Chapter One: The House That Watches
The house was watching her.
Not in the way people say when they're being dramatic—Eleanor felt it. A pressure, a presence. As if the windows had eyes behind them, glassy and patient.
She stopped at the gate, one hand still resting on the latch, the other tightening around the folded letter in her coat pocket. Her mother's handwriting had already begun to blur from the damp.
One week, Eleanor. Just stay one week. Then it's yours.
Inheritances were supposed to come with lawyers and champagne. Not rot and whispers and a front porch that seemed to lean toward her like it was hungry.
"I shouldn't have come," she said softly.
The wind didn't respond, but something in the house did. A slow creak behind the upstairs shutters, too deliberate for wind. Like someone shifting their weight to get a better look.
You're being paranoid. It's wood. It's old. It's nothing.
Still, her hand hesitated on the gate. Twenty years since she last stood here, staring up at the twisted gables and peeling paint. Twenty years since she ran barefoot down that gravel path while someone screamed behind her.
She didn't remember who screamed. Just the sound of it. Sharp and wet.
"This is just a building," she told herself, stepping inside the gate. The latch clicked shut behind her like a lock. "Just timber and glass."
But the silence was too perfect. Even the crows had stopped calling.
Inside, the door swung open with a reluctant moan. The air that greeted her smelled of lavender and mildew—too much like her grandmother's perfume, aged into something sour.
She stepped over the threshold, heart pounding.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked. She hated how small it sounded.
No answer. Just the long echo of the hallway stretching ahead. She could see the edge of the parlor, draped in sheets like ghosts had been tucked in for winter.
"You've been empty for years," she whispered, moving slowly forward. "There's no one left to watch me."
But the house disagreed. She felt it in the walls, in the soft breath of cold air against her neck. Something noticed her.
She found herself staring at the staircase. The banister was carved with spirals—she used to run her fingers down them as a child. One. Two. Three steps before the groan. That was the rhythm.
She whispered it without thinking. "One. Two. Groan."
A sound came from upstairs. Soft. Metallic.
No. Not metallic. Musical.
A faint tune drifted down the hall, slow and sweet—just a few notes.
Her stomach dropped
"That's not possible," she said.
She hadn't heard that melody in decades. Not since the ballerina box in her grandmother's room. The one that never stopped playing, even when no one was near it. Even after the lid was shut.
Even after the fire.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the banister.
You said one week. One week and then you're free.
So go. Face it. Find the box.
Another note played. Louder this time.
She climbed.