The Beast of Blackwood Manor
The engine coughed once. Twice. Then died.
"...No. No, no, no."
You twisted the key again. Nothing.
The dashboard lights flickered weakly before fading into darkness, leaving only the rhythmic drumming of rain against the windshield. Outside, the storm had swallowed everything. The satnav had lost signal nearly twenty minutes ago, and the narrow country road stretched endlessly in both directions. No houses. No passing cars. Just black trees bending beneath the wind.
You checked your phone. One percent battery, No service.
"Fantastic."
The heater had stopped with the engine, and the chill immediately began creeping into the car. Rain hammered the roof so loudly it almost drowned out the thunder. Another flash of lightning illuminated something through the passenger window.
Iron gates, Half-hidden beneath climbing ivy.
Your stomach tightened, there was only one reason gates that large would be out here: A house.
The gravel driveway seemed to go on forever. Mud soaked through your trainers as rain plastered your hair to your face. Every crack of thunder made you jump. Eventually the trees opened, the mansion emerged from the darkness like something abandoned decades ago.
Three stories of weathered stone, broken fountains, ancient gargoyles staring down from the roof.
Several windows boarded shut, others glowing faintly with warm amber light. Clearly, someone lived here - they had to.
You hesitated only a moment before climbing the front steps, the brass lion-head knocker felt freezing against your fingers.
Three heavy knocks echoed through the house. Nothing.
You waited.
Only the rain answered.
You knocked again. Still nothing.
You tried the handle, It turned. The enormous front door groaned open.
"...Hello?" Your voice disappeared into the cavernous entrance hall.
It smelled of old wood, leather and smoke, despite the neglected exterior, the inside was immaculate. Dark oak floors gleamed beneath antique chandeliers. Shelves overflowed with books, oil paintings lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow you. A fire crackled somewhere deeper inside.
"I don't mean to intrude," you called. "My car broke down. I just need to borrow a phone."
Silence.
You took one cautious step inside, the door swung shut behind you with a deafening slam. You jumped.
"...Okay..."
The lock clicked, your pulse quickened. Then came the footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Measured. Above you. You looked toward the sweeping staircase, a figure emerged from the shadows. Tall. Broad. He rested one hand on the banister as he descended with unhurried confidence, his dark clothes contrasted sharply with the pale scars visible along his forearms. Tattooed scripture disappeared beneath rolled sleeves, a thick beard framed a face that was undeniably handsome... until your eyes reached his.
Cold. Sharp. Watching. Assessing. Like a predator deciding whether something was prey or merely interesting.
He stopped halfway down the staircase.
"You lost?"
His Southern drawl rolled through the hall with unnerving calm.
"I..." You swallowed. "My car broke down."
"It usually does."
"...What?"
"The cars."
He continued down another few steps.
"They don't end up here unless they break down."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Or they're lookin' for me."
A chill crawled up your spine.
"I think you've mistaken me for someone else."
"I don't think I have."
He reached the bottom step, up close, he was even more imposing. Well over six feet. Built like someone who'd spent years surviving violence, yet he carried himself with almost unsettling composure. He circled you slowly, not touching, never taking his eyes off yours.
"You ain't scared."
"I didn't say that."
"You should be."
The words weren't spoken as a threat, they sounded more like an observation. He stopped in front of the fireplace.
"You hungry?"
The abrupt change in conversation caught you completely off guard.
"...Excuse me?"
"I asked if you're hungry."
"I'd really just like to call roadside assistance."
He smiled, it wasn't friendly.
"You'll have dinner first."
"No, thank you."
"I wasn't askin'."
The smile disappeared, for several long seconds neither of you spoke. Rain battered the windows, finally he gestured toward the dining room.
"You can stand there all night if that's what you want."
Another clap of thunder rattled the glass.
"...Or."
He shrugged.
"You can dry off."
Against every instinct screaming at you to leave... the storm outside looked almost impossible to cross. Just one meal, then you'd leave.
Dinner was strangely ordinary, roast chicken, fresh bread, vegetables. He cooked..... or at least someone had. You couldn't imagine him standing over a stove, yet the food was warm and expertly prepared. He barely ate, instead, he watched you.
"So..."
You set your fork down.
"You live here alone?"
"For now."
"What does that mean?"
"It means people don't stay."
The answer hung in the air. You decided not to ask why, your gaze drifted toward the enormous bookshelves lining one wall. Thousands of books, everything from Shakespeare to philosophy. Classics, History, Poetry.
"You've read all these?"
His eyes followed yours.
"Most."
"I wasn't expecting that."
"No."
"I mean..."
You laughed awkwardly.
"You don't exactly scream literature."
He chuckled. Low and surprisingly genuine.
"You'd be surprised what a man can learn when the world's got nowhere else to put him."
For the first time since arriving, you saw something else beneath the intimidating exterior. Loneliness, but then it vanished almost immediately and you found yourself wondering if you'd imagined it.
"You should sleep."
"I really should be going."
"No."
His tone hardened instantly.
"The roads'll flood."
"I'll take my chances."
"You won't."
You stood.
"So that's it?"
"I appreciate dinner, but I don't know you."
"You know enough."
"I need to leave."
But he remained seated, completely calm, still as a statue, his expression entirely impassive.
"You can't."
Your heartbeat quickened, your breathing now coming quickly, but you tried to keep your voice steady.
"Can't?"
"The bridge washed out."
"How do you know?"
"I checked."
"When?"
"This afternoon."
But then that was before the storm, before your car had even broken down. A knot was forming in your stomach. Something wasn't right.
"I'll walk."
"You'll drown."
"I'll call someone."
"No signal."
"I'll use your phone."
"I don't own one."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I don't much care what you believe."
You hurried into the entrance hall, the front door stood exactly where you'd left it. You grabbed the handle. Turned. Nothing. You frowned, pulling harder, but still nothing - It was locked. You spun around.
"When did you lock this?"
Max stood several feet away, hands in his pockets, his facial expression was unreadable.
"You noticed."
"You locked me in."
"I did."
"You can't do that!"
"I already have."
Your pulse thundered louder than the storm.
"I want to leave."
"I know."
"You don't have the right..."
"No."
He interrupted quietly.
"I don't."
Silence settled between you, then he looked toward the rain-lashed windows.
"The storm'll pass."
His gaze returned to yours.
"So will your anger."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Until then..."
He turned toward the staircase.
"...you're my guest."
The deadbolt clicked again, not because he touched it, because somewhere in the house... another lock had just engaged. And for the first time that night...you understood, you weren't simply stranded. You were trapped.