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 Three: The Woman in the Window

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 The next morning, Eleanor visited the town library, searching for any mention of the house’s past. The librarian, an older woman named Mrs. Hawthorne, paled at the mention of Black Hollow Hill.  

“You’re staying *there*?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.  

“I inherited it,” Eleanor replied. “I just want to know—”  

Mrs. Hawthorne shook her head. “Some things are better left buried.”  

But Eleanor pressed on, and eventually, the librarian sighed, leading her to a dusty archive. She pulled out an old newspaper, its pages yellowed with age.  

"Tragedy on Black Hollow Hill – 1876. Margaret Vale Found Dead in Locked Room. No Signs of Entry."

Eleanor’s blood ran cold. The grainy photograph showed a woman in an old-fashioned gown, her dark eyes hollow, her face eerily similar to the figure she had seen in the window the night before.  

She had thought it was a trick of the light.  

Now, she wasn’t so sure.  

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Chapter Eight: The Escape

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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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Chapter One: The House on Black Hollow Hill

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 When Eleanor Graves inherited the house from her estranged great-aunt, she barely remembered ever visiting it. She had been a child the last time she stepped foot inside. The town’s stories about the house had always sounded like superstitious nonsense—ghostly figures in the windows, doors that locked themselves, and the eerie sound of weeping in the dead of night.   But Eleanor wasn’t afraid of ghosts.   She arrived in the late afternoon, the autumn wind sharp against her face as she stepped out of her car. The house loomed above her, a gray giant against the storm-heavy sky. The front door creaked open with an unsettling slowness as she turned the key. Dust motes danced in the dying light, and a faint scent of something decayed lingered in the air.   She told herself it was just an old house.   Then the whisper came.   Low, almost melodic, just behind her.   "Leave." Eleanor spun around. No one was there.
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