Chapter 4

The engine purred beneath me, a familiar comfort as I navigated the winding country lane. Then, through a break in the ancient oaks, I saw it. The Beckett’s house. I pulled up the gravel driveway, the crunch under my tires breaking the strange stillness that seemed to cling to the air here. It was a truly lovely property; I could absolutely see why the Becketts had snapped it up.

Before getting out of the car I take a moment to stare at the house, a magnificent Creolvian building, all gabled roofs, bay windows, and intricate gingerbread trim. Even from a distance, its red-brick facade, immaculately pointed, shone under the sun. It was a testament to meticulous restoration, especially considering its history. The fire, they’d said, had been terrible �" destroying the entire kitchen. But now, you’d never know. It was a picture of grandeur, nestled perfectly amidst blooming rose bushes and manicured lawns.

The Mid-afternoon sun blazed down, but even through the warmth of the car, I felt it �" a persistent, unnatural chill that seemed to seep into the very marrow of my bones. As I got out of the car and walked up toward the house the chill intensified. It wasn't the kind of cold that suggested a drought or a dip in temperature; it was the kind that felt wrong. My breath didn't quite mist, but my skin prickled.

Please, I thought, Please let them be wrong.

Mrs Beckett met me at the grand oak door, her smile wide but in her eyes a sort of weary apprehension. "Hello, you must be Annabelle Lunnís from SpectraByte! You best come in"

"Thank you, Mrs Beckett, you have a lovely home " I replied, forcing a cheerfulness I didn't entirely feel.

“Please call me Corren” she said opening the door further so I could enter

 As I stepped over the threshold, into the cavernous hallway, the temperature dropped again, noticeably. Eleanor shivered.

"It's always like this," she murmured, her voice lower than usual. "Even when Paul cranks the heating. It's like the house never quite warms up."

We moved into the family-room, a beautiful space bathed in natural light, with ornate plasterwork and a magnificent fireplace. Paul joined us, a gin and tonic in hand.

"So," I began, trying to keep my tone light. "I understand you have noticed several strange occurrences since you moved in"

Corren sighed, sinking onto a velvet armchair. "Oh, where to begin? flickering lights, Temperature changes, strange noises, doors opening and closing and objects moving."

Paul nodded gravely. "And then there's Adrianna's room. That's where it's the worst."

"The previous owners," Corren continued, almost apologetically, "they were very vague about the details of why they moved out.  We did not see the newspaper articles until after we moved in and the problems started and we started looking into the house. We had no idea a young girl had killed herself in this house, we would never have brought it if we’d known.

My rational mind tried to intervene. Old houses made noises. Drafts were common. People imagined things. But the gnawing chill in the air, the cold that felt like an entity rather than a weather phenomenon, was harder to dismiss.

"The only place where we have not had any issues is the kitchen. Let me show you the restoration," Paul announced, eager to change the subject or to get away from the rest of the house. "They’ve done a remarkable job with the kitchen, though the restoration had its issues too"

We walked through a formal dining room, opulent and still, towards the back of the house. As we drew closer, the air seemed to get warmer. The kitchen was stunning. High ceilings, a massive marble island, gleaming copper pots hanging above, state-of-the-art appliances. It was bright and airy, flooded with light from a wall of windows overlooking a charming herb garden.

“This is lovely, you're right, they have done an amazing job.” I said looking round

“It’s my favourite room” said Corren, she had visibly relaxed since walking into the kitchen it was as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders “I spend as much time in here as possible, would you like some tea?”. I could understand why the air was less oppressive here and it was several degrees warmer.

"It's like a different house here, tea would be lovely" I remarked, running a hand over the cool marble of the island. The tension that had been coiling in my stomach since I stepped through the front door began to unwind. "Truly exceptional. You said the restoration had its own issues, though?" I asked, remembering Paul's earlier comment about the kitchen.

Paul sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "Just... unexpected delays. Materials going missing, then reappearing in the wrong places. Tools left out on the counter overnight would be found neatly stacked back in their boxes. The crew swore it was each other, but it got a bit... odd, even for them. Nothing like the rest of the house, though. Just minor annoyances, easily dismissed as human error or a particularly mischievous ghost of a handyman." He tried for a laugh, but it fell flat.

Corren, who had set out 3 tea cups and made up a pot of tea was now meticulously wiping down a spotless counter, added, "And the strange chill. They kept complaining about it, even with the heating on full. One morning, the entire crew packed up and left. Said they'd had enough. We had to hire a new team to finish the last few details." She shivered, despite the warmth of the room. "But it was manageable. Nothing like upstairs."

My curiosity, despite the rising unease, was piqued. "So, what exactly is happening upstairs?" I asked bracing myself.

Corren exchanged a look with Paul. "It starts on the landing," she began, her voice barely a whisper. "The temperature drops instantly. You can feel it, like walking into a freezer. And the silence… it's not just quiet, it's a suffocating silence where even your own breathing feels too loud."

"And the sounds," Thomas interjected, rubbing his temples. "Footsteps when no one's there. Whispers, sometimes. Someone crying, faint and far away. We've had to start sleeping on the ground floor, just to get some rest."

“You said it was worse in Adrianna’s room?” I asked

“Yes, I went in there the other day to tidy up” Corren’s eyes were wide with remembered terror. "The air turned impossibly cold. The light bulb in the ceiling fixture exploded, showering me with glass. And then… the rocking chair in the corner started to rock. Slowly at first, then faster and faster, completely on its own. I just… ran. I really don’t like Adrianna sleeping in there but she insist and says it’s fine, she hasn’t noticed any issues”

My gaze drifted from Corren’s pale face to the bright, comforting kitchen. It was an oasis, a bubble of normalcy in a house clearly defined by something else entirely. "And you're sure… you're sure it's not just the age of the house? Settling, pipes, old wiring?"

Paul let out a short, hollow laugh. "We wish. Just yesterday, I was in the family room, trying to read. The curtains were perfectly still. Then, slowly, one of them began to sway. Not a gentle movement, more like someone was pushing it from behind, testing its weight. There was no open window, no vent." He paused; his eyes fixed on some point beyond me. "And then, I heard it. A faint sigh, right next to my ear. Right here." He tapped his temple.

The warmth of the kitchen suddenly felt less like comfort and more like a fragile shield. I looked at Paul and Corren, truly seeing their exhaustion, their fear. This wasn't some fanciful ghost story they were telling. This was their life, being slowly eroded by an unseen force. And Adrianna's room, the place where it was "worst," beckoned with a terrifying promise of answers no one truly wanted to find. I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that my visit wouldn't end in the safe haven of the kitchen. I would have to see it for myself.

“Is it ok if I go up to Adrianna’s room and have a look around?” I ask, the Becketts share a look “I’m happy to go by myself”

The silence that followed my question was heavier than the humid summer air that pressed against the kitchen window. Paul and Corren’s shared glance wasn't one of conspiracy, but of a deep, weary understanding, a conversation without words that had clearly been repeated countless times over the past few months.

Corren, her face pale beneath the dim kitchen light, finally spoke, her voice barely a whisper. "Are you sure? It… it can be quite unsettling up there." Her hand trembled slightly as she reached for a teacup, a futile gesture of normalcy.

“Yes I need to have a look as you have said it is the worst affected area and if Adrianna is not affected by the strange occurrences, I need to see if there is a reason why”

They exchanged another look, this one laced with resignation. It was clear they'd exhausted every possible avenue, every rational explanation, every other human intervention. 

"Just… be careful," Eleanor finally conceded, her voice cracking. "And if anything… anything at all… just come straight back down."

I nodded, pushing back my chair. The scrape of it on the tiled floor seemed unnervingly loud in the hushed kitchen. The warmth of the room, which had previously felt like a defensive embrace, now solidified into a barrier I was about to breach. I walked through the archway into the hallway which was noticeably colder. A distinct chill, not the refreshing coolness of air conditioning, but the stagnant, unsettling cold that seeps into old stone. The air felt heavy, as if the very atoms were denser, resisting movement. The wooden stairs creaked beneath my weight, each groan echoing unnaturally in the oppressive silence. I could feel Paul and Corren’s eyes on my back, a silent vigil from the relative safety of the kitchen.

As I ascended, the everyday sounds of the house seemed to fade: the gentle hum of the refrigerator, the distant chirping of crickets outside. All that remained was the thud of my own heart against my ribs, and an almost imperceptible hum in the air, like a distant, off-key chord being held. The wallpaper, a faded floral pattern, seemed to ripple at the edges of my vision, or perhaps it was just my apprehension playing tricks.

The landing was spacious, leading to four doors. The master bedroom at the top of the stairs, the bathroom, the spare room on either side of the landing and the room at the very end of the hall �" Adrianna's room. A shiver traced its way down my spine, unrelated to the cold. The door was slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible within. It wasn't just dark; it was a deeper, absorbing blackness, as if light itself struggled to penetrate its confines. No, Adrianne's room didn't beckon; it loomed. It sat there radiating an almost palpable sense of wrongness.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the doorknob. My fingers brushed against the cool brass, and for a split second, I hesitated. Every instinct screamed at me to turn back, to run, to cling to the fragile shield of the kitchen. But the image of Paul and Corren’s defeated faces flashed in my mind, and I knew I couldn't.

I pushed the door open, slowly.

The room hit me like a physical wave �" a wave of cold, yes, but also of something less tangible: a profound, suffocating sorrow. The air was thick, laden with an invisible dust of despair. There was no light on, and the single window, obscured by heavy, drawn curtains, offered no help. The darkness within was absolute, a void that seemed to swallow the faint light from the hallway.

I fumbled for the light switch beside the door, my hand shaking slightly. Click the light turned on, I was half expecting it not to work. I looked around the room at a neatly made bed, a desk with scattered schoolbooks, an open notebook, It looked normal.

"Normal," I echoed to myself, the word feeling hollow, almost a lie. The initial wave of suffocating sorrow hadn't vanished with the light; it had merely receded, leaving behind a thick, cloying residue. The cold still pricked at my skin, an unnatural chill that seemed to emanate not from the air conditioning, but from the very walls themselves.

My gaze lingered on the neatly made bed, the crisp white sheets pulled taut. It was too neat, almost as if someone had meticulously tidied it. No rumpled pillow, no discarded pajamas. Just perfection. And the desk, with its scattered schoolbooks �" a history textbook, a well-worn copy of ‘The Great Gatsby’, a math workbook, just a little to tidy for the bedroom of a teenage girl, where were the posters of boyband and movie stars

My eyes snagged on the open notebook. It lay flat, an ordinary spiral-bound, its pages slightly dog-eared. There was no single, dramatic word scrawled in bold letters, no frantic drawing. Instead, it was a page of neatly written notes, perhaps from a science class. Yet, as I took a tentative step closer, the cold intensified, seeping into my bones. And with it, that profound, debilitating sorrow swelled again, tightening its invisible grip around my chest. It was as if the very act of looking, of acknowledging the mundane objects, was stirring something unseen, something deeply painful.

I reached out, my fingers hovering just above the notebook. The air around it felt dense, almost viscous. It looked normal, yes, but what I felt wasn't normal. There is definitely something in this house that shouldn’t be here.

“Ashlynn” I whisper, I didn’t know what I expected. A response, perhaps? A whisper back, a creak from the floorboards above, a sign. But all I got was silence. 

My gaze drifted back to the notebook. A floorboard groaned, a slow, deliberate sound that wasn't the settling of an old house. My head snapped up, eyes darting to the open doorway. Nothing. Just the long, dancing shadows cast by the afternoon sun attempting to penetrate the windows.

"Ashlynn?" I tried again, louder this time. My voice cracked. "If you're here, just... just give me a sign." 

The silence deepened, if that were possible. It pressed in, heavy and suffocating, like a thick blanket thrown over my head. My eyes were still fixed on the doorway, but my peripheral vision caught a flicker, a subtle shift in the light,but when I turned there was nothing there.

I sighed, if it was Ashlynn that was haunting this house, it seemed she didn’t want to show herself today. I head back down to the safety of the kitchen and the Becketts. The air immediately felt warmer, lighter, despite the palpable tension. Paul sat hunched at the marble breakfast bar, his hands clasped, knuckles white. Corren was perched on the edge of a chair next to him, a half-empty cup of tea steaming forgotten in front of her, her eyes wide and fixed on the archway. They both looked up when I entered, expecting me to speak, their faces etched with a desperate hope I knew I probably couldn't fully fulfil.

I took a deep breath,this was not going to be easy. "There is definitely something up there," I said, my voice deliberately calm, even as the cold tendrils of my own recent experience still clung to me. "It did not want to show itself to me, but it made its presence known." I didn’t elaborate on the faint sounds, the sudden drops in temperature, the lingering sense of being watched. They didn’t need more details right now, just confirmation.

Corren’s shoulders slumped, a quiet sob escaping her lips before she could stifle it. "What now?" she said quietly, her voice barely a whisper. I could tell she had been hoping that they were wrong, that I would come down with a dismissive wave and declare the noises simply old house creaks, that there was not something dangerous in the house. The fragile hope in her eyes crumbled, replaced by a raw fear.

"I have been researching the history of the house since you first called," I replied, moving to the breakfast bar and pulling out a chair, needing to meet their gazes directly. “I believe the entity haunting this house is that of the young girl Ashlynn, who committed suicide here after the sudden, tragic death of her family in a car crash. I have a meeting scheduled with the previous owners, The Millers, tomorrow to discuss what happened to them while they lived here. It’s not what you are going to want to hear, but this is not something that can be fixed overnight. I need to find out more about Ashlynn and why she has chosen not to move on, and why she seems to be fixated on Adrianna. The only way I can do that is by speaking to people who have had contact with her previously and trying to find out what she wants. I have been unable to locate any blueprints for the house, do you or your contractors have a copy?"

We don’t, I’ll message you the contact details for the contractor” said Paul, finally lifting his head; his brow furrowed with resignation and growing impatience. "How long is all this going to take?" he asked, his voice strained. "We can’t keep living this way. Adrianna is barely speaking to us, Corren is a wreck and I feel like I'm constantly on edge." He gestured vaguely towards the ceiling.

"I will come back after tomorrow and spend the night here," I responded, my gaze steady. "Hopefully, I will be able to get Ashlynn to talk to me and resolve what is holding her here, but I warn you, it may take more than one visit. Sometimes entities are stubborn, or their reasons for staying are complex."

Corren’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with desperation. "But you can get rid of her? We can't afford to move; we spent all our money on doing up this house." Her voice was a mixture of plea and accusation, her panic overriding her self-control.

"I will do everything in my power to help you, and if I cannot help, then I will find someone who can," I said, putting a hand over hers on the table. Her skin was cold. "You are not alone anymore. I need to speak to the Millers and carry out some more research, but I will be back. You have my word."

"Tomorrow?" Corren confirmed, her voice still shaky, as if needing the reassurance spoken aloud.

"Yes," I responded, squeezing her hand gently. I rose, leaving them in the heavy silence of their kitchen, a silence now filled not just with fear, but with the fragile, frightening hope that I had offered them. The real work, the hard part, was yet to begin.

Leaving the house i feel a sense of relief, quickly followed by a sense of responsibility. I need to help the Becketts, I might not have been able to save my family but I am determined to save theirs.

Climbing into my car I pull out my phone and send Cyrus a quick email to keep him updated

Subject: Case Update: The Becketts (Initial Assessment)

Hi Cyrus,

I've met with the Becketts and completed the initial assessment. Based on my findings, it's definitely haunting.

I'm heading to Evertide tomorrow to speak with the Millers.

I'll keep you updated on my progress.

Regards,

Annabelle

I drove home so I could change before meeting up with Sam, Matt and the rest of our coven. I feel bad taking time to socialise while the Becketts are living in fear, but I really need to touch base with my Coven. My parents loved our home. Their presence still lingered in the scent of old books and dried herbs, in the faint echo of laughter that sometimes seemed to ripple from the walls themselves. And that was the problem, wasn't it?

It wasn't just grief, sharp and raw, that clawed at me whenever I thought of them. It was the sharp, icy spike of 'what if?' of 'if only.' The coven knew I was hurting. They’d seen my withdrawal, though they think it’s simply the sorrow of losing my parents. But it wasn’t just sorrow. It was guilt.

A quick shower, scrubbing away the grime of the day felt like an attempt to wash away the guilt itself, futile as it was. I changed into soft, comfortable clothes, the reflection in the mirror showed a haunted stranger with tired eyes.

Then, it was time to leave again. Time to meet up with Sam, Matt, and the rest of our coven. Matt, with his steady earth magic that always grounded me. Sam, all crackling energy and quick wit, ready with a sarcastic remark that sometimes, just sometimes, made me laugh. They were my anchors, my family, the only ones who could understand the weight of our shared responsibilities, the burdens of our gifts. But could they ever understand this? Could they look into my eyes and see the deep, festering wound of self-recrimination and not recoil? I was so afraid they would see my pain for what it really is: guilt. Guilt that I carried like a physical weight, a constant reminder of my failure.

Yet, I had to go. I had been too distant, too wrapped up in my own tormented mind. I needed to touch base with my coven, not just for them, but for me. I needed to feel the hum of shared power, the comfort of knowing I wasn't entirely alone in this fight, even if I was still hiding the ugliest part of myself from them. The Becketts were still out there, terrified, and I was still running from the truth of my own past, even as I headed towards the only people who might, one day, help me confront it.