The house on the edge of the village
They pulled up to the house at dusk, the sky already turning a pale blue but not yet fully dark. The car coughed, stalled, and silence settled over the yard. Only the wind rattled dry leaves across the lawn and whispered through the tall grass.
Lovely, Sam Hawthorne said, pulling a rucksack from the boot. A perfect resort for people with sturdy nerves.
For folk over forty who cant afford a decent holiday centre, Katie Brooks added, squinting at the building. Just look at it.
The house seemed askew, though the walls stood straight if you stared long enough. Moss clung to patches of the roof, the attic window was boarded from the inside, a firstfloor pane was missing and had once been taped with a thin sheet of plastic that now crackled and flapped in the breeze.
Now thats nostalgia, Dave Collins said, slamming the car door shut. Remember how we used to sprint past this place at school? Wed be terrified to go near it in daylight, and at night it felt like someone was watching from the window.
Youre the one who was scared, Lily Moore replied, adjusting her scarf. I never went there. My mum would drag me home before it got dark.
Sam smiled wryly. He was fortytwo, his back aching from the road, a dull throb in his temples. He thought of the days when they could have walked here from the opposite end of the hamlet, laughing, lugging packets of peanuts and cheap fizzy drinks, and nobody complained about backaches.
So, he clapped his hands, tour of the estate. Whos the resident psychic?
You, Katie said. You were the one who suggested we come.
He really had been the one. When the group chat buzzed about escaping for the weekend, Sam had jokingly posted a grainy photograph of an old cottage with the caption, Lets go hunt ghosts. The picture was from the village forum, where someone mentioned the house had been empty for years. The joke stuck, and then, absurdly, it became the only viable plan. Holiday resorts were pricey, cottages were booked solid, and a distant relative of Daves, through a chain of acquaintances, claimed the house was legally ownerless, abandoned, and no one would mind if they spent a night there.
They stepped closer. Damp and old timber wafted from the doorway. There were no keys; the lock had long been forced open. Sam shoved the door with his shoulder; it gave reluctantly, and a cloud of dust fell out.
Lord, Lily whispered, it feels like were stepping into someone elses life.
Inside it was cool, smelling of stale wood, dust, and crumbling plaster. Sam inhaled reflexively, his throat tightening. The floorboards flexed underfoot but held. In the hallway a motheaten coat hung from a nail, beneath it lay rusted keys, and a mismatched pair of boots stared up at them.
Now weve got ambience, Dave said.
They moved into the main room. Paint peeled from the walls, revealing bits of faded floral wallpaper. In the corner a sagging sofa bore a dustcovered blanket; a table nearby 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 warned Sam, her tone dripping with the same dry irony she always used.
Ive got a firstaid kit, he replied. And, by the way, were not sleeping in tents.
He tried to sound light, but the house pressed down on him. It was just an old, abandoned cottagenothing special. Yet because it sat on the fringe of their childhood, it felt personal.
Dave and Lily hauled sleeping bags and inflatable mattresses from the car; Katie produced plastic plates, a thermos of soup, sandwiches, and a block of 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, Lily said.
They ate around the table, the conversation drifting back to the usual: jobs, kids, mortgages, the news. Laughter rose a little too loudly, as if they were trying to drown out the houses quiet judgement.
Who lived here, anyway? Katie asked between bites. I only remember being warned that a lunatic lived here.
Not a lunatic, Dave replied. Just a bloke. His wife died, his son vanished. He went mad in the house.
Is that your own invention or the official story? Sam asked.
My father used to say, Dont go in, the owners angry, hell bite you. Then they said they found him or maybe he disappeared himself Its a grim tale.
Lily lowered her eyes. Death was a heavy topic for her; Sam knew her mother had died recently and the funeral had been a strain. He remembered how she clung to every detail to keep herself from falling apart.
Alright then, Sam said, lets officially open a horror festival. After dinner well explore the house. Find the attic, the cellar, a room with bloodstained markings. Whoever screams first does the dishes.
Katie snorted. Of course you came up with an excuse to avoid work.
After theyd eaten and warmed themselves, they grabbed flashlights and began to wander. Sam led. The corridor was darker than the lamp could reach, walls peeled, a warped mirror reflected their distorted silhouettes. An old rug lay shredded in places.
This could be a film set, Lily murmured.
Were already filming, Dave replied, raising his phone.
The rooms were copies of each other: empty wardrobes, bare walls, scattered old newspapers, broken plates. In one room a faded calendar showed a seaside scene, its year about twenty years old.
Imagine, Sam said, the occupant could have watched that sea every day and never gone anywhere.
Katie looked at him. Just like us, she said.
Sam shrugged. He had once dreamed of leaving the village, then the town, then the country, only to end up in a regional office counting other peoples money. Sometimes his life felt like that same old calendar nobody ever turned.
The attic didnt appear right away. A narrow hallway hid a stairwell behind a door. The wooden steps creaked but held. Up top it was dark, smelling of dust and heavy, stale damp.
Careful, Sam warned. If anything falls, its not my fault.
The attic was low, its roof slanted, webs dangling between beams. Boxes, old suitcases, boards lined the walls.
Looks like a cemetery of other peoples stuff, Dave said.
Katie crouched by a box. Books and school notebooks, she noted.
Sam shone his flashlight inside. Indeed, there were worn books, school exercise books, a thick ruled notebook bound with twine.
Treasure, Sam announced, pulling the notebook free. The twine slipped easily. In bright ballpoint ink on the cover was written, Diary. 1998. The hand was uneven, almost childlike, but the letters were large.
Now it starts, Lily said.
What are you scared of? Its just a notebook, Sam replied, though a tightening in his chest told him otherwise.
They carried the notebook back to the large room, where a yellow bulb cast a weak circle of light, beyond which darkness loomed. Outside the wind rattled an unsecured board.
Sam opened the diary. The first page bore a name: Steven. The surname was smeared by moisture.
Go on, Dave prompted.
Sam cleared his throat and read aloud:
10March. Today I fought with Father again. He called me a lazy layabout, said Id get nowhere. I told him Id leave home when I turn eighteen. He laughed and said Id have nowhere to go. I dont know what to do. Sometimes I feel trapped forever.
The room fell silent. Even the wind seemed to pause.
Wow, straight from the 90s, Dave remarked.
Next, Lily whispered.
Sam turned the page. The ink ran in places, as if the writer never stopped.
15March. Mum cried again last night. I heard her through the wall. I wanted to go in but didnt. Shell say everythings fine, but I know it isnt. Father came home drunk, yelling, throwing things. Today he smashed a mug against the wall. The shards are still on the floor.
Katies grip on her sandwich tightened. She pressed her fingers into the table edge. Her own father had been a thunderous presence in her childhood, rarely spoken of, but the memory flickered in her mind.
Enough? she asked. We didnt come here for a therapy session.
Just a bit more, Lily said.
Sam hesitated, torn between curiosity and a guilty feeling, as if he were stealing someones secrets. Yet the diary lay open, pulling him onward.
He read on about school, friends, a yearning to move to the city, become a programmer. Father mocked the idea, insisting the family belonged on the factory floor. Mother stayed silent, later weeping at night. Steven wrote about a younger brother forever ill in hospital, and a father who blamed him for the curse.
Sounds like us, Dave muttered. Not literally, but
Sam nodded. They all carried similar stories: parents with grudges, children desperate to escape, yet staying.
The wind howled louder. Somewhere a door slammed. Lily shivered and laughed nervously.
The house is talking, Dave teased. It doesnt like us reading its secrets.
Funny, Katie grumbled.
Sam turned another page. The hand was larger, as if the writer was in a hurry.
24April. Doctors say brother wont get better. Mum spent twenty minutes in the loo, didnt come out. Father said it was my fault. If I hadnt been born, things would be different. I know thats not true, but it hurts.
A knot formed in Sams throat. He stopped reading aloud, ran a finger over the lines. Guilt, unearned yet heavy, settled in his chest.
Whats next? Lily asked.
Nothing special, Sam said. Just everyday stuff.
Kat
y reached for the notebook. He hesitated, wanting to keep the words to himself, but handed it over.
She read silently, frowning occasionally. Lily leaned over her shoulder, eyes wide. Dave paced, glanced at the hallway, then returned.
Theres still a bed in the upstairs bedroom, he noted. With a mattress. Scary to imagine who slept there.
Katie slammed the notebook shut. Thats enough for tonight.
What? Dave asked.
Nothing just, she searched for words. She placed the diary back on the table, eyes avoiding Sams.
Lily stood, saying, Ill put the kettle on. Im cold.
In the kitchenif one could call it thatold tiles surprisingly still worked. They brought water from the car. Lily fussed with the kettle, the rustle of tea bags filling the air. Sam watched her shoulders tremble slightly.
How are you? he asked.
Fine, she said. Just it feels like Im reading my own life, only the names are different.
He nodded, recalling his fathers rage, the broken ashtray hed once smashed, the thought that perhaps better grades might have prevented it.
They sipped tea on battered stools, trying to keep the conversation light. Yet the house seemed to have swallowed them into its story, making it hard to step back.
Lets try a séance tonight, talk to Steven, Dave suggested after they returned to the main room. See what he says.
Youre mad, Katie replied. There are no spirits here.
Then whats there? Dave pressed. Why do I feel uneasy?
Its because youre impressionable, Lily said, and because were reading someone elses diary.
Sam stayed silent, thinking of his own diary from school, later university, then left untouched after marriage, after his son was born, after endless shifts. It lay somewhere in a loft, forgotten. He imagined opening it now, after twenty years, wondering what would be inside.
Night fell quickly. The wind turned into a fullblown storm. Something rattled on the roof, loose shutters slapped against the walls. Inside the house grew colder despite the portable heater Dave had dragged in.
They spread sleeping bags across the large room. Katie insisted they all share one space rather than disperse.
Im not sleeping alone in this hole, she declared. Call me a coward.
Same here, Lily agreed.
Sam curled up against the wall. The mattress creaked beneath him. They switched off the bulb, leaving only a flashlight aimed at the ceiling. Its weak beam painted the room in a ghostly glow.
Alright then, Dave said, settling in, shall we tell scary stories?
We already read one, Lily replied.
They chatted a while longer, fatigue pulling at them. In the halfsleep they heard Katie whisper to Lily about work, about a boss, about having no strength left. Then the wind drowned the words.
Sam dreamed of a house that was not dilapidated but lived, with a kitchen smelling of soup, a TV playing a concert, a boy on the sofahimself as a teenagerscribbling in a notebook. In the hallway someone shouted, a door slammed, the boy pretended not to hear.
He woke to a sudden thump, as if something heavy had dropped. The room was dark, the flashlight dead. The wind still wailed. He propped himself up on his elbow, heart hammering.
Hey, he whispered. Did you hear that?
No answer. He scanned the room; Lilys spot was empty.
Lily? he called louder.
Silence, save for the wind and the faint creak of the house.
Come on, he muttered, reaching for his phone on the floor. The screen lit the room with a pale glow. Katie lay turned toward the wall, Dave on his back with his mouth slightly open, murmuring. Lilys place was indeed vacant.
Sam rose, careful not to step on anyones belongings. The cold floor bit his feet. He switched the phones flashlight, the beam cutting through the gloom. Lilys backpack leaned against a wall, her jacket draped over a chair.
Lily? he called again.
A shudder ran down the corridor. Sam followed the light, his own shadow dancing on the walls. The air smelled of dust and old timber. A chill drifted from the kitchen doorway.
He peeked inside. The room was empty except for cups left from the evening, one overturned as if nudged.
Lily, he repeated.
A faint rustle rose from the attic, then a soft sob.
His skin prickled. A fortytwoyearold man, standing in a dark hallway, terrified of his own roof space.
He cursed under his breath and walked toward the stairs. The steps complained beneath his weight. For a moment the house seemed to breathe with him.
Upstairs, darkness swallowed the flashlights beam, revealing beams, boxes, suitcases. In the far corner, near the stack of books, he saw Lily hunched on the floor, knees drawn to her chest, quietly crying.
Whatre you doing? he asked, moving closer. You scared me.
She flinched, eyes glinting in the beam. Sorry I didnt mean to wake you.
Whats happened?
She turned the notebook toward him. It was thinner, with a soft cover.
I couldnt sleep, she said. I kept turning those pages over and over, and I thought maybe I should come back. See what else is there.
Sam sat beside her. His knees ached. He looked at the notebook. The front read, in the same jagged hand, S.2001. Winter.
What? he asked.
She swallowed. It its him. He writes about moving to the city, returning when his father dies, staying alone. And
She opened a page, handed it to Sam. He shone his light and began to read. The words trembled from her shaking hand.
I thought when he died it would be easier. But the house only grew quieter. Too quiet. Sometimes I think I hear him walking the hallway. 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 her sisters, saying she couldnt live here any longer. I stayed. Someone had to stay.
A tightness clenched Sams chest. Stay. The word struck a chord. He too had once decided to stay for his mother when his father passed, while his brother left. He had stayed. His brother had gone. Now, as his mother grew old and ill, he often found himself angry at everyonehis brother for calling once a month, his mother for demanding attention, himself for not leaving.
More, Lily whispered.
He turned the page.
Sometimes I think if Id left then, everything would be different. But where could I go? The house pulls like a swamp. I know every creak, every crack. Im scared that one day Ill simply stop stepping outside. That Ill become like him. Im already talking to him. To the one who isnt there.
Lily covered her face with her hands.
I I do the same, she whispered, voice breaking. With my mum. ShesShes learned that some part of herself will always remain tied to the house, even as she steps back into the ordinary world.
