Speaker 1: Calarogu Shark Media, Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly.
Speaker 2: This episode is titled Whispers in the Dark, Part three Possession.
Speaker 1: The knife from the intruder sits on my desk as
I write this, a constant reminder that the danger in
Blackwood Estate isn't confined to dreams and ghosts. It's been
three days since the break in, and in that time,
the boundaries between my world and Alexander's have begun to
blur in ways I never thought possible. I called the
police the morning after the attack. Of course, the local
sheriff arrived, took photos of the overturned furniture, the broken vase,
the bloodstain on the wall. He examined the knife with
gloved hands, bagging it as evidence. This is an unusual weapon,
he commented, ceremonial. Maybe not the kind of thing your
average burglar carries. I told him about the elderly woman
who had warned me carefully omitting the supernatural elements of
her appearance and disappearance. He promised to check local records
for anyone matching her description, but his expression told me
he didn't expect to find anything. These old estates attract
all kinds of attention, he said, as he was leaving.
History buffs, ghost hunters, teenagers looking for a thrill, but
an armed intruder. That's something else. You got, somewhere else.
You can stay for a while. I told him I didn't.
The truth is I couldn't leave even if I wanted to,
Not with Alexander's journal still unfound, not with his mystery
still unsolved, not with his touch still lingering on my skin.
After the sheriff left, I renewed my search for the
journal with a desperate intensity. I scoured the library again,
checking for hidden compartments in the desk, behind books, beneath floorboards.
I returned to the small room where I'd found Alexander's portrait,
examining every trunk and box nothing. By late afternoon, frustrated
and exhausted, I found myself in the cellar, a vast
space beneath the house that I had avoided until now.
Stone walls wept with moisture, and the dirt floor was
uneven beneath my feet. Most of the space was taken
up with abandoned furniture, old trunks, and the kinds of
debris that accumulate over a century of habitation. I was
about to give up when my flashlight illuminated a section
of wall that seemed different from the rest. The stones,
more precisely fitted, the more newer. Pressing my hand against it,
I felt a slight draft. There was something beyond. It
took me an hour of careful examination to find the mechanism,
a protruding stone that, when pushed in the right way,
caused a section of the wall to swing inward. The
space beyond was small, more of a closet than a room,
empty except for a metal box on the floor. My
hands trembled as I lifted it. No lock, just a
simple latch. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a leather bound book,
Alexander's Journal. I carried it upstairs to the library, my
heart racing with anticipation. The first entry was dated June nineteen, nineteen,
seven months after the armistice that ended the Great War.
Alexander's handwriting was elegant, decisive, the script of a man
educated in an era when penmanship mattered. I have returned
to Blackwood Estate at last. The war has taken more
from me than I care to admit, not just years
of my life, but something of my faith in humanity,
what I witnessed in Europe cannot be unsaid or undone.
But I am home now, and there is comfort in
these familiar walls, in the constant presence of the sea,
the text I discovered in the ruins of Saint Michel
is safely hidden. I have begun the translation work, though
my knowledge of medieval Latin is imperfect. What I have
deciphered so far is unsettling. If even half of what
it suggests is true, then everything we believe about the
nature of reality is fundamentally flawed. The next several entries
detailed his progress translating the mysterious text, interspersed with obser
about the estate and his plans for restoring the family businesses.
It painted a picture of a man trying to balance
mundane responsibilities with an increasingly consuming intellectual pursuit. By August,
his entries had grown more erratic, his elegant script occasionally
deteriorating into hasty scrawls. The translation is nearly complete, and
I find myself both exhilarated and terrified by what I
have learned. The ancients understood truths that modern science has
yet to rediscover. That the barrier between worlds is permeable
that consciousness itself is the key to traversing these boundaries.
I have begun the preliminary rituals described in the text,
simple meditative practices to heighten awareness of the liminal spaces
around us. Already I sense changes in my perception. The
house feels different, more alive. Somehow. Last night, I would
swear I heard whispers in the walls, though I was
quite alone. As September turned to October, Alexander's entries became
more concerning. I am no longer alone in the house.
Something has taken notice of my work. I feel its
presence most strongly at night, A weight in the air,
a darkness deeper than absence of light. I should be afraid,
I suppose, but curiosity overwhelms caution. What manner of entity
have I attracted from? What realm does it originate? I
have left offerings, as the text suggests, small things, drops
of my blood, fragments of personal items, memories willingly surrendered
in return. It shows me visions of other places, other times,
knowledge beyond imagining. The final entries, dated early November nineteen twenty,
were the most disturbing. The entity has revealed its nature
to me at last, not a ghost or spirit as
we commonly understand them, but something far older. It calls
itself many names, none of which I can pronounce in
any human tongue. It exists in the spaces between worlds,
feeding on a particular energy generated by human consciousness, specifically
the energy of fear, desire, and death. It offers a
bargain knowledge and power in exchange for sustenance. I hesitate
to commit the details to paper, even in this private journal.
The implications are too terrible to contemplate, and yet the
temptation is overwhelming. I dreamed last night of a woman
I have never met. She stood in my bedroom, her
face both strange and achingly familiar. Don't trust, she said,
No matter what it promises, no matter what it shows you,
it cannot create, only consume. When I tried to speak
to her to ask her name, she placed her finger
against my lips. I will find you, she whispered, in
another time, and then perhaps we can undo what has
been done. I awoke with the certainty that her warning
was real, a message across time. But from whom? And
how can I possibly interpret such a vision when my
every thought may now be influenced by the entity's presence.
The final entry was dated November fifteenth, nineteen twenty. I
have made my decision. Tonight. I will complete the binding ritual,
not as the entity expects, but with modifications of my
own design. If my calculations are correct, the result will
trap it within the confines of the estate, preventing it
from extending its influence into the wider world. The cost
will likely be my life, but I see no alternative.
What I have unleashed cannot be allowed to roam free
to whoever may find this journal. Beware, the entity remains
bound to Blackwood Estate, but not destroyed. It will seek
a new agent, someone to complete what I began. It
will offer dreams, desires, knowledge beyond imagining. Do not trust it.
Do not trust any visions or visitations within these walls.
And if by some miracle she exists, the woman from
my dream, know that I have done this for you,
though we may never meet in any life or time.
The journal ended. There no further entries, no explanation of
what happened that night, of how Alexander died, just that
final warning, written in a hand that suggested agency, perhaps fear.
I closed the book, my mind racing the woman in
his dream. Could it have been me? Had Alexander somehow
sensed my existence across the span of a hundred years
and this entity he described? Was it still here, bound
to the house as he claimed? Was it the true
cause of our connection? I didn't realize how late it
had grown until I noticed the darkness pressing against the
library windows. The house seemed unnaturally quiet, the usual creaks
and settling noises absent, as if it was holding its
breath waiting Alexander. I called out, my voice, small in
the silence.
Speaker 2: Are you here?
Speaker 1: No response came, but I felt a change in the air,
a heaviness, a pressure against my skin, the same sensation
Alexander had described in his journal. I wasn't alone, but
for the first time since arriving at Blackwood Estate, I
wasn't sure if the presence I sensed was Alexander at all.
I retreated to the master bedroom, the journal clutched against
my chest like a shield. If Alexander's ghost was bound
to the house because of this entity, then whatever connection
we shared might be tainted by its influence. The passion
I'd felt, the impossible pleasure of our encounters. Was any
of it real? Or merely the entity's way of luring
me in as it had once lured Alexander. Despite my exhaustion,
I fought against sleep that night. I didn't want to dream,
didn't want to find myself in that liminal space where
Alexander waited, not until I could be sure it was
truly him, not some manifest created by the entity to
manipulate me. But eventually fatigue won out. I drifted into
uneasy slumber and found myself in the familiar, transformed version
of the bedroom. Alexander stood by the window, his back
to me, gazing out at the moonlit grounds. For the
first time, I studied him with suspicion rather than desire.
Was this really the ghost of a man who had
died a century ago? Or something older, darker? Wearing his
face like a mask, He turned sensing my presence. His
smile of welcome faltered as he registered my expression. You
found it, he said quietly the journal. I nodded, keeping
my distance. You knew where it was all along, Not
exactly I knew it existed, but my memories of what
I wrote of where I hid it agmentary, like trying
to recall a book you read as a child. You
wrote about an entity, something ancient, that you accidentally summoned
or contacted through that text you found in France. His
expression grew grim. Yes, you said you performed a ritual
to bind it to the estate, that you expected the
effort to kill you, and so it did. His hand
went to his chest, to the scar I'd noticed before,
though not in the way I anticipated what happened. Alexander
moved toward me, stopping when I instinctively backed away. Pain
flashed across his features. At my retreat, the ritual required blood,
he said mine. I had prepared everything, set the boundaries
of the binding, but at the last moment, as I
raised the knife, he broke off, his form, flickering like
a candle in a draft. Someone else was there, someone
I had trusted. They took the knife from my hand
and completed the sacrifice for me. You were murdered, yes,
But the murderer didn't understand the ritual's true purpose. They
believed they were completing what I had begun, a binding
that would give the entity access to our world, not
confine it. Why would anyone want that? I asked, power knowledge,
the same temptations the entity had offered me Alexander's expression darkened.
The entity promised impossible things, immortality, command over the forces
of nature, the ability to bend reality itself. My colleague
believed every word, but the ritual still worked. The entity
was bound partially. My preparations were sound enough that it
couldn't escape the estate entirely. But it wasn't fully contained
as I had intended. It has influence here within these walls,
and it has been waiting, gathering strength, looking for another chance.
I thought of the woman who had warned me of
the intruder with the ceremonial knife. Who killed you? Alexander,
who completed the ritual? He shook his head, frustration evident
in his expression. I don't remember that moment, the actual death.
It's blank. I remember the pain, the feeling of betrayal,
but not the face. I studied him, trying to see
beyond the handsome features, the intense eyes that had captivated
me from our first encounter. Could I trust him? Or
was this entire story just another manipulation the entity? I
said carefully. He wrote that it feeds on fear, desire,
and death. Our encounters, what we've shared. Is that real?
Or is it just food for this thing. Alexander's face softened.
He approached me, slowly, as one might have frightened animal.
This time, I held my ground. What we share is real, Elise.
The entity didn't create it. It's merely taken advantage of it.
His hand reached for mine, and despite my reservations, I
allowed the contact. That same electric current flowed between us,
warming his spectral touch. I believe you are the woman
in my dream that somehow across time you reached back
to warn me that our connection exists outside the entity's influence.
How can you be sure? His smile was sad. I can't,
but I know what I feel when I'm with you,
and it's not dark or hungry or consuming. It's light, warmth,
something I haven't felt since I was alive. I wanted
to believe him. God help me. I still wanted him,
even knowing what I now knew. I let him pull
me closer, let his arms encircle me. If what you
say is true, I murmured against his chest, then the
entity is still here, still dangerous, and someone else knows
about it, someone who sent that intruder with the ritual knife. Yes,
he agreed, his fingers threading through my hair. Someone who
has discovered what I discovered, who wants what I wanted
before I understood the true cost. We need to find them,
stop them. I pulled back to look into his eyes.
And we need to finish what you started. Bind the
entity properly, or banish it entirely. Alexander's expression grew troubled.
That may not be possible without risking your life. The
ritual requires blood, Elise, a sacrifice. There must be another way,
I insisted. Your journal mentioned the text you found in France.
Is it still here, hidden somewhere in the house. I
believe so, though I don't remember where. His hands framed
my face with exquisite tenderness. But Elise, you must understand,
even if we find it, even if there is another
way to bind the entity, there's a cost I haven't
told you about yet. What cost? His eyes, those impossible
eyes that seemed to shift between gray and blue, were
filled with a sorrow that made my heart ache. I
exist as I do able to reach you, to touch
you in this dream space because of the entity's partial freedom.
If we succeed in binding it completely, you'll be bound too,
I whispered, understanding dawning, You'll be trapped, unable to manifest
even in dreams. Or I might be freed, entirely, released
from this half existence. His voice dropped lower. Either way,
we would lose this, these moments together. The realization hit
me like a physical blow. To save myself, to protect
the world from whatever ancient darkness Alexander had discovered, I
would have to give up the man I had come
to to. What love could I possibly love a ghost,
a man dead for a century, whom I'd known for
less than two weeks, But looking at him now, feeling
the solidity of his form against mine, remembering the nights
we'd shared, the answer was undeniable, impossible, irrational, but true.
There has to be a way, I said, clinging to
him more tightly, A way to bind the entity without
losing you. His smile was gentle, almost pitying. I've had
a hundred years to consider the problem, Elise. If there
is a solution, I haven't found it. I was about
to argue further when a sound interrupted us, a door
closing somewhere in the dream version of the house. We
both froze, listening. Someone's here, Alexander whispered, his form instantly alert,
protective in the dream space. That shouldn't be possible unless
unless they're connected to the entity too. I've finished for him.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside the bedroom. Slow and deliberate,
Alexander pushed me behind him, positioning himself between me and
the door. Stay back, he warned. Whatever comes through that door,
don't let it touch you, don't let it speak to you.
The footsteps stopped just outside. The temperature in the room plummeted,
frost forming on the windowpanes, my breath clouding in front
of me. The doorknob turned slowly. I caught only a
glimpse of what entered, A figure that seemed to shift
and waver, sometimes appearing as an elderly woman, sometimes as
a young man, sometimes as something not human at all,
eyes that burned with a light that hurt to look
at directly. Then Alexander was between us, his form expanding somehow,
becoming less human, more a force of pure energy. You
cannot have her, he said, his voice resonating with power.
I hadn't known he possessed. I bound you once, I
can do it again. The figure laughed, a sound like
breaking glass and rushing wind. Poor Alexander, still believing you
have some control here, thinking you're the hero of this story.
It turned its burning gaze on me. Has he told
you what he really did, what he was really seeking
when he found me. Don't listen, Alexander warned, It twists
the truth. Truth is subjective, the entity said, its form
settling momentarily into the appearance of the elderly woman who
had warned me. Isn't that what you told yourself, Alexander,
when you began the rituals, when you offered the first
sacrifices lies, Alexander hissed, But I could hear the uncertainty
in his voice. The entity circled us, its form constantly shifting.
He sought power, little Elise, the power to command life
and death, to extend his own existence indefinitely. He wasn't
trying to protect the world from me. He was trying
to bargain for his own immortality. I changed my mind,
Alexander said, his voice strained. I recognized the danger. I
tried to undo what I'd done. Too late, the entity taunted,
always too late, just as it's too late now. It
turned its burning gaze on me again. He's not what
you think, Elise, what you feel for him, isn't real.
It's a construction, my construction, designed to bring you exactly
where I need you to be. And where is that?
I asked, finding my voice at last, Its smile was
terrible to behold in my debt. Willing to make sacrifices
to save him, to keep these precious moments you share.
It gestured around at the dream bedroom, all of this,
the passion, the connection you feel. It's my creation, my
gift to you both, and I can take it away
just as easily. To demonstrate it, made a sharp gesture
with one hand, Alexander cried out, his form beginning to dissolve,
tatters of him streaming away like smoke in a high
wind stop. I cried, leave him alone. The entity paused,
and Alexander's form stabilized, though he looked weaker, diminished. Somehow,
you see his existence here depends entirely on my generosity.
The question is what are you willing to offer in
exchange for that generosity? Don't answer it, Alexander gasped, don't
make any deals, please elise. The entity ignored him, focusing
its burning gaze on me. The terms are simple. You
will help me complete the ritual. Alexander began correctly. This
time you will be my vessel in the physical world.
In exchange, I will preserve this space for you both.
Alexander will remain as he is, able to interact with you,
to touch you, to share these passionate encounters you both
so enjoy. And if I refuse its smile widened, revealing
too many teeth, then I take him now, absorb whatever
consciousness remains of Alexander Blackwood. He ceases to exist in
any form, and you return to your empty, ordinary life,
with nothing but fading memories of what might have been.
I looked at Alexander, at the anguish in his eyes?
Was the entity telling the truth? Had he sought immortality,
power over life and death? Had our connection been manufactured
allure to bring me to this point? Did it matter?
Whatever Alexander had once been, whatever he had done, The
man I knew now, had tried to protect me, had
warned me in his way, had shown me tenderness and
passion I'd never known before, And I couldn't bear the
thought of losing him. The Entity sensed my hesitation. Time
grows short. Elise Morgan, the sun will rise soon, and
this dream will end. Your answer, Please Alexander stretched out
his hand to me, his form still weakened, flickering. Don't
do it, elise, whatever happens to me, don't give it
what it wants. I looked from him to the entity
and back again, torn between impossible choices. To refuse meant
losing Alexander forever. To agree meant what becoming this thing's puppet,
helping it extend its influence beyond the estate to be
another way, some third option. We hadn't considered the text,
the original medieval text Alexander had found in France. If
I could locate it, perhaps it contained information about the
entity's weaknesses, about how to truly bind it without sacrifice.
I made my decision. I need time. I told the
entity until tomorrow night to consider your offer. It studied
me with those burning eyes, seeming to peer directly into
my thoughts very well one day, but know this delay
beyond that, and I take him regardless. It gestured at Alexander,
and my next offer will be considerably less generous. Without
waiting for my response, it turned and drifted out of
the room, its form dissolving into mist as it passed
through the doorway. The moment it was gone, I rushed
to Alexander, who had crumpled to his knees. His form
was more transparent than I'd ever seen it, the edges
of him blurring into the air around him. Alexander, I whispered,
kneeling beside him, What have I done? You've brought us time,
he said, his voice faint but determined, time to find
another solution. The entity was it telling the truth about
why you performed the rituals Pain flashed across his features.
Partially when I first found the text. When I first
contacted the entity, my intentions were not pure. The war
had shown me how fragile life is, how easily extinguished.
I wanted to understand death, to master it. He reached
from my hand, his touch barely perceptible now, But I
swear to you, Elise. When I understood what the entity
truly was, what it wanted from world, I tried to
stop it. The binding ritual was genuine, I believed him,
despite everything. I believed him. We need to find that text,
I said, before tomorrow night. It's our only hope of
discovering another way to bind the entity without sacrificing you.
He nodded, his form strengthening slightly as his determination grew. Yes,
and I think, I think I remember where I hid it,
Where Alexander's eyes met mine, a spark of the old
intensity returning to them. The cemetery, my grave. The text
is buried with me, The implications of his words sank
in slowly. To save Alexander, to defeat the entity, I
would have to excavate his grave, disturb his earthly remains,
to recover the text he had hidden there a century ago.
I'll do, I said, conviction, hardening my voice. Tonight. As
soon as I wake, He gathered me into his arms,
his form solid enough now to provide the comfort of
his embrace. You are extraordinary, Elise Morgan. Whatever happens tomorrow night,
know that what I feel for you is real entity
or no entity, constructed or genuine. My love for you
is the most real thing I've experienced in a hundred years. Love.
The word hung between us, both a promise and a farewell,
because we both knew whatever solution we might find in
the hidden text, our time together was drawing to a close.
I clung to him, memorizing the feel of his arms
around me, the scent of him, sandalwood and sea air,
the sound of his voice in my ear. If this
was to be our last night together, I wanted to
make it last. Show me, I whispered, against his lips,
show me that what we have is real. And he did,
with exquisite tenderness, with passionate intensity, with a desperation that
matched my own. In that dream space between worlds, we
made love as if it were both the first and
last time. Each touch a revelation, each kiss a vow.
As dawn approached and the dream began to fade around us,
Alexander held me close one final time. Remember, he whispered,
no matter what happens, no matter what you discover, I
have loved you across time itself. That truth cannot be undone.
Then he was gone, and I was awake in the
master bedroom, tears streaming down my face and the first
light of what might be our last day together streaming
through the windows. The cemetery awaited the grave, the text
that might save us both or separator forever, and somewhere
in the house, watching and waiting, the entity bided its time,
confident in my inevitable surrender. It didn't understand what it
was dealing with. What humans are capable of when they
love what I was willing to do for Alexander.
Speaker 2: Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive
producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast
may have been created with the assistance of AI
Speaker 1: Calaroga Shark Media