Chapter 6: James Finds the Diary

The library at Montclair was a labyrinth of books and shadows, a place where light struggled to reach and sound seemed to fade into the air. The room exuded a brooding grandeur, its towering shelves packed with volumes that hinted at secrets long since forgotten—or deliberately buried. Dust coated every surface, muting the vibrant colors the room might once have displayed, and the faint smell of old paper clung to the air like a stubborn ghost.

James had stumbled into the library in search of quiet, carrying one of Joufua’s journals under his arm. The tension in the house had grown unbearable. His parents were constantly preoccupied—his father flustered, his mother sharp and commanding—and Montclair itself felt alive, its groaning walls and sighing floorboards always reminding him he was never quite alone.

Here, at least, he could explore without judgment. Or so he thought.

The Loose Floorboard

James wandered deeper into the library, letting his fingers trail over the spines of the books. Many were worn, their titles faded or written in languages he didn’t recognize. Others seemed almost untouched, their pristine leather bindings gleaming faintly in the dim light.

He paused at the center of the room, where an ornate rug covered the floorboards. As he stepped onto it, the wood beneath him groaned—a sound that was deeper, more deliberate, than the usual creaks of the house.

He froze.

Kneeling, James pulled back the edge of the rug to reveal a floorboard slightly out of alignment with the others. It wobbled under his touch, as though someone had pried it loose and hastily put it back.

Heart pounding, he pried the board free. Beneath it lay a small book, its black leather cover cracked with age. It bore no title, only the faint outline of a crest—the Blackman family sigil, worn smooth by time.

James hesitated before picking it up. The leather felt strangely warm, as though the book had been waiting for him.

Grandpa Leun’s Diary

He opened the book carefully, the fragile pages crackling under his fingers. The handwriting inside was cramped and angular, the ink faded to a rusty brown but still legible.

At the top of the first page, written in bold, deliberate strokes, was the name:

Leun Blackman, Sr.

Grandpa Leun.

James’s breath caught. He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see the stern patriarch from the family portrait standing behind him. But the room was empty, save for its ever-present shadows.

He turned back to the diary. The early entries were mundane, written with the cold precision of a man who saw life as a series of transactions. Notes on estate repairs, dismissals of lazy servants, and disdainful observations about “certain family members” filled the first pages.

But as James flipped further, the tone began to shift.

November 12th, 1937: The dreams have returned. They grow darker each night. I am certain now that they are not merely dreams. The house whispers as I wake.

James frowned, rereading the line. The house whispers? He glanced around the library as though the walls might respond, but they remained silent.

December 3rd, 1937: The room in the east wing must remain sealed. I have instructed the staff to stay away, but curiosity is a persistent enemy. The whispers grow louder when I pass by.

The east wing. James hadn’t ventured that far into the house yet—his mother’s warnings about wandering alone had kept him closer to the main areas.

January 18th, 1938: The boy spoke to me again, though I know he is no longer here. His resemblance is unsettling. I cannot banish the thought that this is my doing. But how?

James’s stomach tightened. The boy? What boy? And what did Grandpa Leun mean by “no longer here”?

Unease Builds

The diary’s entries became more fragmented, the handwriting growing erratic.

March 2nd, 1938: The whispers follow me now. They know my name. They know what I’ve done.

April 5th, 1938: The house disapproves. I feel it in the floorboards, in the creak of the stairs. I must silence it, but I do not know how.

James’s fingers trembled as he turned the pages. Grandpa Leun, the stern, unyielding patriarch who had commanded the family with iron will, had clearly been unraveling.

July 15th, 1938: The bloodline must be preserved, but at what cost? The price is greater than I anticipated. I should have resisted temptation.

Temptation? Cost? The cryptic lines swirled in James’s mind, offering no clear answers, only more questions.

October 8th, 1938: The house waits. It watches. But it is not patient. Payment will be demanded. I must prepare, though I fear it will not be enough.

James slammed the diary shut, his breathing uneven. He glanced around the library again, the shadows feeling heavier, thicker, as though they were leaning closer. The faint rustling of the curtains sounded like whispers, too soft to understand but unmistakably present.

A Chilling Escape

Tucking the diary under his arm, James rose and hurried toward the door. His footsteps echoed too loudly in the vast space, the creaks of the floorboards chasing him as he went.

He didn’t stop until he reached his room, the door shut and locked behind him. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at the diary.

Opening it again, he flipped through its pages with growing dread. Grandpa Leun had been hiding something—something dark, something tied to Montclair itself. The house wasn’t just a home; it was part of whatever secret Leun had carried, a silent witness to his unraveling.

James’s gaze flicked toward the window, where the fog outside pressed against the glass like an unwelcome visitor. He thought of the whispers, the creaks, and the way the house seemed to shift and sigh when no one was looking.

Montclair wasn’t finished with its secrets. And neither, it seemed, was Grandpa Leun.