June 23
We pulled up to the old cottage just as dusk was turning the sky a soft blue, not yet fully dark. The engine coughed, sputtered, and fell silent; an eerie hush settled over the yard, broken only by the wind rattling dry leaves and rustling the tall grass.
Stunning, I said, rummaging the boot for my rucksack. A proper retreat for anyone with a sturdy stomach.
Exactly the sort of place for folk over forty who cant afford a decent holiday resort, Kate added, squinting at the building. Just look at it.
The house seemed crooked at a glance, though the walls were actually straight. Moss clung to parts of the roof, the attic window was boarded up from the inside, and one groundfloor window was missing its pane, a torn piece of clear sheeting fluttering in the breeze.
Now thats nostalgia, Dave said, slamming the car door shut. Remember running here during school? We used to be scared to get close in daylight, and at night it felt like someone was watching from the window.
That was you being scared, Lucy replied, tugging her scarf up. I never went in. Mum would drive me home before dark.
I chuckled. At fortytwo my back ached from the drive, my temples throbbed, and I thought of the days when we could walk here from the far side of the village, laughing, carrying packets of seeds and cheap fizzy drinks, without a single complaint about sore backs.
So, whats the plan? I said, snapping my hands together. A tour of the property. Whos the chief occultist?
You are, Kate said. You were the one who suggested we come.
I really had suggested it. When the group chat buzzed about weekend getaways, I joked by posting an old photo of the cottage with the caption, Off to hunt ghosts. The picture came from the village forum where someone had noted the house had been empty for years. The joke stuck, and then, oddly enough, it became our only realistic option. Holiday parks were pricey, the countryside lets were booked solid, and a distant relative of Daves, through a third party, claimed the property was legally ownerless, abandoned, and no one would mind if we spent a night.
We drew nearer. The doorway exuded damp wood and stale air. No keys the lock had long been forced open. I shoved the door with my shoulder; it gave with a reluctant groan, spilling dust inside.
Good heavens, Lucy whispered. It feels like were stepping into someone elses life.
Inside it was cool, smelling of mouldy timber, dust, and old plaster. I inhaled sharply, a lump forming in my throat. The floorboards creaked underfoot but held. In the entryway a motheaten coat hung on a nail, rusted keys lay beneath it, and a mismatched pair of boots sat abandoned.
Now thats atmosphere, Dave said.
We entered the main room. Walls were peeling, revealing faded floral wallpaper in patches. In the corner stood a sofa with a sunken mattress, draped in a grey, dustcovered sheet. A table held a stack of yellowed, crumpled papers.
Kate brushed the window frame. The timber was rough, the paint flaking.
If we all get sick here, Ill kill you, she warned me, her tone laced with familiar sarcasm.
Ive got a firstaid kit, I replied. And were not sleeping in a tent.
I tried to sound light, but the house pressed down on me. It was just an old, derelict cottage there are plenty like it across the countrybut because it sat on the edge of our childhood village it felt personal.
Dave and Lucy hauled sleeping bags and inflatable mattresses from the car, Kate produced a stack of plastic cutlery, a thermos of soup, sandwiches and cheese. I checked for power and, to my relief, found one working socket. I plugged in a portable lamp; the ceiling bulb flickered to life with a weak yellow glow.
Ah, civilisation, Lucy said.
We ate around the table, the conversation drifting to familiar topics: work, kids, mortgages, the news. Laughter rose a shade too loud, as if we were trying to drown out the house itself.
Who lived here, anyway? Kate asked between bites. I only remember being warned about some sort of maniac.
Not a maniac, Dave replied. Just a bloke who lived alone. His wife died, his son vanished, and he eventually went a bit mad.
Is that your own invention or the official story? I asked.
My dad used to say, Dont go in, the owners angry, hell bite anyone. Then they said they eventually found him or maybe he disappeared himself. Its a grim tale.
Lucys eyes dropped. Shed lost her mother recently, a heavy loss that still haunted her. I knew she clung to every detail, trying not to fall apart.
Alright, lets officially launch our horror festival. After dinner well explore the house attic, cellar, any room with a bloody inscription. Whoever screams first does the dishes.
Kate scoffed. Of course youre making an excuse.
When we finished eating and warmed up a bit, we grabbed flashlights and started to wander. I led the way; the corridor was darker than the lamp could reach. Peeling paint, a crooked mirror reflecting our silhouettes, an old carpet worn thin in spots.
This could be a film set, Lucy whispered.
Already filming, Dave answered, raising his phone.
The rooms were variations on the same theme: empty wardrobes, bare walls, scattered old newspapers, broken dishes. In one room a faded calendar showed a seaside view, dated nearly twenty years ago.
Imagine, I said, he might have stared at that sea every day and never left.
Kate looked at me. Just like us.
I shrugged. Once I dreamed of leaving the village, then the city, then the country. Instead I stayed in the district centre, working an office job, handling other peoples money. Sometimes my life feels like that old calendar never turned, forever stuck on the same page.
We finally found the attic, though it took a while. A narrow hallway hid a stairwell behind a door. The wooden steps creaked but held. Upstairs was dark, smelling of dust and longstanding damp.
Watch out, I warned. If anything collapses, its not my fault.
The attic was low, roof sloping, webs dangling between joists. Cardboard boxes, old suitcases, planks lined the walls.
Heres a treasure trove of other peoples junk, Dave said.
Kate opened a box. Books and notebooks, she said, pulling out a battered school diary bound with twine.
I shone my torch on it; the cover bore a blueink title: Diary. 1998. The handwriting was uneven, childlike but large.
Great, weve found treasure, I said, snatching the diary.
Lucys voice trembled, Now it starts.
What are you scared of? Its just a notebook, I replied, though a knot formed in my chest.
We gathered back in the main room, the lamp casting a yellow circle surrounded by darkness. Outside the wind howled, a loose board slamming somewhere.
I opened the diary. The first page bore a name: Steve. The surname was smudged by moisture.
Go on, Dave urged.
I cleared my throat and read aloud:
10 March. Fought with dad again. He called me a lazy bum, said Id never amount to anything. I told him Id leave when Im eighteen. He laughed, said thered be nowhere for me to go. I feel stuck.
The room fell silent; even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Wow, straight from the 90s, Dave observed.
Next, Lucy whispered.
I turned the page. The ink was blotchy, as if the writer hadnt paused.
15 March. Mum was crying again last night. Heard her through the wall. Tried 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 on the wall. Pieces are still on the floor.
Kate winced, gripping the table edge. I recognised the familiar dread of a fathers rage, a memory shed never spoken of.
Enough? she asked. We didnt come for therapy.
Just a bit more, Lucy said. I want to hear the rest.
I hesitated, torn between curiosity and a strange guilt, but the diary lay open, pulling me in.
Further entries spoke of school, friends, a wish to move to the city, become a programmer. Dad scoffed, insisting the family always worked in the factory and he would too. Mum was silent, later weeping alone. There was a younger brother, constantly ill, in hospital, and Dad blamed it on some family sin.
Sounds like us, Dave said suddenly. Not literally, but the pattern.
We all nodded; each of us carried a version of that story parents expectations, dreams of escape that never materialised.
The wind grew louder. A door slammed somewhere down the hall; Lucy jumped, then laughed nervously.
The house doesnt like us reading its secrets, Dave joked.
Its hilarious, Kate muttered.
I turned another page; the handwriting was larger, as if the writer was in a hurry.
24 April. Doctors say brother wont get better. Mum disappeared into the bathroom for twenty minutes. Dad blamed it on me, said if Id never been born things would be different. I know thats not true, but it hurts.
My throat tightened. I stopped reading aloud, ran a finger over the lines. Guilt that I didnt own, yet it sat heavy on my chest.
Whats next? Lucy asked.
Nothing special, I said. Just everyday stuff.
Kate reached for the diary.
Its yours now, she said.
I paused, not wanting to hand it over, but also not wanting to keep the words to myself. I passed it to her.
She began to read silently, her brow furrowing. I watched her shoulders tense. Dave paced the room, glancing at the hallway.
Theres still a bed upstairs, he noted. With a mattress. Imagine who slept there.
Kate slammed the diary shut. Thats enough for tonight.
What? Dave asked.
Just I dont want to go through the rest. It gets darker hospitals, funerals. Im not ready.
Lucy stood, shivering. Ill make some tea, she said, Its freezing.
In the kitchen, which was more a utility room than anything, we managed to get the old electric kettle working. Lucy boiled water, the whistling sound cutting through the silence. I stood in the doorway, watching her shoulders tremble slightly.
How are you holding up? I asked.
Fine, she replied, though her voice wavered. It just feels too familiar, like reading my own life with different names.
I thought of a time my own father, in a fit of rage, threw an ashtray against the wall, and how I later blamed myself for not being better. The diary had reminded me of that sting.
We sipped tea from mismatched mugs, trying to talk about light things, but the house seemed to have absorbed us into its story, making it hard to shake off.
Lets try to contact Steves spirit tonight, Dave suggested later, gathering us back into the main room.
Youre daft, Kate retorted. There are no spirits.
What else is there then? Just an old house? he asked. Why does it feel wrong?
Because youre impressionable, Lucy said, and because were reading someone elses diary.
I stayed silent, thinking of the notebook I used to keep in secondary school, then in university, then stopped after I got married and had a son. It lay somewhere in a box on the attic shelves of my own house, gathering dust. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if someone had found it twenty years from now.
Night fell quickly. The wind turned into a fullblown storm, rattling the loose shutters, the roof thudding with each gust. Inside the cottage grew colder despite the portable heater Dave had brought. We spread our sleeping bags across the main room, agreeing to stay together rather than split up.
Im not sleeping alone in this hole, Kate declared, consider me a coward.
Me too, Lucy added.
I lay near the wall, the mattress creaking under me. We turned off the lamp, leaving only the flashlights pointing at the ceiling, their dim beams barely holding the darkness at bay.
So, scary stories? Dave asked, settling in.
We already have one, Lucy replied.
We talked a little more, but fatigue took over. My mind drifted as I hovered between sleep and wakefulness, hearing Kate whisper to Lucy about work, about a boss who was getting on her nerves. The winds howl was the only other sound.
In my halfdream the house was not abandoned but lived in. The kitchen smelled of soup, the living room held a TV playing a concert, a boy not unlike my teenage self sat on the sofa, scribbling in a notebook. In the hallway someone shouted, a door slammed, the boy pretended not to hear.
A sharp crash jolted me awake. Something heavy had hit the floor. The room was dark; my phones flashlight flickered. Kate lay turned away from the wall, Dave slept on his back, his mouth slightly open. Lucys spot was empty.
Lucy? I called, louder.
Silence answered. Only the wind and the faint creak of the house.
Come on, this is ridiculous, I muttered, reaching for my phone. The screen illuminated the room with a pale glow. Kate was still curled up, Dave still oblivious, the bed sheet rustling slightly.
Wheres Lucy? I asked again.
A shuffling sound came from the hallway. I stepped out, the flashlight beam cutting through dustladen air. The hallway smelled of old wood and stale plaster. The kitchen door was ajar, a single cup lay overturned on the table.
The sound upstairs grew louder a soft sobbing. My heart hammered. I climbed the stairs, each step protesting beneath me. At the top the attic was cloaked in darkness; the flashlight revealed a box of old books, suitcases, and in the corner, Lucy sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, silent tears streaming down.
Whats wrong? I asked, kneeling beside her.
Sorry, she whispered, I didnt mean to wake you.
She lifted a thin notebook, its soft cover bearing the same handwritten title: S. 2001. Winter.
What is it? I asked.
She swallowed. Its more of Steves later entries. He writes about moving to the city, coming back when his dad died, staying alone. He says the house grew too quiet after the death, that he hears footsteps at night, that he talks to himself to stay sane.
Her voice cracked as she read a passage aloud, the words trembling:
I thought when he died it would be easier, but the house only got quieter. Too quiet. Sometimes I swear I hear him walking the corridor. I know its just the wind, but at night it sounds different. I talk to myself so I dont go mad. Mum left for her sisters house, saying she couldnt live here any longer. I stayed. Someone had to stay.
A cold knot formed in my chest. Stay. The word hit me hard. I had stayed for my mother when my father passed, while my brother left. The weight of that decision settled over me like the attics dust.
What next? Lucy asked, eyes red.
I turned the page. Steve wrote about wondering whether leaving would have changed everything, about the house pulling him like a swamp, about fearing he might one day stop leaving his house entirely and become like the man in the diary.
Lucy covered her face with her hands. I I do the same with my mum, she confessed, voice breaking. Shes gone now, but I still talk to her. I wonder if I should have stayed more, not left. Yet Im also ashamed Im glad I left.
I placed a hand on her shoulder. You have the right to feel both grateful and guilty. Those feelings arent mutually exclusive.
She gave a weak smile. Smart of you, but it doesnt help with the attic ghosts.
A sudden bang echoed from downstairs. Both of us flinched.
Its just the wind, I said, trying to sound convincing.
Or Dave went to the loo, Lucy suggested.
We sat a while longer, the wind rattling the roof, the house sighing as if settling into sleep.
Lets go downstairs, I suggested. Well freeze if we stay up here.
Take the notebook, Lucy said. I dont want it left here.
Why? I asked.
I just dont want it to be alone, she replied. If we take it, maybe his story wont stay trapped.
I hesitated. Taking a strangers diary felt almost like theft, but leaving it felt wrong too.
Fine, I said. Well decide what to do with it in the morningAs the first light seeped through the cottages cracked windows, I realized that some stories are meant to be carried forward, not closed, and that the true haunting lay in the choices we never stopped making.
