Chapter 8: The First Warning

The diary felt alive in James’s hands, its cracked leather warm against his palms, as though it carried the pulse of the man who had once filled its pages. He sat in the dim glow of the library’s fading firelight, the flickering flames casting shadows that danced erratically across the walls. The room felt unnaturally still, the silence broken only by the faint hiss of embers and the occasional groan of the house’s ancient bones.

James turned another page, the brittle paper crackling beneath his fingers. Grandpa Leun’s handwriting—sharp and deliberate, like the man himself—marched steadily across the page, but the words grew more erratic with each entry.

February 3rd, 1938: The east wing is sealed. None must enter. The bargain requires it.

James froze, his brow furrowing as he reread the line. The bargain?

He flipped back a few pages, scanning for context.

January 21st, 1938: The house has accepted the bargain, though I fear I misunderstood its terms. It waits. It watches. It is patient, but only to a point.

The fire guttered, the light shrinking further into the hearth, leaving the edges of the room steeped in darkness. James felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. He glanced around the library, half-expecting to see someone—or something—standing just out of sight.

March 12th, 1938: The whispers are no longer vague. They call for payment, and I see now what I have bargained away. It cannot be undone.

The shadows in the library felt heavier now, pressing against the edges of James’s vision. Somewhere in the distance, a faint creak echoed, followed by what sounded like a sigh.

James snapped the diary shut, his hands trembling. Whatever bargain Grandpa Leun had struck, it was clear it hadn’t ended with him.

The Nightmare

Sleep was reluctant to come, but exhaustion eventually claimed him. The diary sat perched on the nightstand like a silent judge, its leather cover gleaming faintly in the pale light of the oil lamp.

James’s dreams were vivid from the moment his eyes closed.

He was standing in a hallway he didn’t recognize, its walls impossibly tall, stretching upward into blackness. The floor beneath his feet felt soft, pliable, as though it resented bearing his weight. A faint light flickered ahead, distant but insistent, pulling him forward.

James moved toward it, each step slow and unsteady. The light seemed to retreat as he advanced, and the shadows along the walls began to move.

At first, he thought it was a trick of the light, but the shadows soon detached, writhing and curling like smoke given weight. They slid across the floor, pooling around his feet with deliberate purpose.

“Who’s there?” James called out, his voice echoing in the endless hallway.

The shadows surged upward in response, cold and heavy as they wrapped around his ankles. He tried to pull away, but the floor beneath him seemed to pull him down, softening further with each struggle.

A voice echoed through the darkness, deep and resonant, its words weighted with authority and dread. It grew louder, closer, until it became unmistakable.

It was Grandpa Leun.

“The house is watching. Always watching. You must not let it take you.”

The light ahead flickered once, then vanished. The shadows consumed him entirely, their cold touch pressing against his chest as he sank into the dark.

Waking in Dread

James woke with a start, gasping for air. His room was pitch black, the oil lamp extinguished. The air felt thick and oppressive, the lingering chill from his dream clinging to his skin.

He sat up, clutching the blanket around him, and glanced toward the diary on the nightstand. Its presence seemed to fill the room, its cracked cover glowing faintly in the moonlight filtering through the window.

The words from the diary echoed in his mind: The house has accepted the bargain, though I misunderstood its terms.

James shivered, the weight of those words pressing against him like an unseen hand. Grandpa Leun had bargained with Montclair, but what had he offered? And what had the house taken in return?

James’s eyes darted to the corners of the room, where the shadows seemed to press closer than they should. The dream had felt too real, too vivid, to dismiss as mere imagination. He couldn’t shake the sense that the house itself had been watching him, testing him, marking his presence.

Sleep felt impossible now. James sat awake for the rest of the night, his eyes fixed on the diary, waiting for the shadows to move again.

Montclair had issued its first warning. And James knew it wouldn’t be the last.