I had not always been as I am, seated in this forsaken chamber with but a single flickering candle for company. There was a time, though it seems a distant dream now, when life coursed through me with a vigor not unlike the fiery blood of youth. But those days were long before the curse—the shadow that now clings to me like a second skin, unshakable and relentless.

The house of my family, once proud and standing on high ground overlooking the rolling hills, has withered, crumbling in sync with my own soul. The stones of the mansion sag beneath the weight of time, the gardens are consumed by wild, twisted vines, and the very air within these halls reeks of decay. Yet, I remain—bound by an unseen force to this place.

It began, as all tragedies do, with a single misstep. A foolish indulgence in curiosity that led me to the crypt beneath the manor. It was a cold night, the wind howling like a chorus of lost souls, when I discovered the old book, hidden deep within the family tomb. Its pages were brittle with age, and though the language was one I did not recognize, I felt an undeniable pull to read the incantations inscribed therein.

A darkness descended upon me as the words left my lips, creeping into my bones like the chill of winter's breath. The flame in my lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the stone walls, and it was in those shadows that I first saw it—the figure. At first, it seemed a mere trick of the light, a fleeting movement in the corner of my eye. But no, this was something more, something malevolent, watching me from the darkness. It followed me back to my room that night, and it has never left since.

The shadow—my shadow—is no longer my own. It moves, yes, but not as shadows should. It lingers too long when I rise, shifts unnaturally when I sit, and sometimes, when I glance at it, I catch its shape contorting into something grotesque, something inhuman. The terror it fills me with is unlike anything I have known, for I know—I...