Chapter 20
1588words
As autumn arrived in sequence, the forest surrounding Thornhill Manor was dyed with large patches of golden yellow and crimson red, the air as clear as a freshly polished crystal. I often, in the afternoon, brew a cup of tea, sit on the bay window of the study, gazing at the scenery outside that resembles a classical oil painting, my heart incredibly serene. I am no longer a prisoner pushed along by fate, nor a survivor constantly guarding against the unknown, I simply live here, make my life here. Because this place has already become my true home.
My novel, "I Have a Date with Spook House," was an unexpected huge success. It quickly dominated bestseller lists with its unprecedented style that blended Gothic horror with absurd warmth. Critics raved about the complex and twisted emotional relationships between characters, while readers wildly speculated about the prototypes of those non-human entities in the book. I received countless interview requests, and even renowned directors wanted to purchase film adaptation rights, but I politely declined them all.
Because I knew that the true readers of this novel were actually only four.
And they are now living with me in this enormous mansion, maintaining a strange balance.
Silas was no longer the gloomy nobleman who had to hide in the basement, sustaining himself on blood. He became my chief "literary consultant." Instead of trying to mark me with a blood contract, he chose a more intellectual way to "possess" my time. Whenever I struggled with the details of a historical background, he could always precisely locate the most comprehensive materials from the vast collection in the library, and then, with his magnetic, deep voice, tell me about the romantic affairs and dark secrets of bygone eras that had long been forgotten by the world.
"No, Nora." He would gently close a yellowed ancient tome, his crimson eyes, more brilliant than the finest rubies in the afternoon sunlight, "French noblewomen of the eighteenth century would never use a fan of this color at court banquets. It represented an ominous political metaphor that would have made them a laughingstock." He would speak while extending his pale, slender fingers to lightly cross out the erroneous word on my manuscript. His fingertips were cold, with a slight, barely perceptible, restrained tremor.
At moments like these, I always had to control my breathing carefully to prevent my handwriting from becoming crooked due to my racing heartbeat.
At the boundary between the manor and the forest, Finn built a rugged yet warm wooden cabin with his own hands. He was no longer the lone wolf who viewed the manor as a thorn in his side, but had become a "bridge" connecting the two worlds. With his own strength, he guided the gentle forces of nature, transforming the thorns that once symbolized imprisonment and death in the manor into large, deep red roses covered with dew. He also cultivated a small vegetable garden, growing the freshest vegetables and fruits. Every evening, with the scent of soil and sunshine clinging to him, he would leave a basket filled with tomatoes and pumpkins at my kitchen door, then quickly disappear into the shadows of the forest like a grown boy who had done a good deed but didn't want to be praised.
"Hey, vampire," he would occasionally lean against the door of the study and say to Silas in a deliberately casual tone, "don't always let her sit by the window, the autumn wind is cool, it's not good for the human body." When he said this, his amber eyes were constantly glancing at me, with a kind of awkward but sincere concern.
Silas would usually just hum softly, then casually pick up a cashmere shawl draped over the arm of the sofa, and gently, with an unquestionable tenderness, place it over my shoulders.
And Julian, he welcomed the happiest time of his hundreds of years of existence. He was no longer confined to any single space and could move freely throughout the entire manor. The sorrowful aura that once surrounded him had long been replaced by an almost childlike curiosity for new things. He became fascinated with modern technology, especially my laptop. He learned to browse the internet, use search engines, and even taught himself programming. He became my most efficient research assistant, capable of transforming my chaotic inspirational notes into a logically clear and well-organized database overnight.
"Nora, look," he would appear beside my computer screen like a child who had discovered a new toy, excitedly pointing at lines of code, saying, "I've written a small program that can automatically gather all related urban legends and folk tales from the internet based on keywords you set. This will save you a lot of time." His handsome face radiated a pure, heartfelt joy.
Of course, there is also the family head. That enormous will, which once tried to completely devour me, now coexists with us in a manner almost like "sulking." I stripped him of his power to force fusion, rewriting him from "monarch" to "guardian spirit." He no longer speaks to me in that cold voice, but instead manifests his presence in awkward ways. For instance, when Silas and Finn become tense over some trivial matter, a mysterious cold breeze will suddenly blow through the manor corridors, causing the candle flames to flicker unsteadily. Or, when I write late into the night, feeling utterly exhausted, the fire in the fireplace always burns a bit brighter, making the entire room as warm as spring.
I didn't choose any one of them to become a traditional sole partner. I couldn't make such a choice, nor did I want to. I don't know how to define our relationship; perhaps it's a new kind of multi-dimensional connection unique to us, based on deep understanding and absolute respect. I belong to each of them, and also completely to myself. Silas gave me historical depth, Finn gave me the warmth of life, Julian gave me breadth of knowledge, and the head of the household gave me a safe "home" that could accommodate all of this.
They seemed to have accepted this strange symbiotic relationship. They learned to share rather than possess; to balance rather than confront. But I could still clearly sense that I was the center of this fragile equilibrium. When Silas explained the rhythm of sonnets to me, I could feel Finn's burning gaze, tinged with slight annoyance, from outside the window; when Finn took me to identify herbs in the garden, I could also see Julian's fleeting, somewhat melancholic figure behind the second-floor library window.
This silent, sweet undercurrent became the most touching landscape of our daily lives.
I know that this balance is fragile. The mansion itself remains like a giant puzzle, with many secrets still hidden in its depths that I have yet to uncover. And the enormous prestige brought by my novel will inevitably, like light, attract moths from the outside world, and perhaps even... more dangerous predators. That sense of thriller lurking beneath the calm has never truly disappeared.
But I am no longer afraid.
I open my thick diary, and on the fresh, final page, I pick up the pen that once gave me the power to rewrite reality—it returned to its original state after the final confrontation, now resting quietly in my pen holder. With unprecedented calmness and determination, I write the last paragraph:
"Some stories never end; they are merely waiting for the beginning of the next chapter. And I am ready to face any challenge, because I am no longer fighting alone."
Closing the diary, I opened my laptop and logged into the serialization website of my new novel. The novel was called "The Secret of Thornhill Manor," a new story that we had collectively decided upon.
The latest chapter had just been published, and the comment section was already buzzing with activity. I immediately spotted those familiar usernames, which always appeared first and were consistently upvoted to the top positions.
SilasD: "The author's description of Victorian funeral customs contains serious errors. The length and texture of the mourning veil directly reflected the mourner's relationship with the deceased. The length described in the text clearly doesn't match the protagonist's social status at that time. I look forward to the author correcting this in subsequent chapters."
WolfFinn: "Why write so much useless stuff? Just fight already! That newly appeared 'Shadow Hunter' is obviously up to no good! Why doesn't the protagonist just lure him into the Black Forest? I... I mean, the beasts in the forest would teach him a lesson!"
Julian: "The ancient scripture about 'soul resonance' quoted in this chapter actually has seven different translations. The author clearly only referred to the most widely circulated 'Solomon version,' while ignoring the more esoterically valuable 'Alexandrian fragments.' If you need related materials, I can provide them."
Visage: "...Structure stable. Energy flow normal. New threat level: low. Recommend continued observation."
Looking at these "professional" comments, I imagined Silas furrowing his brow, Finn anxiously scratching his head, Julian with his serious scholarly demeanor, and the family head's eternally calm system assessment.
I couldn't hold it in any longer and lowered my head, laughing.
The sunlight outside was warm and gentle, coating the entire room in a layer of gold. The conclusion of my story was written, but for all of us, our stories were just turning to a brand new page.
I was ready.
