They pulled up to the crumbling cottage just as twilight was turning the sky a soft, bruised blue. The hatchback coughed, stalled, and an uneasy quiet fell over the overgrown yard. Only the wind rattled dry leaves and whispered through the tall grass.
Lovely, said Sam, hauling his rucksack out of the boot. A proper holiday spot for people with nerves of steel.
For anyone over forty who cant afford a decent resort, added Poppy, squinting at the building. Just look at this.
The house seemed askew, though the walls were actually straight if you stared long enough. Moss clung to the thatch in patches, the attic window was bricked up from the inside, a firstfloor window was missing its pane and was now covered with a piece of cracked plastic that flapped in the breeze.
Thats nostalgia right there, said Dave, slamming the car door. Remember how we used to sprint past this place at school? Wed be terrified to get close in daylight, and at night it felt like someone was watching from the window.
It was you who was scared, Lily replied, tugging at her scarf. I never went near it. My mum dragged me home before dark every day.
Sam gave a halfsmile. He was fortytwo, his back ached from the drive, his temples throbbed, and he remembered the days when they could walk here from the other end of the village, laughing, carrying packets of peanuts and cheap fizzy drinks, never complaining about sore backs.
So, he clapped his hands, tour of the estate. Whos the resident psychic?
You, said Poppy. You were the one who suggested we come.
He really had been the brainwave. When the group chat buzzed about a weekend getaway, hed posted an old photo of the derelict cottage with the caption, Lets go ghosthunting. The picture came from a village forum where someone mentioned the house had been empty for years. The joke stuck, and thenby some twist of fateit became the only realistic plan. Resorts were pricey, holiday homes were booked solid, and a distant relative of Daves, through a chain of acquaintances, claimed the cottage was legally ownerless, abandoned, and no one would mind a nights stay.
They drew nearer. The doorway reeked of damp wood and age. No keys; the lock had been smashed long ago. Sam nudged the door with his shoulder; it sighed open, letting a cloud of dust spill out.
Lord, whispered Lily, it feels like were intruding on someone elses life.
Inside was cool, smelling of stale timber, dust and old plaster. Sam inhaled sharply, his throat tightening. The floorboards creaked underfoot but held. A motheaten jacket hung on a nail, rusty keys lay below, and a pair of mismatched shoes stared up at them.
Now weve got atmosphere, said Dave.
They pushed into the main room. The walls were peeling, exposing faded, floral wallpaper in places. A sagging sofa with a flattened mattress was draped in a grey, dustcovered sheet. A table bore a stack of yellowed, crumpled papers.
Poppy touched the window frame; the wood was rough, the paint flaking.
If we all get sick, Ill kill you, she said to Sam, her tone dripping with familiar sarcasm.
Ive got a firstaid kit, he replied. And, by the way, were not sleeping in a tent.
He tried to keep it light, but the house pressed on him. It was just an old, abandoned cottagenothing unusual in England. Yet because it stood on the edge of their childhood, it felt oddly personal.
Dave and Lily hauled sleeping bags and inflatable mattresses from the car; Poppy produced plastic plates, a thermos of soup, sandwiches and cheese from a bag. Sam checked for electricity and, with relief, found a single working socket. He plugged in a portable charger and a dim yellow bulb flickered to life.
Ah, civilisation, Lily said.
They ate around the table, and the conversation drifted to the usual: work, kids, mortgages, the news. Laughter rose a little too loudly, as if they were trying to drown out the houses creaks.
So, who lived here? Poppy asked, munching a sandwich. I only ever heard it was haunted by some maniac.
Not a maniac, Dave replied. Just a bloke who lived alone. His wife died, his son vanished, and he eventually lost his mind.
Is that your own invention or an official story? Sam asked.
My dad used to say, Dont go in, the owners angry, hell bite you. Then they say they found him or maybe he disappeared himself. Anyway, its a bad story.
Lily lowered her eyes. Shed always found death talks heavy. Sam knew her mother had recently passed; the funeral had been a strain. Theyd texted privately, and he could see how she clung to every detail to avoid falling apart.
Alright then, Sam said, lets officially launch our horror weekend. After dinner, well explore the houseattic, cellar, any room with bloody graffiti. First one to scream does the dishes.
Poppy snorted. Of course youd think of an excuse.
When theyd finished eating and warmed up a bit, they grabbed torches and started roaming. Sam led, the corridor darker than the bulb could reach. Peeling paint, a crooked mirror reflecting distorted silhouettes, an old rug worn to holes.
This could be a film set, Lily whispered.
Were already filming, Dave replied, raising his phone.
Rooms were variations of the same emptiness: bare cupboards, naked walls, scattered old newspapers, broken plates. One wall held a faded calendar showing a seaside view, dated about twenty years ago.
Imagine, Sam mused, looking at the same sea every day and never going anywhere.
Just like us, Poppy observed.
Sam shrugged. Hed once dreamed of leaving the village, then the city, then the country, only to stay in a regional office, counting other peoples money. Sometimes his life felt like that old calendarnever turned over.
The attic didnt reveal itself immediately. A hidden staircase behind a narrow door led up; the wooden steps creaked but held. Up top was dark, smelling of dust and stale damp.
Careful, Sam warned. If anything falls, its not my fault.
The loft was low, roof sloping, spiderwebs draped between joists, boxes and old suitcases stacked along the walls.
Look at this, Dave said, gesturing to the piles. A graveyard of other peoples junk.
Poppy lifted a nearby box. Books, notebooks, she noted.
Sam shone his torch inside. The box indeed held worn textbooks, a thick ruled notebook tied with twine.
Treasure, he declared, pulling the notebook free. The twine slipped easily. On the cover, scribbled in a ballpoint, read: Diary. 1998. The handwriting was uneven, childlike, but bold.
Now were really doing this, Lily said.
What are you scared of? Its just a notebook, Sam replied, though a knot formed in his chest.
They carried the notebook back to the main room, where a tired yellow bulb cast a circle of light, beyond which darkness loomed. Outside, night had deepened; the wind rattled an unsecured plank somewhere.
Sam opened the diary. The first page bore a name: Simon. The surname was smudged by moisture.
Lets hear it, Dave urged.
Sam cleared his throat and began:
10March. Today I argued with my dad again. He called me lazy, said Id never achieve anything. I told him Id leave home when Im eighteen. He laughed, said Id have nowhere to go. I dont know what to do. Sometimes I feel stuck here forever.
He stopped. The room fell silent, even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Wow, Dave said. Straight out of the 90s.
Next, Lily whispered.
Simons handwriting wavered, letters bleeding where the ink had run.
15March. Mum was crying again last night. I heard it through the wall. I wanted to go in but didnt. Shell say everythings fine, but I know it isnt. Dad came home drunk, shouted, threw things. Today he smashed a mug against the wall. The shards are still on the floor.
Poppys bite tightened on her sandwich. Sam saw her clench the table edge; he knew the feeling of a father who came home drunk, a memory she rarely mentioned.
Enough? Poppy asked. We didnt come for therapy.
Just a bit more, Lily said, eyes flicking over the pages.
Simon wrote about school, friends, a desire to become a programmer, a father who insisted everyone work in the local factory, a mother who quietly wept at night, a younger brother forever in hospital, and a father who blamed everything on him.
This is us, Dave murmured, halfjoking, halfserious.
Simons diary turned darker. The wind outside grew louder, and a door slammed somewhere down the hall. Lily shivered and forced a nervous laugh.
This house is talking, Dave said, playing along. It doesnt like us reading its secrets.
Very funny, Poppy muttered.
Simons later entry read:
24April. Doctors say my brother wont get better. Mum spent twenty minutes in the loo, didnt come out. Dad said it was my fault. If I hadnt been born, things would be different. I know thats not true, but it hurts.
Sam felt his throat tighten. He stopped reading aloud, running a finger over the inkstained lines. Guilt, unearned yet heavy, settled over him.
Whats next? Lily asked.
Nothing special, Sam said. Just everyday stuff.
Poppy reached for the notebook. He hesitated, wanting to keep the words to himself, but eventually handed it over.
She began to read, frowning occasionally. Lily peeked over her shoulder. Dave paced the room, glancing at the dark hallway, then back.
Theres still a bed in the upstairs bedroom, he noted. With a mattress. Scary to imagine who slept there.
Poppy slammed the notebook shut. Thats enough for today.
What? Whats wrong? Dave asked.
Just I dont want to go on, she said, searching for a place to put it, finally returning it to the table. It gets to the hospital, the funerals. Im not ready for that.
Lily stood, shivering. Ill get the kettle going. Im freezing.
In the kitchen, which was more a pantry than a room, they found an old tin that miraculously still worked. Lily boiled water, rustling tea bags. Sam watched her shoulders tremble just a fraction.
How are you? he asked.
Fine, she replied. Just it feels too familiar, like reading my own life with different names.
He thought of the day his own father, in a fit of rage, hurled an ashtray at the wall, and how he later collected the shards, wondering if a better education would have prevented it.
They sipped tea on cracked stools, trying to talk about something light. Yet the cottage seemed to have woven its story into theirs, and shaking it off proved difficult.
Lets hold a séance for Simon tonight, Dave suggested, eyes bright.
Youre an idiot, Poppy said. There are no spirits.
What else is there then? Just an old house? Then why does it feel off? Dave pressed. Why am I uneasy?
Youre impressionable, Lily replied. And were reading a strangers diary.
Sam fell silent, recalling his own teenage diaryonce full of hopes, then abandoned after marriage, after a son, after endless shifts. It lay somewhere in a dusty attic box at his flat. He sometimes wondered what would happen if someone found it decades later.
Night fell fast. The wind turned into a fullblown storm. Something rattled on the roof, loose shutters slamming. Inside the cottage grew colder, despite the heater Dave had dragged in.
They spread their sleeping bags across the main room. Poppy insisted they all sleep together, refusing to be alone in the hole.
Im not going to lie here solo, she declared, you can call me a coward.
Me too, Lily added.
Sam curled up against the wall. The mattress creaked softly. They switched off the bulb, leaving only a flashlight aimed at the ceiling, casting a faint glow.
So, scary stories? Dave asked, settling in.
We already read one, Lily replied.
They chatted a bit longer, but fatigue took over. Sam felt his thoughts grow thick, his limbs heavy. Somewhere on the edge of sleep, he heard Poppy whisper to Lily about work, about a demanding boss, about being exhausted. The wind swallowed the murmurs.
He dreamed of a house, not derelict but livedin: a kitchen smelling of soup, a TV blaring a concert, a boy on the sofahimself as a teenagerscribbling in a notebook. A hallway where someone shouted, a door slammed, the boy pretended not to hear.
He woke with a start to a thud, the room dark, his flashlight dead. The wind howled. He propped himself up on his elbow, listening. His heart hammered.
Hey, he whispered. Did you hear that?
No answer. He looked around; Lilys spot was empty.
Liz? he called louder.
Silence, only wind and the faint creak of the cottage.
Never mind, he sighed, reaching for his phone. The screen lit the room a pale blue. Poppy lay on her side, turned toward the wall. Dave slept on his back, mouth slightly open, snoring softly. Lilys place was indeed vacant.
Sam rose, careful not to step on anyones belongings. The floor was cold under his feet. He switched on his phones torch, sweeping the light around. Lilys coat was propped against a chair, her jacket draped over a stool.
Liza, he called again.
A soft scuffle echoed from upstairs. He stepped into the hallway; his own shadow flickered on the walls. The air smelled of dust and old timber. A cool draft seeped from the kitchen doorway.
He peered inside. Empty, save for a few mugs left from the evening, one toppled over.
Liza, he repeated. A faint whimper rose from the attic, then a muffled sob.
His skin crawled. A grown man, fortytwo, standing in a dark corridor, suddenly afraid of his own loft.
He muttered a curse and climbed the stairs, the boards groaning beneath him. For a moment the house seemed to breathe with him.
The attic was dim; his torch caught rafters, boxes, suitcases. In the far corner, near the stack of books, he saw Lily seated on the floor, hugging her knees, tears streaming.
What are you doing? he asked, moving closer. You scared me.
She flinched, eyes meeting his torch beam, glistening.
Sorry, she sobbed. I didnt mean to wake you.
Whats wrong?
She turned the notebook over. I couldnt sleep. I kept turning the pages in my head, so I came back, to see if there was more.
Sam sat down beside her. His knees ached. He opened the notebook; the cover read, in the same shaky hand, S.2001Winter.
And? he prompted.
She swallowed. He writes about moving to the city, returning when his dad died, staying here alone. And
She turned a page, handed it to him. Sam shone his light and began to read, the words trembling on the page.
I thought when he died it would be easier. But the house only got quieter. Too quiet. Sometimes I think I hear him walking the corridor. I know its just wind, but at night it sounds different. I talk to myself so I dont lose it. Mum left for her sisters, said she couldnt live here any longer. I stayed. Someone had to stay.
A tightness clenched Sams chest. Staying. The word struck him. Hed once decided to stay with his mother after his father passed, while his brother left. Hed stayed. His brother had gone away. Now, with his own mother old and ill, he found himself resenting everyonehis brother for rare calls, his mother for endless demands, himself for never leaving.
Next, Lily whispered.
He turned another 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 Ill stop going out one day and become just like him. Im already talking to him, the one who isnt there.
Lily covered her face with her hands.
I I do the same with my mum, she choked out. When the wind finally settled, they each tucked the notebook into their own lives, realizing that some stories are not meant to be solved but simply carried forward.
