michael origin pop

The taxi rolled to a stop just outside the rusted iron gates.

she stepped out into the soft drizzle, her boots crunching the gravel. She wrapped her coat tighter around herself, one hand gripping the handle of her suitcase. Ahead of her loomed the mansion — Ashvale Manor — quiet and massive, like it had been waiting for her.

Her house now. At least, on paper.

“You sure about this, miss?” the cab driver called out, keeping his engine running.

She glanced back and gave a quick smile. “Yeah. I’ve seen worse.”

Total lie. Nothing about this felt normal.  The massive oak doors groaned open before she could knock.

A man stood in the doorway.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair, slick from the mist. Dressed in black from collar to boots. Everything about him said stone—solid, silent.

She didn’t speak right away. Neither did he.

His eyes locked onto her face like he was still trying to make sense of what he saw.

She offered a polite smile. “Good evening.”

His expression didn’t shift. “You’re here for what, exactly?”

She lifted her chin. “The house.”

He studied her again—this time slower, but colder and after a while stepped back with a stiff motion.

“This way.”

She dragged her suitcase over the hallway. The warmth inside surprised her, but not as much as the man’s demeanor.

“I was told the new owner would arrive today,” he said, walking ahead without looking back.

She matched his pace. “And here I am.”

He said nothing, but his jaw tensed. Not overtly hostile, but clearly displeased.

“You’re... alone?” he asked without turning.

“Yes.”

A beat passed. Still no glance over his shoulder. “You got a name?”

“H-Hazel Blackwood.”

Another pause.

He stopped in the center of the entrance hall and finally turned to face her. His expression was unreadable, but the way he looked at her—said enough.

“Aiden,” he said. “Caretaker.”

He said it like he didn’t want to give his name at all.

She extended her hand. “Nice to Meet you!”

He didn’t take it.

Instead, he turned and motioned walked toward the west corridor. “That wing’s ready. The rest of the house isn’t your concern.”

Hazel narrowed her eyes. “I wasn’t aware I’d need permission to walk in my own house.”

He looked at her then. Just briefly.

“Don’t wander,” he said quietly. “This place remembers things. Some of them aren’t kind.”

With that, he walked off, his heavy boots scrapped against the hard stone.

Hazel stood there alone, the door thudding shut behind her. Somewhere above, the chandelier flickered.

She exhaled slowly.

“So that was the caretaker. Caretaker? “ She thought and quickly shook that idea “That didn’t sit right. He didn’t look like a man who dusted shelves or fixed leaky pipes. He looked like the kind of man who gave warnings—and meant them.” She murmured.

****

Soon the rain poured over the window frame as Hazel stood at the door of her new room.

She hadn’t unpacked. She hadn’t even sat down.

She glanced around as she took in her surroundings ….. High ceilings, a fireplace, a worn armchair by the window. The wallpaper was a faded shade of green, curling slightly at the corners. A small vase sat on the mantel, holding a few white lilies. Fresh. No scent.

Hazel dropped her suitcase and moved toward the window. Her gaze fell toward the iron gates which were swallowed by fog, out of sight.

“Bang! Bang!”

A knock interrupted her.

She opened it.

Aiden stood there, holding a tray. A covered plate. A glass of water. He didn’t move to come inside.

“Dinner,” he said flatly.

Hazel blinked. “You brought this for me?”

“I brought food to the person staying here. Don’t overthink it.”

She took the tray, brushing his fingers by accident. His skin was rough to say the least.

“Thanks,” she muttered.

He didn’t leave.

“Is he going to stand there like a warning sign in human form.” She murmured under her breath.

“If you’re planning to wander tonight,” he said, “Don’t.”

Hazel arched a brow. “Is that an order?”

“It’s advice. I don’t care enough…… to give orders.”

She let out a short laugh and turned to place the tray on the desk. “You’re not exactly what I expected from a caretaker.”

“You’re not exactly what I expected either,” he shot back.

Hazel turned “What did you expect?”

He shrugged slightly. “Someone who’d turn around the moment they saw this place and….. NEVER CAME BACK.”

She gave a faint smile and rolled her eyes “Sorry to disappoint you but guess what you have to deal with it now.”

His gaze lingered on her for a moment trying to figuring out what kind of creature she was.

Then he spoke again.

“Don’t go past the west wing. Some doors are locked for a reason. Don’t try to open them.”

“Let me guess. Unsafe?” She asked with curiosity.

“Worse.”

He didn’t explain. Just walked away, leaving her with an answered question.

Who ever know Hazel would have guessed that she definitely wandered that night. 

“I am just stretching my legs…..definitely not wandering” She smirked and made her way to the west wing.

The west wing was quiet, the storm outside now just a soft drizzle. But the deeper she went, the more she felt the house felt... different.

She passed dusty paintings, faded portraits, long-forgotten shelves. Some doors opened easily, revealing nothing but empty rooms. Others were locked. Some didn’t even have knobs — just blank slabs of old wood as if the house had decided those rooms didn’t exist anymore.

Then she found the hallway.

Long. Narrow. Lined with stern-faced portraits. At the end of it, a spiral staircase curved upward, disappearing into darkness.

Hazel hesitated but she wanted to go there.

She remembered Aiden’s words “Some doors are locked for a reason.”

She took a step forward anyway toward those stairs.

And then—

“Don’t.”

She turned sharply.

Aiden was standing at the edge of the hallway, half in shadow, arms folded across his chest.

“You don’t listen well” He sound irritated.

Hazel’s spine stiffened. “Don’t try to scare me.”

 “I’m not trying to. But some things are better covered.”

She took a step toward him. “What are you trying to cover?”

He stepped forward too, matching her pace. “Nothing. I’m trying to stop you from doing something stupid.”

“Is stretching legs is doing something stupid?” she asked

Aiden’s voice dropped slightly. “This house is not simple, Ms. Hazel Blackwood. It remembers every secret, every scream, every broken thing that’s ever happened in it.”

“Does it remember you?” she asked quietly.

His eyes narrowed. “Go back to your room.”

Hazel held his gaze. “Make me.”

A pause. Something flickered in his expression — frustration? Restraint?

But he didn’t take the bait. He turned his back and walked off, his voice echoing behind him.

“Suit yourself. Just don’t come crying when it turns on you."

Hazel stood alone at the foot of the stairs.   

She didn’t move.

Not yet.

But soon.