The Cellar of the Old Estate

January 30, 2026

by Shad

1 min read

Story Premise 1 min read (179 words)

"Last autumn, I joined a small tour group exploring the lower levels of the historic Gablewood Manor. We were gathered in the old storage cellar, listening to our guide explain the history of the place. I stood at the rear, my satchel on my back and my arms crossed. As the guide spoke, I felt […]"

Last autumn, I joined a small tour group exploring the lower levels of the historic Gablewood Manor. We were gathered in the old storage cellar, listening to our guide explain the history of the place. I stood at the rear, my satchel on my back and my arms crossed.

As the guide spoke, I felt a sudden, distinct pressure on my shoulder. It was a chill, firm touch, like two cool points pressing into my coat. Then came a series of deliberate pushes against my satchel, strong enough to shift my balance. It felt like a clear, though not unkind, request to step aside.

I turned quickly, but the space behind me was empty. I rubbed my shoulder, trying to dispel the lingering cold, and resumed my stance. Moments later, it happened again, more insistent this time. The pushes were firmer, more urgent. A quiet certainty settled in my mind that this was no ordinary occurrence.

I decided it was best to listen, and I moved to a different part of the room for the remainder of the talk.

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