Prologue

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 The fog rolled in thick and heavy over Black Hollow, swallowing the moonlight and muffling the distant sound of waves crashing against the cliffs. The house on the hill had stood for nearly two centuries, its stone walls weathered by time and its halls echoing with stories no one dared to tell. But on this night, something moved within its dark corridors. A whisper. A breath. A presence waiting to be remembered.  
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Chapter Five: The Writing on the Walls

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 After discovering Margaret’s portraits in the locked room, Eleanor feels a shift in the house. The whispers grow stronger, the shadows seem to move on their own, and objects appear where they shouldn’t be.  


One night, she wakes to the sound of scratching. A slow, deliberate movement coming from inside the walls.  


Terrified but determined, she follows the sound to the parlor. The old wallpaper peels at the edges, and beneath it, she finds something chilling—words scrawled in faded ink:  


"He took everything. Find me before he finds you."


Before Eleanor can process the message, the candle flickers wildly, and the room goes cold. A shape appears in the mirror—Margaret Vale, her face half-obscured by shadow.  


Then, just as suddenly, the whisper comes again, this time urgent.  


"He’s still here."


Then, the light flickers, and the temperature drops. A presence looms behind her, casting a long shadow against the parlor wall.

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 Eleanor’s heart races as she clutches the key, the presence behind her growing stronger. The attic feels alive with tension, as if the walls themselves are closing in. She can almost hear the low hum of something ancient and malevolent in the air, the feeling of being trapped not just in the house—but in time itself.   She shoves the papers and the key into her bag, her mind screaming to get out. The door to the attic rattles as if someone—or something—wants to keep her in. She bolts for the stairs, her footsteps heavy as she hurries down the narrow hall. But as she nears the front door, the whispers return, louder than ever:   "Leave. Or you’ll never leave."   The door won’t open. The handle turns, but the lock won’t budge. She pulls harder, her fingers slick with sweat. The air around her thickens, and she feels an invisible pressure on her chest, as if the house itself is trying to suffocate her.   With a scream, Eleanor stumbles backward...
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