The attic air hung thick with dust motes dancing in the lone shaft of light piercing the gloom. James, sweat prickling on his brow, traced the faded inscription on the leather-bound diary: “Property of Joseph Bellerose, Sr.” Beside him, Maria held her breath, and little India, ever the adventurer, peered over James’s shoulder, her eyes wide.

“What do you think it says, Daddy?” India whispered, her voice barely audible above the creaking of the old house.

James swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He hadn’t been in this attic since he was a boy, hadn’t felt this strange pull, this sense of… wrongness. He carefully opened the diary, the brittle pages whispering secrets long forgotten. The ink was faded, spidery, the words a swirling dance of elegant script and hurried scrawl.

As James began to read aloud, the shadows in the attic seemed to deepen, to writhe. The air grew heavy, charged with an unseen energy. Maria gasped, clutching his arm.

“James,” she breathed, “I don’t like this. It feels… cold.”

He tried to ignore her, tried to focus on the words swimming before his eyes. The diary spoke of strange rituals, of forgotten gods, of a power lurking beneath the surface of their world, a power Joseph Sr. seemed desperate to control.

Suddenly, a gust of icy wind swept through the attic, and the single light bulb flickered violently. India squealed, burying her face in Maria’s side. And then, a voice, a whisper that seemed to come from the very walls themselves.

“Stop,” it pleaded, the voice raspy and filled with sorrow. “Please, James, stop reading.”

James froze, the hair on his arms standing on end. He recognized that voice. It was his grandmother, Evelyn, her spirit tethered to this house, to its dark history.

But before he could speak, another sound cut through the silence – a chilling, high-pitched laughter that seemed to echo from the rafters. Reggie. His uncle, the one they said was mad, the one who disappeared without a trace.

The diary’s pages began to glow with an eerie light, and James felt a burning sensation on his wrist, where the strange birthmark pulsed beneath his skin. He looked down, his heart pounding in his chest. The mark, a swirling pattern of lines and symbols, was brighter than he’d ever seen it, almost as if it were… alive.