed and raised her glass.

“Fine,” she had said with a cocky grin. “If I make it through the night without getting possessed or murdered by some Victorian ghost, you all owe me a thousand dollars each. And I only accept cash.”

That bold declaration was how she found herself here.

It was 9:17 PM when Harper pulled her old, beat-up Civic up the long, overgrown driveway. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the imposing silhouette of Thorne Manor. The three-story mansion looked like it had been pulled straight out of a nightmare, dark wood rotting in places, ivy choking the walls, cracked stained-glass windows, and a sagging roof that seemed one strong wind away from collapse.

She killed the engine and sat there for a long moment, staring at the house. A strange heaviness settled in her chest. The air outside felt colder than it should have for a late summer night.

Harper shook her head, grabbed her backpack (sleeping bag, flashlight, snacks, a notebook, and a half-full bottle of whiskey for courage), and stepped out of the car.

“Alright, ghosts,” she called out loudly as she pushed open the heavy front door. It creaked dramatically, the sound echoing through the vast foyer. “If you’re real, now’s your chance. I’ve got all night, and I’m not easily scared.”

Her voice sounded braver than she felt.

Inside, Thorne Manor was even more unsettling. The grand foyer still held traces of its former glory, a massive crystal chandelier hanging crookedly from the ceiling, faded oriental rugs covered in dust, and a sweeping staircase leading up into pure darkness. The air smelled of old wood, damp stone, and something faintly sweet, like withered roses.

Harper swept her flashlight around slowly. “Nice place. Very… atmospheric.”

She made her way up the creaking stairs to the second floor, heading straight for the master bedroom, the room locals claimed was the most active. According to the stories, a wealthy industrialist had murdered his young wife here in 1897, and her spirit had never left.

The master bedroom was enormous. A massive four-poster bed with tattered silk curtains stood against one wall. An ornate fireplace sat opposite, and tall windows overlooked the neglected garden below. Moonlight filtered through the cracked glass, casting eerie silver patterns across the dusty floor.

Harper unrolled her sleeping bag on the bed, changed into a thin white tank top and soft black sleep shorts, then sat cross-legged in the center, sipping whiskey from the bottle.

“Honestly, this is kind of boring,” she muttered to the empty room after twenty silent minutes. “I was promised floating objects and creepy voices. Where’s the show?”

A soft, cool breeze brushed across the back of her neck.

Harper froze.

All the windows were closed.

Another touch, lighter this time. Cool fingertips tracing slowly down her bare arm from shoulder to wrist. The sensation was so real she jerked away, heart suddenly racing.

“Okay… that was a good one,” she said, voice slightly unsteady. “Air vent? Drafty old house? Nice try.”

Silence.

Then the touches returned. This time, two different sensations at once.

One hand, large, masculine, and unmistakably real-feeling rested on her left thigh, slowly sliding upward. Another set of fingers brushed her lower back, slipping just beneath the hem of her tank top to caress her warm skin.

Harper’s breath hitched. “This isn’t funny anymore.”

A low, velvety chuckle echoed softly through the room. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once, deep, masculine and amused.

Harper’s flashlight flickered once… twice… then died completely.

The room plunged into darkness broken only by pale moonlight.

More hands appeared.

One cupped her breast through her thin tank top, thumb brushing over her rapidly hardening nipple. Another slid between her thighs, stroking the soft skin just below her shorts. Cool lips pressed against the side of her neck, sucking gently, while invisible fingers tangled gently in her long hair.

Harper’s body betrayed her instantly. A rush of heat flooded between her legs. Her nipples stiffened into tight peaks, clearly visible through the thin fabric.

“What the hell are you?” she whispered, voice trembling with a mixture of fear and unwanted arousal.

No verbal answer came.

Instead, the touches grew bolder.

The hand between her thighs pushed higher, rubbing her slowly through her shorts, pressing the fabric against her swelling clit. The mouth on her neck moved lower, sucking on her collarbone. Fingers pinched her other nipple, rolling it gently but firmly.

Harper gasped sharply, gripping the sheets beneath her. Her hips twitched involuntarily against the invisible hand teasing her.

“This can’t be real…” she breathed, even as her body arched into the ghostly caresses. “I don’t… I don’t believe in…”

A second, deeper masculine chuckle filled the room, followed by a smooth, seductive voice that seemed to whisper directly into her ear:

“Oh, sweet Harper… you will.”

Multiple presences surrounded her now. At least three distinct touches, hands exploring her body with growing hunger, lips kissing her shoulders and throat, fingers slipping beneath her shorts to brush against her soaked panties.

Harper moaned softly despite herself, cheeks burning with shame and excitement.

She had come here to prove ghosts weren’t real.

Instead, the ghosts of Thorne Manor had decided to prove just how real and how hungry they were.