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The Untold Story Of The Terrifyingly Haunted Ashwood House · Mystery Archives Episodes

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For years, it stood in silence, its walls swollen with secrets,
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its halls thick with shadows. Mark and Claire Sullivan never
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planned to return, but after their mother's death, they had
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no choice. Ashwood House was their
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inheritance, a place of childhood memories long buried
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under dust and something darker. Now, as they step across the
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threshold, the air is heavy with something unseen.
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The past lingers here, whispering in the walls,
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watching from the corners. And it has been waiting for
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them. I did want to let you guys know
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that Volume 3 of Stories from the Archives, my third book, is
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now out via Amazon, or you can purchase an autographed copy
0:59
from me at mysteryarchives.myshopify.com.
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Each volume contains deep dives into 10 terrifying paranormal
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cases, including my own. Please don't forget to check out
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some more episodes at the end of this one.
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Like, share and subscribe. Thank you.
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For years, decades perhaps longer than anyone living could
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remember, it stood at the edge of the forest, shrouded and
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tangled Ivy in the weight of forgotten years, its walls
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swollen with secrets. Some places are simply
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abandoned, left to decay in silence.
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But others? Others are forsaken, left behind
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not by choice but by necessity. Ashwood House was the latter.
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Mark Sullivan never thought he'd return here.
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Neither did his sister Claire. Yet in the wake of their
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mother's passing, duty called them back to the place where
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they had spent their childhood summers, the place where
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something had changed their family forever.
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It had been a house full of loved ones, filled with the
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scent of old books and their grandmother's lavender perfume.
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But that warmth had long since faded, swallowed by whispers in
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the walls and shadows that stretch too long at night.
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Now, as their car rumbled up the overgrown Dr., the house loomed
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ahead, it's gaping windows like vacant eyes watching them.
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Mark gripped the steering wheel tighter.
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Claire, beside him, exhaled a breath that she hadn't realized
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she was holding. Neither of them spoke.
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Somewhere deep inside the house felt them arrive, and somewhere
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even deeper, something else stirred.
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The car's headlights cut through the dusk as Mark Sullivan
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steered up a winding dirt lane, dense woods pressing in on
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either side. Beside him, his younger sister
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Claire sat quietly, hands twisting in her lap.
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The old Ashwood house finally loomed into view, A2 story
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silhouette against a moonless night sky.
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Mark killed the engine, and in the sudden silence, both
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siblings gazed at the darkened house.
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Its windows were black and empty, and the timber frame
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seemed to lean toward them as if in greeting.
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A once grand porch sagged under the weight of years of disuse.
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Claire shivered, pulling her jacket tighter.
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Welcome home. Mark murmured, attempting a wry
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tone, but his voice cracked slightly.
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Neither of them had visited this property since they were
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children. This was Grandma Rose's house,
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inherited by their mother, and now, after their mother's recent
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passing, left to the two of them.
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It might have been a lovely inheritance if it wasn't for the
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whispers of tragedy tied to it. The same tragedy that haunted
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their family for decades. Mark pushed open the car door,
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and the creak of its hinge was unnaturally loud.
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Gravel crunched under his boots. Claire hesitated, staring at the
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house's front window. In her memory, that door had
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always been painted a cheerful blue.
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Now it was faded to a pealing Gray, reminding her of a gaping
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mouth. They ascended the porch
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together, the wood planks groaned under foot, Mark fumble
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with the old key their mother had left and the lock finally
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gave with a loud crack, making Claire jump.
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He shot her a reassuring smile he didn't feel.
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It's just a house. He said softly.
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She nodded but her eyes remained wide.
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Stepping inside, they were greeted by a stale chill.
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The air smelled of dust, mold, and something indefinably sweet,
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like flowers long since dried and dead.
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Claire found a light switch and flicked it.
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Nothing. The power was off.
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Mark swept the beam of his flashlight across the foyer.
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Sheets draped over furniture like ghostly forms, wallpaper
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peeling into long strips, and an old grandfather clock stood
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guard in the corner, its pendulum still.
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As they ventured further, the quiet was thick and unbroken.
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They were truly alone in this House of echoes.
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Mark set down their bags in what used to be the parlor.
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The flashlights, narrow beam, painted long shadows on the
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walls. I'll go find the breaker box.
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He said, trying to sound upbeat. Claire nodded and knelt to unzip
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one of the bags, producing 2 thick candles and a lighter.
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Within minutes, a small flame cast a trembling glow, pushing
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back the darkness a few feet in each direction.
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The siblings exchanged a glance and gave each other small smiles
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of encouragement. While Mark went to restore the
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power, Claire remained in the parlor, The candles glow her
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only company. She scanned the room, heart
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thumping. Here stood the old rocking chair
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where Grandma Rose used to sit and knit.
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It rocked gently, as if nudged by an unseen hand.
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She stepped closer, the floorboard sawing beneath her
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chair. The chair was still now was
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probably just a draft, she told herself.
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She wrapped her arms around herself and wandered toward a
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side table covered in a dusty sheet.
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On it sat a framed photograph. Lifting the sheet, Claire
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revealed the photo and felt a pang in her chest.
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It was her mother. As a young girl.
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She was smiling brightly on this very porch, Rose's arm around
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her shoulders. They both looked so happy.
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Claire bit her lip, recalling how that happiness had drained
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from her mother in the later years, replaced by sorrow and
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ramblings about voices in the house.
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A sudden thud from upstairs shattered the silence.
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Claire gasped, nearly dropping the frame.
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Her candle flickered. Mark.
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She called out with her voice tight.
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No answer. Mark was in the basement, not
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upstairs. The thud sounded again, louder,
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as if something heavy had fallen onto the floor in an upper room.
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Claire's mind raced. An intruder, possibly, or
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something else. With her heart continuing to
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pound, she took a tentative step into the hall.
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That staircase rose before her, its upper landing swallowed in
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the darkness. She stared into that void,
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candlelight quivering, and for a moment she thought she had heard
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a faint whisper filtering down a small murmur just out of the
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edge of hearing. It almost sounded like her name
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was being said, and the hairs on her neck rose up at the thought.
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Before she could call for Mark again, he appeared at the end of
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the hall, flashlight in hand. Power's out for good, the wires
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are shot. He said, then he noticed her
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stance. What's wrong?
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Claire turned to him, her face pale.
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I heard something upstairs. She whispered.
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Mark frowned, stepping forward protectively.
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Together they climbed the stairs, the wood moaning under
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each footstep. At the top, Mark swept his
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flashlight. Around the corridor was empty,
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doors to bedrooms and storage rooms ajar.
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Dust motes danced in the beam, and there was no sign of
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anything out of place. Mark checked each room briskly,
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opening closets, peering under old furniture, but there was
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nothing. It was probably an animal on the
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roof. He reassured Claire, who nodded
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uncertainly. Yet as they stared back down,
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she caught one last sound, one that was so soft she thought she
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might have imagined it, a distant sobbing of a woman.
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She didn't tell Mark though, not yet.
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They set up camp for the night in the parlor, preferring to
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stay together on the ground floor.
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Mark managed to get the fireplace in the parlor lit with
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some dry wood that he had found, and soon a small fire crackled,
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easing the chill. The siblings sat on the dusty
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rug with blankets wrapped around them, the warm light painted
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flickering shapes on the walls. It should have been cozy, but
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unease clung to them. Mark was fiddling with a
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handheld radio he had brought, but it only hissed with static.
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There was no signal in these deep woods.
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He shut it off, and for a moment the only sounds heard were the
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pop of embers in the tick of that old grandfather clock,
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which had inexplicably began ticking again.
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Claire broke the silence. Do you remember much about
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coming here as kids? She asked quietly.
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Mark stared into the fire. Bits and pieces, he said.
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Mostly happy times until that last visit.
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Claire nodded. That final visit over 15 years
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ago, when she was only a child of seven.
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The night that she had been sent home early with an uncle while
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Mark stayed with Mom. Something happened that night.
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Their mother had never spoken directly of it, but her behavior
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changed forever. She became anxious, depressive,
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muttering about seeing her father, who had died in Ashwood
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house years before, wandering the halls.
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It was as if part of her had never left this place.
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Claire remembered waking at her home to her mother's screams
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from nightmares about Ashwood. Mark's jaw tightened.
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Mom always said that this house was special to our family, but
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after Grandmother died here, she refused to return and I never
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understood why. Claire hesitated, then admitted
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in a small voice. I think Mom saw things here and
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heard things. She used to tell me at night
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that Grandma Rose was watching us.
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At the time I thought she meant as an Angel or something, but
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now I'm not so sure. Mark turned to her, surprise in
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his eyes. He hadn't known that.
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Before he could respond, a sharp clatter came from the kitchen
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adjoining the parlor. It sounded like a metal pot
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falling, and both of them jumped up.
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Stay here. Mark ordered, grabbing the
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flashlight. He stepped to the dark kitchen
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doorway. The firelight didn't reach that
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room, and its interior was pitch black.
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As he swung the beam across the kitchen, something skittered
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across the floor. A raccoon, it seemed, and it
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then disappeared through a broken lower cabinet panel.
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Mark exhaled with his pulse calming.
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Probably it had knocked over a pan.
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Just a critter. He reported, relief evident.
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Claire managed a shaky smile. They then settled again by the
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fire. Mark poked at the embers, adding
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another log. Will clean up, sort through
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things tomorrow and be out of here by tomorrow evening.
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He said decisively. Claire agreed readily.
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Neither wanted to spend more time there than necessary.
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Later that night, Claire was dozing off under her blanket
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while Mark kept first watch. He wasn't sure what he was
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watching for. The house was abandoned after
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all, yet he felt unwilling to fully sleep.
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His eyes grew heavy as the fire died down, and just as he was
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about to nod off, a creak sounded from the hallway, like a
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footstep on the wooden floor. Mark's eyes snapped open.
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The hall lay beyond the parlor door, and he could just make out
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the edge of the grandfather clock and the faint firelight.
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It, strangely, was no longer ticking.
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He rose silently, straining to listen.
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Another creak, unmistakable this time, and then a gentle series
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of knocks on the front door. Mark's heart lurched into his
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throat. Who would come here at this
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hour? He grabbed the flashlight and
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crept forward. Claire stirred awake,
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whispering. What is it?
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Someone's at the door, Mark said under his breath.
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Claire sat up, fear jolting through her drowsiness.
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Mark approached the door, every instinct screaming that
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something was wrong. The knock then came again, a
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polite tapping. He mustered courage and called
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Hello, who's there? But there was no answer, just
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silence thick enough to choke on.
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He glanced back at Claire, who had risen, clutching her blanket
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around her. He grasped the doorknob and
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slowly turned it, the latch clicking.
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Opening the door just a few inches, he peered out with his
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flashlight. The beam illuminated an empty
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porch and the yard beyond. There was no one.
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The night was deathly still. Not even a breeze stirred.
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Mark's breath fogged in the cold air.
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He stepped onto the porch, shining the light all around,
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but there was nothing but overgrown weeds in the gravel
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driveway, the one that their car was quietly parked on.
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A chill crawled over his skin. He shut and re bolted the door.
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No one's there, he said softly. Claire had come up behind him.
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I heard it too, Mark. Clear as day.
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They then exchanged uneasy looks.
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Something unseen was toying with them.
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By the next day's Gray morning light, Mark and Claire were
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eager to finish their business. They spent hours sorting through
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what was salvageable photo albums, some antique Knick
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knacks of grandma roses, and important papers.
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Both tried to act as though the previous night had just been
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nerves and natural noises, but each knew that it was more.
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They moved mostly in silence, the tension between them taut.
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Claire could sense Mark's skepticism wavering.
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He looked strained, eyes darting to empty doorways, as if
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expecting to see someone standing there.
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In the afternoon, they ventured into the master bedroom, the
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very room where Grandma Rose had died in her sleep decades ago.
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Dust laid thick on the vanity and the framed mirror above it.
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As Claire wiped a circle clean on the mirror with a rag, she
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paused, seeing her reflection and marks behind her.
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For an instant, she thought she saw a third figure reflected
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over her shoulder, a gaunt old woman and a lace nightgown
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standing between them with hollow eyes.
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Claire whirled around with a gasp, but no one else was there.
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But the mirror surface, now cleared of dust, suddenly
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splintered with a web of cracks radiating from the center.
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Mark dropped the box he was carrying.
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The siblings stared at the mirror, their hearts thudding in
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their chests. The cracks in the glass vaguely
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formed a shape, almost like that of a spider or a human esque
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figure. Claire's hand shook.
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We need to go, Mark. She whispered with her voice
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quivering. This house, it's angry or
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something. Mark swallowed, picking up the
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box again to mask his own fear. Soon as we finish mom's
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paperwork. He muttered.
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They found what they needed in an old roll top desk in the
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corner, the deed, some letters and a leather bound diary that
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belonged to Grandma Rose. Curious, Claire opened the diary
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and the siblings skimmed through brittled Yellow Pages.
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Rose's knee cursive detailed her daily life, gardening, cooking.
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But the final entries grew erratic.
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One entry caught their eye. I hear him at night.
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Thomas knocks on the door, but I know he's been dead for 10
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years. He wants me to join him.
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Last night I saw him at the foot of my bed, smiling.
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I'm not afraid to go. The entry was dated the night
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before Rose died. Thomas was their grandfather,
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who indeed had died years prior in the very same house.
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Claire read the words aloud, tears in her eyes.
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She was seeing grandfather's ghost, and she wasn't afraid.
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Mark exhaled with a shaky breath.
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Their mother had hinted at similar experiences, seeing her
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father's specter in the halls. It's like all the Sullivans get
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called back here by the dead. Mark said with his voice hushed.
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A sudden bang then echoed from downstairs, as if a door had
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slammed itself shut. They both jumped.
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That was enough. They gathered the essential
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papers and decided to leave the rest.
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It was growing dark again. The day had slipped away faster
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than expected, and neither relished a second night.
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But fate had other plans. When Mark tried the front door,
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he found it stuck fast. He yanked at the knob, and it
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wouldn't budget. It was as if it was held by an
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unseen force. No, he said, not now.
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With his adrenaline spiking, he and Claire together pulled, and
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suddenly the door flew open with such force that Claire staggered
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back. A frigid wind blasted into the
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foyer, extinguishing their candle and Lantern.
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The darkness that fell was absolute, and in it they heard a
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soft giggle, a child's giggle, echoing from somewhere above.
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Claire's trembling hand found marks.
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Did you hear that? She whispered, and he nodded,
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though she could barely see him through the dim light from the
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clouded dusk outside. They had opened the door, but
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outside was now pitch black and uninviting, an early night
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descending with storm clouds gathering.
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The giggle then sounded again, this time from the hallway
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behind them. Blair's eyes welled with tears.
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We have to get out. She insisted.
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Mark agreed wholeheartedly. Grabbing their bag and the
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documents, they stepped onto the porch only to have the doors
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slammed shut behind them with a boom that seemed to cause the
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entire house to shutter. Mark fumble with the car keys as
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Thunder rumbled in the distance. Claire was already halfway to
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the car when she realized that Mark wasn't following.
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He stood at the foot of the porch steps staring at the car.
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All four tires were now completely flat, as if slashed.
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In the fading light, they could see deep gashes in the rubber.
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How? Claire stammered.
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Mark spun around, scanning the area, but there was no sign of
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another person, no footprints. The air then felt suddenly
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oppressive, heavy with the promise of a storm and something
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more malevolent. A fat raindrop then splashed on
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Claire's cheek. They were stranded.
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The keys to the old shed, Mark said, thinking aloud.
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There been an old pickup truck in the shed years ago.
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Maybe, just maybe, it still worked.
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It was a slim hope. The shed was behind the house,
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past an overgrown garden. With flashlights in hand, they
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dashed through the yard as the sky split with lightning.
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The Thunder that followed was so loud it rattled in their chests.
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Rain lashed down as Mark and Claire pried open the shed's
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swollen doors. Inside, the smell of gasoline
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and dust filled their noses. Mark's flashlight found the
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shape of the old pickup truck under a tarp.
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He yanked the tarp aside, coughing at the billow of dust.
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The truck sat like a fossil of another age, rusted blue paint
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and flat tires. It wouldn't be going anywhere
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tonight. Claire's hope sank Mark.
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We might have to wait out the storm and walk by morning.
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She said, wiping rain from her eyes.
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Mark cursed under his breath, frustrated and scared.
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He knew staying men facing whatever was inside the house,
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but stumbling blindly through a stormy forest could be just as
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dangerous. A sudden noise made both of them
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freeze. Through the roar of the rain,
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they heard music. A faint tinkling melody was
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coming from inside the house, audible even outside.
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What made things stranger? Zac Clair recognized it.
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It was a lullaby tune from an old music box their mother used
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to have, one that also had belonged to their Grandma Rose.
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They had left it on the Mantel in the parlour earlier, and now
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it was playing by itself. Each note carried through the
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night eerily slow. Blair felt tears mixed with the
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rain on her face. It's mom's lullaby, she
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whispered. Mark said, his jaw.
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No, it's not, Mom. Claire, don't listen to it.
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But Claire was already stepping back toward the house, entranced
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by the memories. On countless nights as children,
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that lullaby had soothed them to sleep.
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Hearing it now tugged at her heartstrings.
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It'd be their mother's spirit. Was she there trying to comfort
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them? Or was something else luring
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them? Without realizing, they had both
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moved back toward the house. The front door stood open,
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despite having slammed when they initially exited the house.
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A warm light glowed from within. The fireplace was roaring,
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casting flickers onto the porch. Mark's mind then began to race.
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They had put the fire out before packing up, hadn't they?
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Yes, they definitely did. So who rekindled it, they
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wondered. The siblings exchanged a look of
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fear and resolve. They had to confront whatever it
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was. There was no escaping it now.
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Hand in hand, they crossed the threshold once more.
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The front door drifted shut behind them, as if guided by
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invisible hands, but softly this time.
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Inside the music box, Lullaby chimed from the parlor.
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The fire danced high, far too vigorous for an unattended
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flame. In front of the hearth stood a
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figure. Claire's breath caught as she
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saw the silhouette of a woman in a modest dress, Gray hair, and a
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loose bun. Grandma.
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She whispered incredulously. The figure then turned.
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Even with her spectral, translucent form, the
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resemblance was clear. It was Grandma Rose, just as she
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had looked in the old photos, eyes Milky and distant.
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Rose's lips curved into a gentle smile.
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Mark felt a lump in his throat. Could it truly be her Gran?
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He began taking a step forward, and then bang.
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A door somewhere upstairs slammed violently, cutting him
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off. Rose's apparition suddenly
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flickered, her kindly smile twisting into an expression of
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terror. She lifted an arm and pointed
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towards the stairs. Claire and Mark both turned to
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look, and at the top of the staircase stood another figure,
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shrouded in darkness. Lightning flashed through a
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window, illuminating the form. A tall man in an old fashioned
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suit, half his face cast in the shadow.
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Their grandfather Thomas, or what remained of him.
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His eyes were fixed on Rose with a look of longing and rage
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combined. Claire realized they were
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witnessing an echo of the past, the final night of Rose's life,
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perhaps. Rose's ghostly form backed away
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toward the earth. I won't go with you, she
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whispered, voice thin and warbling with age and fear.
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The man at the stairs. Thomas's ghost descended step by
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step, each footfall a dole thud. The house reacted with creaks
30:37
and a sudden gust that whisked papers off the tables.
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Mark grabbed Claire's arm. We need to stop this.
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He yelled over the rising wind that seemed to swirl inside the
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house. The siblings placed themselves
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between the ghosts. Claire, with tears streaming,
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shouted to the man. Leave her alone, she's not yours
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to take. Thomas's ghost paused, as if
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noticing the living for the first time.
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His eyes, black pits, bore into Claire.
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She felt a stab of ice in her chest and staggered.
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Mark moved in front of her protectively.
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The music box melody warped and slowed and then stopped.
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She is mine. Thomas's voice rumbled, sounding
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like dry leaves. With a burst of speed, his
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spirit lunged. Rose's ghost wailed, and
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suddenly the room exploded in chaos.
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The fire blew out, plunging everything into strobing
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darkness, lit only by the flashes of lightning.
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Picture frames flew from the walls, chattering around them.
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An unseen force shoved Mark hard and he crashed against the wall,
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knocking the breath out of him. Claire screamed as an antique
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vase lifted and hurled toward her.
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She ducked and it smashed on the wall behind.
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Amidst the frenzy, Thomas's apparition advanced on roses,
32:23
driving her into a corner, his form growing larger and more
32:27
menacing with each step. Summoning courage, Claire
32:33
scrambled up and did the only thing that she could think of.
32:38
She grabbed the music box from the Mantel.
32:41
It was still open, the key turning on its own.
32:46
Grandpa Thomas? She screamed out.
32:49
The dark figure halted and twisted his head toward her
32:53
unnaturally. Claire's voice shook, but she
32:58
pressed on. You don't belong here anymore,
33:02
and Grandma doesn't want to go with you.
33:06
In response, Thomas's ghost let out a growl that resonated
33:10
through the floorboards. Mark regained his feet and
33:16
rushed to Claire's side. Together, they faced the entity.
33:21
Claire, in a burst of defiance, began to wind down the toy box,
33:26
forcing it to stop. The lullaby's notes slowed to a
33:30
crawl. The raging activity in the house
33:34
seemed to falter uncertainly. Rose's ghost, quivering, took
33:39
the chance to slip away from the corner and move near the
33:43
siblings, as if seeking shelter behind them.
33:47
You can't have her? Mark shouted.
33:50
And you can't have us either. He grabbed an iron poker from
33:54
beside the fireplace, brandishing it.
33:57
The iron glinted. Traditionally, iron was said to
34:01
ward off spirits. Thomas's ghost recoiled at the
34:05
side of the poker, his form flickering.
34:10
The Thunder outside built into a crescendo as the storm peaked.
34:15
The dark Specter's face contorted with fury and a
34:20
rasping voice that no longer resembled their grandfathers.
34:24
It hissed. All of you are mine.
34:28
Blood of my blood. You belong to this house.
34:33
With that, Thomas's spirit surged forward in a final,
34:38
furious attempt, the wind of his passing dousing even the embers
34:43
and the hearth. Mark instinctively thrust the
34:46
poker out. There was a sound like a scream
34:50
mixed with a howl and the metal passed through the apparition
34:55
which shrieked and burst apart into a cloud of black, swirling
35:00
smoke. The force of it knocked both
35:04
siblings backward on the floor. The cloud of darkness swirled
35:08
violently around the ceiling and then streamed up the staircase
35:13
and vanished into the attic with a final ear splitting shriek.
35:20
Silence fell, broken only by the distant patter of rain on the
35:25
roof. The furniture settled.
35:28
The house stood calm and still, as if nothing had happened.
35:34
Claire and Mark sat up, trembling and clinging to each
35:38
other. The only light now came from the
35:41
occasional flicker of lightning. Rose's ghost stood before them,
35:47
her form now gentle and sad. Thank you, she whispered, her
35:53
voice clearer now. Her eyes met Claire's and Marks
35:58
in turn. They felt a warmth, a
36:02
grandmother's love, emanate from her.
36:06
Rose drifted closer, reaching out a translucent hand.
36:11
Claire felt a soft touch brush her hair.
36:15
It felt like a cool breeze, stroking her, yet comforting her
36:19
as well. Mark heard a faint echo of his
36:23
name and Rose's voice. Rose's ghost pointed once more,
36:28
this time toward the diary on the floor, as if urging them to
36:33
remember what they had learned. Then she gazed upward, toward
36:37
the attic where the darkness had fled.
36:40
Her task was unfinished. Thomas's tormented spirit was
36:45
still up there, but dawn was approaching.
36:49
Through a window, the siblings could see the storm was passing
36:54
and the black of the night was giving way to early grey.
36:59
Rose's figure started to fade with the coming light.
37:03
Claire found herself crying out. Grandma, wait, what should we
37:08
do? Rose turned to them one last
37:11
time. Her face was peaceful.
37:15
Live. She whispered, the word echoing
37:19
in the air. And then she was gone, her form
37:24
dissolving into the first ray of morning sun that peeked through
37:30
the broken clouds. Morning light flooded the ruined
37:34
parlor. The aftermath was evident.
37:39
Shattered glass, toppled furniture, water dripping from a
37:44
broken window pane so it smeared across the walls.
37:50
Mark and Claire sat amid the debris, exhausted and
37:54
bewildered, but alive. The oppressive heaviness that
37:59
had plagued Ashwood House seemed lifted.
38:03
The air felt lighter, cleansed by the rain and perhaps by the
38:09
departure of Rose's ghost. Thomas's presence was no longer
38:15
palpable, though an uneasy feeling lingered, knowing some
38:19
part of him remained trapped in the attic.
38:22
With unspoken agreement, the siblings began to clean up as
38:26
best as they could. It felt almost like tending to a
38:31
grave, a sign of respect for the house and their ancestors.
38:38
They worked quietly, side by side.
38:42
Claire's hands still shook when she picked up the remnants of
38:46
the music box, its hinge broken from when she wrenched it.
38:53
She found the tiny photograph that had been inside the lid,
38:58
picture of Grandma Rose and Grandfather Thomas, and happier
39:03
times long before death and despair overtook them.
39:10
Mark gently took it from her and set it aside carefully.
39:16
By the afternoon, the sky was clear and pale.
39:21
Mark had repaired one of the car's tires with the spare and
39:24
patch kit. The others he managed to inflate
39:28
just enough with a portable pump would be a slow, careful drive
39:34
back to town, but it was possible.
39:38
They packed with few items they were taking, notably the diary
39:43
and papers. As they stood on the porch,
39:46
ready to depart, Claire turned to look back into the house.
39:52
Sunbeam slanted through the open door, illuminating motes of dust
39:58
dancing in the air. In the daylight, the house
40:02
looked merely old and sad, not frightening.
40:07
Her eyes landed on the staircase and followed it up to the
40:10
shadows of the attic door. The chill ran through her.
40:14
She remembered the inky cloud of Thomas's spirit fleeing there.
40:20
Would he still be lurking and waiting there for them?
40:25
We could burn it down, Mark said abruptly, reading her thoughts.
40:30
His voice was flat, but Claire heard the conflict in it.
40:35
This house held so much pain. Perhaps destroying it would end
40:39
Thomas's curse. She considered the idea.
40:44
Strike a match and let the old wood and all of its ghosts turn
40:49
into ash. She even imagined Rose's spirit
40:53
might approve freeing Thomas and herself from this limbo.
40:58
Claire stepped off the porch and looked at the weathered facade
41:02
one last time. No, she said quietly.
41:07
This was home to those we loved. It's part of us.
41:12
She reached and took Mark's hand.
41:15
We'll let it stand. We'll let it rest.
41:19
Maybe in time, what haunts it will fade.
41:23
Mark searched her eyes and then nodded.
41:27
They locked the front door and walked to the car.
41:31
The Sullivan siblings drove away from the Ashwood house as the
41:35
afternoon light grew golden. The tires crunched over gravel,
41:40
then found the main road. Neither spoke for a long while,
41:46
each replaying the night's events feeling unreal yet etched
41:51
in their minds forever. Finally, Mark broke the silence.
41:57
Claire, about what happened last night, what we saw.
42:04
She placed a hand on his arm gently.
42:07
I know it was real. We'll figure it out together.
42:13
For the first time in years, Mark allowed himself to feel the
42:16
grief of their mother's death and the weight of their family's
42:21
history. He blinked back tears.
42:25
Claire, resting her head on his shoulder briefly as he drove,
42:29
offered him solace. They had faced the darkness and
42:34
survived, and in doing so had repaired something in their own
42:39
relationship that had long been strained by unspoken fears.
42:45
As the car rounded a bend, Ashwood House vanished from the
42:49
rearview mirror. Claire let out a long breath.
42:53
Do you think he'll ever find peace?
42:55
She asked softly, referring to their grandfather's angry
42:59
spirit. Mark was quiet for a moment.
43:03
I hope so, he said. Maybe Grandma will help him
43:08
wherever they are now. Claire nodded.
43:11
She like to think of Rose guiding Thomas into the light,
43:15
forgiving him for whatever sins kept him bound.
43:19
The alternative, that his spirit remained in the attic, forever
43:24
mad and vengeful, was too grim. However, she couldn't help but
43:30
imagine in her mind's eye that back at the house, a curtain
43:34
moved in the upper window, as if a person unseen watched them
43:39
leave. And for a brief second, the pale
43:43
face, Thomas's gone, visage pressed to the glass.
43:49
But as the Sullivan siblings drove further away, heading
43:52
toward a new dawn, that face melted back into the shadows.
43:58
For now, the house then truly fell silent.
44:02
The cycle of anguish that had gripped it for generations was
44:07
broken at last, or at least suspended.
44:13
On the road ahead, sunlight broke through the trees, and
44:17
Claire cracked her window to feel the fresh breeze.
44:21
It felt like a blessing, the cool wind of freedom.
44:26
Mark reached over and squeezed her hand, and she squeezed back.
44:31
Whatever lay ahead, be it healing or nightmares from what
44:36
they had endured, they would not face it alone.
44:40
In the distance, Thunder rumbled one last time, but it was moving
44:45
off, leaving clearer skies behind.
44:49
Ashwood House stood quietly against the horizon, a silent
44:53
witness to both the sorrows of the past and the courage of the
44:58
living. And though its shadows still
45:01
held echoes of yesterday's ghosts, new light had begun to
45:05
Pierce the darkness. 1 ray of hope at a time.
45:15
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Make sure to stay safe out there and take care.
45:52
I'll see you next time.