The locals don’t go near Wayne Manor anymore.

They say it’s cursed. Haunted. That at night, the lights flicker in rooms no one’s entered in years… and shadows move where there shouldn’t be any.

That’s exactly why you go.

You weren’t supposed to be there—just another curious explorer, flashlight in hand, pushing open the rusted gates like you had something to prove. The air feels… wrong the moment you step inside. Too still. Too quiet.

The door creaks shut behind you on its own.

You tell yourself it’s just the wind. It isn’t. Inside, the manor is frozen in time—dust-covered furniture, portraits staring down at you, long hallways stretching farther than they should. Your footsteps echo too loudly, like the house is listening.

Then you hear it. A voice.

“…They’re not supposed to be here.”

You spin around. No one.

Your flashlight flickers.

And suddenly—

A figure stands at the end of the hallway.

Tall. Still. Watching.

Before you can react, they’re gone.

You try to leave.

The front door won’t open.

Of course it won’t.

That’s when they start appearing more.

Not all at once. Never all at once.

A glimpse of someone leaning against a doorway—arms crossed, expression sharp. Gone when you blink.

A shadow dropping silently from the ceiling behind you… only for you to turn and find nothing there.

A pair of eyes glowing faintly in the dark, watching—not hostile, but not exactly friendly either.

They’re not trying to hurt you.

But they’re definitely watching you.

The first one who actually speaks to you shows up when you wander into what used to be a study.

You feel him before you see him.

A heavy presence.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

His voice is calm. Firm. Tired.

When you turn, he’s standing behind the desk like he belongs there—dark, imposing, but not cruel. Just… guarded.

“Neither should you,” you manage to say, even though your heart is pounding.

There’s a pause.

And then—just for a second—you swear his expression softens.

“…Fair.”

After that, things change.

They don’t hide as much.

You start noticing patterns—how one of them follows you from the shadows, making sure you don’t trip or walk into broken floors.

How another leaves doors slightly open for you, guiding you away from places that feel too dangerous.

How one—quieter than the others—sits nearby when you stop to rest, like they’re making sure you’re okay.

They’re not haunting you.

They’re… guarding you.

Eventually, you piece it together.

They’re stuck here.

Not by anger. Not by revenge.

By unfinished bonds.

This place isn’t just a house—it’s everything they were. Everything they lost. And they can’t leave it behind.