They rolled up to the crumbling cottage at dusk, when the sky was turning a pale blue but had not yet surrendered to night. The engine coughcoughed, then fell silent, and the world seemed to hold its breath. Only the wind chased dry leaves across the yard and whispered through the overgrown grass.
Lovely, said Sam, pulling a backpack from the boot. A proper holiday park for people with iron nerves.
For anyone over forty who cant afford a decent holiday centre, added Katie, squinting at the building. Just look at it.
The house leaned, though the walls were oddly straight when you stared long enough. Moss clung to parts of the roof, a loft window was boarded from the inside, a firstfloor pane was missing and had once been sealed with a piece of plastic that now fluttered and cracked in the breeze.
Thats nostalgia right there, said Dave, slamming the car door. Remember how we used to sprint past this place at school? We were terrified to get close in the daytime, but at night it felt like someone was watching from the window.
It was you who was scared, Lily replied, adjusting her scarf. I never went there. My mum would chase me home before dark.
Sam gave a halfsmile. He was fortytwo, his back aching from the drive, a dull throb in his temples. He thought back to the days when they could walk from the other end of the village, laughing, lugging packets of seeds and cheap fizzy drinks, and nobody complained about a sore back.
So, he clapped his hands, tour of the estate. Whos the chief psychic?
You, said Katie. Youre the one who suggested the trip.
It really had been his idea. When the group chat buzzed about a weekend getaway, hed jokingly posted a photo of an abandoned house with the caption, Lets go ghosthunting. The picture had come from the village Facebook page, where someone mentioned the place had stood empty for years. The joke stuck, and then, absurdly, it became the only realistic option. Resorts were pricey, cottages were booked solid, and a distant relative of Daves, through a chain of acquaintances, swore the property was legally ownerless, abandoned, and no one would mind if they spent a night there.
They drew nearer. Dampness and the scent of old timber drifted from the doorway. No keys the lock had been broken long ago. Sam nudged the door with his shoulder; it grudgingly gave way, spilling a cloud of dust.
Lord, whispered Lily, it feels like were stepping into someone elses life.
Inside, the air was cool and smelled of stale wood, dust and old plaster. Sam inhaled sharply, a lump forming in his throat. The floorboards gave underfoot but held. In the hall, a motheaten jacket hung on a nail, rusted keys lay in a heap, and a mismatched pair of shoes stared out from the floor.
Just the ambiance, said Dave.
They slipped into the main room. Peeling paint exposed faded, floral wallpaper in patches. In the corner sat a sofa with a sunken mattress, draped in a grey, dustcovered sheet. A table bore a stack of yellowed, crumpled papers.
Katie brushed the window frame. The wood was rough, the paint flaking.
If we all get sick here, Ill kill you, she snapped at Sam, her tone laced with her usual dry wit.
Ive got a firstaid kit, he replied. And, mind you, were not camping in a field.
He tried to sound casual, but the house pressed on him, heavy and familiar. It was just an old, abandoned house there were plenty of those across the country but because it sat on the edge of their childhood, it felt personal.
They settled in. Dave and Lily hauled sleeping bags and inflatable mattresses from the car; Katie produced a stack of plastic plates, a thermos of soup, sandwiches and cheese. Sam checked the sockets and, with relief, found one that still worked. He plugged in a portable lamp; a dim yellow bulb flickered to life.
Ah, civilisation, said Lily.
They ate around the table, and conversation drifted to the usual: work, kids, mortgages, the news. Laughter rose a shade too loud, as if they were trying to drown out the houses sighs.
Who lived here, anyway? Katie asked between bites. I only remember being warned that some psycho lived on the premises.
Not a psycho, said Dave. Just a lonely bloke. His wife died, his son vanished, and he eventually lost his mind.
Is that your own invention or the official story? Sam asked.
My dad used to say, Dont go in, the owners angry, hell bite anyone. They say they later found him or maybe he disappeared himself. Its a nasty tale, Dave muttered.
Lilys eyes dropped. Shed always struggled with death talks; Sam knew her mother had died recently, the funeral a heavy burden. Hed sensed she clung to every detail, fearing everything would crumble.
Alright then, Sam said, lets officially open our horror festival. After dinner, a tour of the house. Well find the attic, the cellar, a room with bloodstained scribbles. First one to scream does the dishes.
Katie scoffed. Of course youd think of an excuse.
When they finished eating and warmed themselves a bit, they grabbed flashlights and began to explore. Sam led, the corridor darker than the lamps reach. Walls peeled, a warped mirror reflected their silhouettes. An old rug lay threadbare, holes yawning.
This could be a film set, Lily whispered.
Were already filming, Dave replied, raising his phone.
Rooms mirrored each other: empty wardrobes, bare walls, scattered old newspapers, shattered plates. One room displayed a faded calendar showing a seaside view, dated about twenty years ago.
Imagine staring at that sea every day and never leaving, Sam mused.
Just like us, Katie noted.
Sam shrugged. Hed once dreamed of leaving the village, then the town, then the country, only to end up in a district office, crunching other peoples numbers. Sometimes his life felt like that untouched calendar, never turned.
The attic didnt appear at once. A narrow hallway concealed a door, behind which a creaking wooden staircase led up. The steps groaned but held. At the top, darkness, dust, and a heavy, stale smell filled the space.
Careful, Sam warned. If anything falls, Im not responsible.
The attic was low, its sloping roof covered in cobwebs. Boxes, old suitcases, planks lined the walls.
Looks like a graveyard of other peoples junk, Dave said.
Katie bent over a nearby box. Books and school notebooks, she said.
Sam shone his torch inside. The box indeed held worn textbooks, school journals, a thick ruled notebook tied with twine.
Treasure, Sam declared, pulling out the notebook. He untied the cord; on the cover, a ballpoint pen had written, Diary. 1998. The handwriting was uneven, childlike, but bold.
Now it begins, Lily said.
What are you scared of? Its just a notebook, Sam replied, though a tightening in his chest told him otherwise.
They descended back to the main room, the lamp casting a yellow circle, beyond which shadows lurked. Outside, night had deepened, the wind thrashed, and a loose board slammed somewhere.
Sam opened the diary. The first page bore a name: Steve, the surname smeared by moisture.
Go on, Dave urged.
Sam cleared his throat and read aloud:
10 March. Had it with Dad again. He called me lazy, said Id never get anywhere. I told him Id leave home when I turn eighteen. He laughed, said thered be nowhere for me to go. I dont know what to do. Sometimes it feels Im stuck here forever.
The room fell quiet; even the wind seemed to hush.
Bloody 90s, that, Dave remarked.
Next, Lily whispered.
Sam turned the page. The ink was smeared in places, as if the writer had not lifted the pen.
15 March. Mum wept again tonight. I heard it through the wall. Wanted to go in but didnt. Shell say everythings fine, but I know it isnt. Dad came home drunk, shouting, throwing things. Today he smashed a mug on the wall. The shards are still on the floor.
Katie winced. Sam noticed her fingers clenched the table edge. He remembered her own childhood, a father who stumbled home drunk, his voice shattering the house.
Enough? she asked. We didnt come here for therapy.
Just a bit more, Lily said, eyes bright.
Sam hesitated, torn between curiosity and a guilty feeling, as if he were stealing someone elses grief. Yet the notebook lay open, pulling him onward.
He read on, finding entries about school, friends, a desire to go to the city, become a programmer. A father scorned his ambitions, insisting the family would stay in the factory. A mother who wept in secret, a younger brother forever ill in hospital, a father blaming the boy for the sickness.
Thats us, isnt it? Dave said suddenly. Not literally, but
Sam nodded. They all carried stories of demanding parents, dreams of escape, and the weight of staying.
The wind outside grew louder. A door slammed somewhere down the hall; Lily flinched and forced a nervous laugh.
The house doesnt like us reading its secrets, Dave joked.
Very funny, muttered Katie.
Sam turned another page. The writing grew larger, hurried.
24 April. Doctors said brother wont get better. Mum spent twenty minutes in the loo, didnt come out. Dad said it was my fault. If I hadnt been born, things would be different. I know that isnt true, but it hurts.
A tightness clenched Sams throat. He stopped reading aloud, ran a finger over the lines, feeling the ache of guilt that wasnt his own yet lived inside him.
Whats next? Lily asked.
Nothing special, Sam answered. Just ordinary stuff.
Katie reached for the notebook. He hesitated, wanting to keep the words to himself, but handed it over anyway.
She began to read, brow furrowing. Dave drifted to the doorway, then back, eyes scanning the room.
Theres still a bed in the bedroom, he noted. With a mattress. Scary to imagine who slept there.
Katie slammed the notebook shut.
Thats enough for tonight, she declared. I dont want to read about the hospital, the funerals not now.
Dave asked, Whats wrong?
Nothing, she said, searching for a place to set the book down, finally returning it to the table. Just Im done.
Lily pushed back her chair, stood.
Ill get tea, she said, teeth chattering. Im cold.
In a kitchen that might have been called a kitchen, they found an old stove that miraculously still worked. They fetched water, boiled tea, and Lilys hands trembled slightly as she stirred.
How are you? Sam asked.
Fine, she replied, eyes distant. Its all too familiar, reading about a life that mirrors yours, only the names are different.
He thought of his own fathers angry outburst, the shattered ashtray, the lingering shame. Lilys words echoed his own hidden thoughts.
They sipped tea on cracked stools, trying to talk about trivial things, but the house had already woven its story into theirs, making it hard to step back.
Lets hold a séance for Steve tonight, Dave suggested later, when they gathered again in the main room. See what he has to say.
Youre daft, Katie said. There are no spirits here.
What else could be here? Dave pressed. Just an old house? Then why does it feel wrong?
Youre sensitive, Lily replied. And because were reading someone elses diary.
Sam fell silent, recalling his own teenage diary, tucked away in a loft box, never opened since marriage, children, endless shifts. He imagined the notebook on his own shelf, its pages waiting.
Night fell quickly. The wind turned into a full storm, something rattling on the roof, loose shutters slamming. Inside, the heater theyd managed to bring sputtered, yet the air grew colder.
They spread their sleeping bags on the floor, agreeing to sleep together rather than split up.
Im not going to lie alone in this hole, Katie said, halfjoking, halfserious.
Me neither, Lily added.
Sam curled up against the wall, the mattress creaking beneath him. They switched off the lamp, leaving only a flashlight aimed at the ceiling, a weak glow that kept the darkness at bay.
So, scary stories? Dave asked, settling in.
We already read one, Lily replied.
Soon their voices faded, fatigue pulling them down. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed, and a faint hiss rose from the attic. They drifted, half awake, half dreaming, the house breathing around them.
In Sams halfdream, the cottage was no longer derelict but lived in: a kitchen filled with soup, a TV playing a concert, a teenage boy on the sofa scribbling in a notebook. In the hallway, voices shouted, a door thumped, the boy pretended not to hear.
He woke with a start, a heavy thud sounding somewhere nearby. The room was dark, the flashlight dead. The wind wailed. He propped himself up, heart hammering.
Hey, he whispered. Did you hear that?
No answer. He looked around; Lilys space was empty.
Lily? he called louder.
Only the wind and a faint creak answered. He sighed, reached for his phone, and the screen lit the room with a pale glow. Katie lay curled up, turned away from the wall. Dave was on his back, mouth ajar, snoring softly. Lilys spot was truly vacant.
He rose, careful not to step on anyones belongings, his feet biting the cold floor. He switched on his phones torch, sweeping the light across the room. Lilys coat rested on a chair, her jacket hanging from a hook.
Lily? he called again.
A muffled sound rose from the attic, then a soft sob.
A shiver raced up his spine. He was a man of fortytwo, yet the darkness of the loft seemed to swallow him whole.
He trudged up the squeaking stairs, the flashlight catching the ribs of the roof, boxes, old suitcases. In a corner, near a stack of books, Lily sat on the floor, knees drawn up, tears streaming.
What are you doing? he asked, standing over her. You scared me.
She glanced up, eyes glistening. I didnt mean to wake you.
Whats in that notebook? he asked, gesturing to the thin volume in her lap.
I couldnt sleep, she whispered. All those entries kept turning in my head, so I came back, to see if there was more.
Sam sat beside her, the notebooks cover bearing, in the same shaky hand, S. 2001. Winter.
What does it say? he asked.
She swallowed. He writes about leaving for the city, coming back when his father died, staying alone. And
She turned a page, handed it to him. Sam illuminated the page; the words trembled on the paper.
I thought when he died it would be easier, but the house grew only quieter. Too quiet. Sometimes I think I hear him walking the hall. I know its just wind, but at night it sounds different. I talk to myself so I dont go mad. Mum left for her sister, said she couldnt live here any longer. I stayed. Someone had to stay.
A tight knot formed in Sams chest. Stay. He had once decided to stay for his mother when his father passed, while his brother left. He had stayed, and now his mother, old and ill, demanded his attention, and his anger flared at everyone his brother, his mother, himself.
More, Lily said softly.
He turned the page.
Sometimes I think if Id left then, everything would be different. But where could I go? The house pulls you like a swamp. I know every creak, every crack. Im scared that one day Ill simply stop leaving the house, become like him. I already talk to him. To the one who isnt there.
Lily covered her face with her hands.
I I do the same with my mum, she admitted, voice breaking. Shes gone, yet I still talk to her. I think I should have visited more, not left. If I hadnt left, Id be here, in this house, in my flat, with no job, no son, nothing. Im ashamed Im glad I left.
Sam was silent, watching the trembling notebook and her shaking fingers, feeling he understood far too well. He too sometimes felt relief that his father was gone, the harsh reprimands silenced, the heavy sighs gone.
You have a right to feel glad, he said quietly. And a right to feel sorry. They arent mutually exclusive.
She managed a weak smile through tears.
Thats clever now, but doesnt help on the attic, she muttered.
A door somewhere thumped. Both flinched.
Its just the wind, Sam said, halfconvincing himself.
Or Dave went to the loo, Lily suggested.
As the wind settled into a sigh, Sam slipped the diary into his coat pocket and walked out into the night, feeling the houses lingering breath fade behind him.
