Transcript:

Émile’s heart pounded as he raced through the shadowy corridors of Mademoiselle Maison, the storm’s fury barely audible over the incessant, haunting melody that seemed to emanate from the very walls. Thunder clashed as if to punctuate the house’s eerie song, a lullaby that had turned into a sinister serenade. The candle in his hand flickered wildly, casting long, dancing shadows that morphed into grotesque shapes. With each step, the air grew colder, and a mysterious chill enveloped him.

    "Mademoiselle Maison," he whispered, his voice trembling as he reached the attic door. It stood ajar, an invitation or a trap, he couldn’t tell. The singing intensified, urging him forward. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open, stepping into the heart of the mystery that had enveloped his summer.

    Months ago, Émile had arrived at this ancient manor, charmed by its grandeur and oblivious to the whispered warnings of the villagers. They spoke of a house that breathed and wept, a house that held the spirit of its former mistress, Isabelle Maison, who had become one with its stone and timber upon her death.

    As he stood in the attic now, surrounded by relics of Isabelle's life, the house seemed to close around him. Portraits lined the walls, their eyes fixed upon him, tracking his every move. He turned to the desk where a single diary lay open, its pages yellowed with age. The entries, written in a frantic scrawl, told of Isabelle's descent into madness, her obsession with never leaving her beloved home. Sketches of the house transforming into the figure of a woman filled the margins, blurring the lines between human and structure.

    The storm outside crescendoed, and with it, the house seemed to pulse. Émile felt a presence behind him, a whisper of something unseen. He spun around, candle high, heart racing. But there was nothing—only the shifting shadows and the relentless song.

    Driven by a mix of fear and fascination, Émile began to read aloud from the diary, his voice steady despite the madness of the situation. "Protect my sanctuary, or be consumed by it," Isabelle had written, her final entry a chilling directive.

    As he read, the house groaned, the floorboards beneath him shifting as if breathing. With his back turned, the walls began to subtly move, rearranging the maze of the manor to confound his escape. The temperature dropped, the air growing musty and stale.

    The realization hit him like a cold wave, and he knew he had to leave. But as he turned to flee, the door slammed shut with a force that echoed through the house. The singing stopped abruptly, replaced by a suffocating silence. Émile hurled himself against the door, but it wouldn't budge. Panic clawed at his throat as he turned back to the room, the portraits seeming to close in around him.

    In his desperation, Émile’s eyes fell upon the final pages of Isabelle’s diary, pages he hadn’t noticed before. They contained a sketch, not of the house as a woman, but of a doorway—a hidden passage. It was a way out, or another of the house’s tricks, but he had no choice.

    With the candle now his only guide, Émile followed the instructions laid out in the diary, each step a gamble. The house resisted, walls seemingly shifting behind him, trying to disorient him, but he pressed on. Finally, he found it, a panel in the library that gave way to reveal a narrow, dust-choked tunnel.

    As Émile crawled through the escape route, the house seemed to wail in betrayal, the sound chasing him through the dar

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