We pulled up to the house at dusk, the sky just turning a pale blue but not yet dark. The car coughed, sputtered, and fell silent; the only sound was the wind rattling dry leaves across the yard and rustling the tall grass.
Brilliant, I said, hauling a rucksack from the boot. It looks like a resort for people with a sturdy nerve.
For folks over forty who cant afford a proper holiday centre, Katie added, squinting at the building. Just look at it.
The house seemed crooked, though the walls were actually straight if you stared long enough. Moss clung to parts of the roof, an attic window was boarded up from the inside, and one groundfloor window was missing its glass, its former plastic covering now cracked and flapping in the breeze.
Thats nostalgia right there, Dave said, slamming the car door shut. Remember how we used to dash there after school? In daylight we were scared to get close, and at night it felt like someone was watching from the window.
You were the scared one, Lily replied, tugging at her scarf. I never went there. My mum used to herd me home before dark.
I chuckled. I was fortytwo, my back aching from the drive, a dull throb in my temples, and I thought back to the days when we could walk from the far end of the village to this place, laughing, carrying a bag of sunflower seeds and cheap fizzy drinks, never complaining about sore backs.
So, whats the plan? I said, clapping my hands. A tour of the estate. Whos the chief psychic?
You, Katie said. You were the one who suggested we come.
It was true. When our group chat buzzed about getting away for the weekend, Id jokingly posted a picture of an abandoned house with the caption, Lets go ghosthunting. The photo came from the village Facebook group, where someone mentioned the property had been empty for years. The joke stuck, and then, oddly enough, it became the only viable option. Hotels were pricey, cottages were booked, and a distant relative of Daves, through a third party, claimed the house was legally ownerless, abandoned, and no one would mind if we spent a night there.
We walked closer. A damp, aged wood smell drifted from the doorway. No keys; the lock had been pried out long ago. I nudged the door with my shoulder; it gave reluctantly, and a cloud of dust billowed out.
Good heavens, Lily whispered. It feels like were intruding on someone elses life.
Inside it was cool, the air thick with stale timber, dust and old plaster. I inhaled sharply, feeling my throat tighten. The floorboards creaked underfoot but held. In the hallway a motheaten coat hung on a nail, beneath it a pile of rusted keys and a mismatched pair of boots.
Now weve got atmosphere, Dave said.
We moved into the main room. The walls were peeling, revealing faded floral wallpaper in places. In the corner sat a sofa with a sunken mattress, draped in a grey, dustcovered cover. A table held 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 joked at me, her tone dry as ever.
Ive got a firstaid kit, I replied. And, mind you, were not camping out in the wilderness.
I tried to keep my tone light, but the house pressed on me. Nothing extraordinaryjust a derelict building, the sort you find all over the country. Yet because it sat on the edge of our childhood, it felt personal.
Dave and Lily hauled sleeping bags and inflatable mattresses from the car; Katie produced some plastic cutlery, a thermos of soup and a few sandwiches with cheese. I checked for a power socket and, to my relief, found one that still worked. I plugged in a portable charger and a weak yellow bulb flickered overhead.
Ah, civilisation, Lily said.
We ate around the table, the conversation drifting to work, kids, mortgages, the news. Laughter rose a little louder than necessary, as if we were trying to drown out the houses creaks.
Who actually lived here? Katie asked between bites. I only remember being told it was haunted by some maniac.
Not a maniac, Dave replied. Just a lone bloke. His wife died, his son vanished, and he went mad living here alone.
Is that your invention or the official story? I asked.
My dad used to tell me, Dont go in, the owners a nasty one, he’ll bite you. Then they said they found him or maybe he disappeared himself. Its a grim tale.
Lily lowered her eyes; death conversations always unsettled her. I knew her mother had just passed, the funeral had been a heavy burden. In private messages shed clung to every detail, trying not to crumble.
Alright, I said, lets officially launch our horror festival. After dinner well explore the houseattic, cellar, any room with bloodstained graffiti. Whoever screams first does the dishes.
Katie snorted. Of course youd think of an excuse.
After wed eaten and warmed up a bit, we grabbed flashlights and started roving. I led, the corridor darker than the bulb could reach. Peeling paint, a crooked mirror reflecting our silhouettes, an old rug worn to holes.
This could be a film set, Lily murmured.
Were already filming, Dave replied, raising his phone.
The rooms were variations on the same theme: empty wardrobes, bare walls, scattered old newspapers, broken plates. One wall bore a faded calendar showing a seaside view, its year about twenty years old.
Imagine, I said, he must have looked at that sea every day and never left.
Katie met my gaze. Just like us, she said.
I shrugged. Id once dreamed of leaving the village, then the town, then the country, only to end up in a county office, counting other peoples money. Sometimes my life felt like that old calendar, never turned.
We finally found the attic, after a concealed staircase hidden behind a narrow hallway door. The wooden steps creaked but held. Up there it was dim, smelling of dust and stale damp.
Careful, I warned. If anything falls, Im not to blame.
The attic was low, sloping at the ceiling, cobwebs draped between joists, boxes and old suitcases stacked along the walls.
Look at this, Dave said, pointing at a heap of forgotten junk.
Katie knelt by a box. Books and school notebooks, she said.
I shone my flashlight inside. Indeed, there were tattered schoolbooks, a thick graph paper notebook bound with twine.
Treasure, I announced, pulling the notebook out.
The twine came loose easily. On the cover, in a blue ballpoint, was written, Diary. 1998. The handwriting was uneven, childlike, but the letters were large.
Now it starts, Lily said.
What are you scared of? Its just a notebook, I replied, feeling a knot tighten inside.
We carried the notebook back to the main room, the ceiling light casting a yellow circle, beyond which darkness lurked. Outside, night had fully fallen, the wind howling, a loose board clattering somewhere.
I opened the diary. The first page bore the name Steven the surname blurred by moisture.
Go on, Dave urged.
I cleared my throat and began to read aloud:
10 March. Fought with Dad again. He called me a lazy drudge, said Id never achieve anything. 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 huskier. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Wow, straight from the 90s, Dave said.
Next, Lily whispered.
I turned the page. The ink was smeared in places, as if the writer hadnt let the pen dry.
15 March. Mum was crying again last night. I heard it through the walls. I 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 against the wall. The shards are still on the floor.
Katie winced, clutching the edge of the table. I recognized the cold grip of a childhood where a father came home drunk and angry a memory she rarely spoke of.
Enough? she asked. We didnt come for therapy.
Just a bit longer, Lily said.
I hesitated, torn between curiosity and a strange guilt, as if I were trespassing on someone elses pain. Yet the diary lay open, its words pulling me deeper.
The entries spoke of school, friends, a desire to move to the city, become a programmer. A father who scoffed, insisting the family would stay in the factory. A mother who silently wept, a younger brother constantly ill, the father blaming the boys existence for the misfortune.
Sounds like us, doesnt it? Dave said softly. Not literally, but the pattern.
The wind outside grew louder, a door slamming somewhere in the hallway. Lily shivered and laughed nervously.
The house is talking, Dave joked. It doesnt like us reading its secrets.
Very funny, Katie muttered.
I flipped to another page, the handwriting larger, as if the writer was in a hurry.
24 April. Doctors said brother wont get better. Mum disappeared into the bathroom for twenty minutes. Dad blamed me, said it was my fault. If I hadnt been born, things would be different. I know thats not true, but it hurts.
My throat tightened. I stopped reading aloud, ran my fingers over the lines. Guilt, unearned yet heavy, settled in my chest.
Whats next? Lily asked.
Nothing special, I replied. Just ordinary stuff.
Katie reached for the diary. I held it back a moment, unwilling to hand over those intimate words as if they were a snack. Eventually I passed it to her.
She began to read, frowning occasionally. Lily peeked over her shoulder. Dave paced the room, then looked toward the bedroom.
The beds still there, he noted. With a mattress. Imagine who slept on it.
Katie slammed the diary shut. Thats enough for tonight.
Whats wrong? Dave asked.
Just the later pages talk about the hospital, the funeral. I dont want to hear that now, she said, placing the notebook back on the table.
Lily stood, saying shed make tea because she was cold.
In what could barely be called a kitchen, we found an old tiled stove that surprisingly still worked. We fetched water, Lily set about making tea, the clink of a kettle echoing in the cramped space. I watched her shoulders tremble slightly.
How are you holding up? I asked.
Fine, she replied, though her voice betrayed a strange familiarity. It feels like Im reading my own life, just with different names.
I thought of the time my own father, in a fit of rage, smashed an ashtray against the wall, and I spent hours picking up the shards, wondering if a better education would have prevented it.
We sipped tea on battered stools, trying to keep the conversation light. Yet the house seemed to have woven its story into ours, making it hard to shake off.
Lets have a séance tonight, try to contact Steven, Dave suggested, returning to the main room.
Youre an idiot, Katie said. There are no ghosts.
What else is there? Dave replied. Just an old house. Why does it feel wrong?
Youre too impressionable, Lily said. And because were reading a strangers diary.
I fell silent, recalling the notebook I kept in school, then at university, then stopped once I married, had a son, and a demanding job. It lay somewhere in a attic box, forgotten. Sometimes I wondered what would happen if someone discovered it after twenty years.
Night fell fast. The wind turned into a fullblown storm, shutters banging, something rattling on the roof. Inside the house grew colder despite the heater Dave had brought.
We spread our sleeping bags across the main room. Katie insisted we all share one space, refusing to be alone in a hole.
Im not going to lie here by myself, she said, you can call me a coward.
Me too, Lily added.
I curled up near the wall. The mattress creaked beneath me. We switched off the ceiling light, leaving only a flashlight pointing at the ceiling, its dim glow barely holding back the darkness.
Anyone up for a scary story? Dave asked, settling in.
We already read one, Lily replied.
We chatted a bit more, but fatigue took over. My thoughts grew sluggish, the winds howl seemed to sync with my breathing.
In my halfdream I saw the house not as a ruin but as a livedin home: a kitchen with soup, a TV playing a concert, a teenage boy on the sofa scribbling in a notebook. In the hallway someone shouted, a door slammed, the boy pretended not to hear.
I woke to a thud, the flashlight flickering out. The room was black, the wind still wailing. I propped myself up on my elbow, heart pounding.
Hey, I whispered. Did you all hear that?
No answer. I glanced around; Lilys spot was empty.
Liza? I called louder.
Silence. Only the wind and the faint creak of the house.
Right, no point, I muttered, reaching for my phone. The screen lit the room with a pale glow. Katie lay turned against the wall, Daves mouth open in a soft snore, Lilys place was indeed vacant.
I rose, careful not to step on anyones things, the cold floor biting my feet. I turned on the phones torch and shone it around. Lilys backpack leaned against the wall, her jacket draped over a chair.
Lily? I called again.
A shuffling sound came from the hallway. I followed, the beam jittering over peeling walls, the scent of old wood thickening. The kitchen doorway was cool.
Nothing. Just the empty cups wed left on the table, one tipped over as if someone had nudged it.
Lily, I whispered again. A faint rustle from the attic, then a soft whimper.
A chill ran down my spine. I was a grown man, fortytwo, standing in a dark corridor fearing the attic.
I cursed under my breath and headed for the stairs. The steps groaned with each footfall. For a moment the house seemed to breathe with me.
Upstairs, the flashlight revealed beams, boxes, old suitcases. In a corner, near a box of books, Lily sat on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, quietly sobbing.
Whats wrong? I asked, moving closer. You scared me.
She looked up, eyes shining in the beam.
I I didnt want to wake anyone, she said, voice shaking. I was thinking about the diary, couldnt sleep, so I came back to see if there was more.
I sat beside her, the cold wood pressing against my back. She handed me another notebook, thinner, a soft cover.
I couldnt rest, she whispered. I kept turning the pages in my head. I thought maybe Id find something else.
I shone the light on it. The cover bore the same cramped handwriting: S. 2001. Winter.
What does it say? I asked.
She swallowed. He writes about moving to the city, coming back when his father died, staying here alone. And
She turned a page and handed it to me.
I thought it would be easier when he died, but the house only got quieter. Sometimes I swear I hear him walking the corridor. I know its just the wind, but at night it sounds different. I talk to myself so I dont lose my mind. Mum went to stay with her sister, said she couldnt live here any longer. And I stayed. Someone had to stay.
The words hit me hard. Staying. The word struck a chord; Id once decided to stay with my mother after my father passed, while my brother left. Id stayed, too.
More? Lily whispered.
I turned another page.
Sometimes I think if Id left then, everything would be different. But where could I go? The house pulls you in like a swamp. I know every creak, every crack. Im scared Ill one day stop leaving the house altogether and become like him. Im already talking to him, the one who isnt there.
Lily covered her face with her hands.
I I do the same with my mum, she said, voice breaking. She died, yet I still talk to her. I wonder if I should have visited more, not left. If Id stayed, I might have ended up here, in this house, in my flat, in my life. No job, no son, nothing. Im ashamed Im glad I left.
I stayed silent, watching her tremble, feeling an odd kinship. I, too, sometimes felt relief that my father was gone, that the constant criticism stopped. It made me uncomfortable.
You have every right to feel glad, I said softly. And to feel regret. Those arent opposite.
She managed a weak smile. Smart for now, but not much help onWe left the house at first light, the diaries tucked away, each of us carrying a piece of the past that would quietly shape the days ahead.
