Joseph’s Pact
The journal was a quiet relic, tucked away in the attic beneath a veil of dust and forgotten time. James found it buried in a weathered trunk, hidden among brittle newspapers and yellowed photographs. Its leather cover was cracked, its edges frayed, but when he touched it, the weight in his hands felt heavier than its size should allow—like it held not just words, but something alive, something waiting.
The attic was silent except for the faint hum of the wind brushing against the mansion’s stone walls. James sat cross-legged on the creaking floorboards, the journal balanced on his knees. The single bulb above him cast a pale, flickering light, making shadows dance on the angled walls.
When he opened the journal, the scent of aged ink filled the air. The first entries seemed ordinary enough, detailing his grandfather Joseph Sr.’s struggle to rise from poverty. There were notes about long hours, calculated risks, and an ambition so fierce it practically bled from the page.
But as James read on, the tone shifted. The words became darker, heavier, as if each stroke of the pen carved a wound into the paper.
“March 12, 1923.
There are limits to strength and cunning alone. To rise higher, one must be willing to cross lines others fear. If the world will not bend to me, I will find the means to bend it myself.”
“March 15, 1923.
He came tonight. He wore the shape of a man, but he was not human. He moved like smoke and spoke like thunder muffled by distance. He knew what I wanted without my saying it. I asked what he wanted in return, and he smiled. His teeth gleamed like glass in the dark.”
James’s hands trembled slightly as he turned the page, his fingers leaving smudges on the fragile paper.
“March 17, 1923.
The pact is made. I will not write his name here—some names are too dangerous to speak, even in silence. He promised power, wealth, a name that would last generations. He asked only for blood. ‘Not now,’ he said. ‘But when the time comes, the debt will be paid.’ I agreed. How could I not? He held the future in his hands.”
The room seemed colder now, the air pressing against James like a heavy blanket. He read on, each entry dragging him deeper into a story he wished he could stop reading but couldn’t bring himself to close.
“October 9, 1930.
The shadow returned. He stood in the corner of my office, though I had locked the door. His presence was unbearable—the air grew thick, and my breath came shallow. He reminded me of the pact. He said the time would come soon. I asked him to wait, to give me more time, but he only smiled and said, ‘You do not bargain twice.’”
“July 18, 1935.
Evelyn is asking questions. She senses the unease in this house, the weight in the walls. She doesn’t know about the men who vanished, the rivals who fell before me without explanation. I cannot tell her the truth. She wouldn’t understand that our name is built on the promises I made in blood.”
James’s chest tightened as he read his grandfather’s frantic, slanted handwriting. The entries began to unravel, the words becoming erratic, almost feverish.
“December 2, 1940.
The whispers are louder now. They move through the halls, calling my name. Evelyn begs me to leave, but where would we go? The pact is not bound to this house—it is bound to me, to my name. We are trapped in a throne of our own making.”
James snapped the journal shut, his heart pounding. The attic felt smaller, the shadows darker. The mansion itself seemed to exhale, as though it had been holding its breath while James read. He scrambled to his feet, clutching the journal tightly, his ears straining against the silence.
Then he heard it: a faint whisper, soft as a sigh, rising from the walls around him.
“James…”
He froze, his pulse roaring in his ears. The voice was faint but unmistakable. It wasn’t his imagination. The mansion was alive, and it was speaking to him.
“Who’s there?” James whispered, his voice trembling.
The air grew colder, and the shadows stretched, curling along the walls like fingers reaching out.
“You know who we are,” the voice replied, low and resonant, vibrating through the floorboards beneath his feet.
James bolted from the attic, the journal clutched to his chest like a lifeline. He didn’t stop running until he reached his room, slamming the door behind him and pressing his back against it. The whispers didn’t follow, but he could feel them lingering, a presence that had taken root in the mansion and would not leave.
As he sat on the floor, his breath ragged, he opened the journal again. The final entries seemed to blur together in his mind, a desperate plea from a man who had risen higher than anyone thought possible, only to be dragged down by the cost of his ambition.
Joseph Sr. had forged a pact with something far beyond understanding. The whispers in the walls, the strange movements, the weight that seemed to hang over the mansion—they were all part of that deal. His grandfather had traded blood for power, and now, generations later, the debt was still being collected.
The mansion wasn’t just a home. It was a vault, a keeper of secrets too dark to bear, and James realized with a chilling certainty that it wasn’t done with him yet.
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