Chapter 7

Mr Miller led me to a spacious yet comfortable sitting room. He didn't invite, he merely stated, his voice gruff and devoid of warmth, "You might as well sit." He gestured vaguely towards a pair of deep-cushioned armchairs flanking a low, carved coffee table, then turned slightly away, looking out one of the windows as if the view held more interest than my presence. His shoulders were stiff, and though he did not seem happy about the idea of me sitting, there was an underlying weariness to his posture, as if the very act of engaging in this encounter was a great effort. My own nervousness, already a tight knot in my stomach, only tightened further in the oppressive silence that followed. I chose the armchair closest to me, sinking slightly into its plush embrace.

Just as the silence began to stretch, taut and uncomfortable, Mrs. Miller entered, a warm, almost floral scent accompanying her. She moved gracefully, carrying a large silver tray laden with a steaming pot of tea, delicate china cups, and an assortment of golden-brown biscuits arranged artfully on a small plate.

Her smile was immediate and genuine, a stark contrast to her husband’s earlier austerity. "Hello, you must be Annabelle," she greeted, her voice soft but clear, a welcome balm after the tense quiet. She carefully set the tray down on the coffee table between us. "I'm Sarah. Please forgive David’s mood," she added, glancing briefly at her husband, a flicker of understanding passing between them before she turned her kind attention back to me. "He really does not like talking about our experiences in that house. It's been... difficult for him." She began to pour the tea, the gentle clinking of porcelain a reassuring sound in the suddenly lighter atmosphere.

“Please call me Anna, you have a lovely home” I responded.

"Thank you," Sarah replied, a faint smile touching her lips. "David designed it purposely for us. After what happened, we didn’t want to move into a house that had been lived in before. We stayed with my parents while it was being built."

"I can imagine," I said, taking a sip of the warm tea. "A new beginning, completely your own. That must feel incredibly comforting after… well, after everything."

"Yes, exactly," Sarah said softly, glancing around the room. "A blank canvas. And David... he really poured his heart into designing it. It gave us something to focus on, something to build, physically and emotionally."

"Well, it truly shows," I replied, looking around the peaceful space. "It feels so serene. He did a remarkable job, it’s very different from the property in Whitsite.”

My gaze met Sarah’s briefly; her eyes, though weary, held a flicker of apprehension. She offered a weak, almost imperceptible nod, her gaze dropping to her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

I can understand why you’d want something new and why you don’t want to talk about what you experienced in that house. Believe me, I was there yesterday speaking to the current owners. There is something in that house that… something fundamentally wrong, something dangerous.”

The words hung in the air, but before I could elaborate on my own unsettling observations, David snapped, his voice sharp with an edge of raw, thinly veiled anger and exhaustion. "You don’t need to tell us, believe me. We experienced it first-hand. It wasn’t just a few odd occurrences either, it was a constant siege �" appliances malfunctioning, not just flickering, but violently shorting out or turning on full blast in the middle of the night. Tripping hazards appearing seemingly out of nowhere, like the very floorboards were shifting beneath our feet, or objects deliberately placed to catch you unawares."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly but losing none of its intensity. "And that's nothing compared to the gas leak in the kitchen, discovered just moments before Sarah attempted to light the stove. Objects shooting across the room without a source, like the heavy ceramic plate that shattered against the opposite wall, narrowly missing our daughter’s head." He swallowed hard, his gaze shifting to a closed door, presumably leading to another room. "We have two small children, you see. Two small children who woke up screaming more nights than I can count, who still talk about the 'dark shadows'. And I don’t want them to have to relive it again, not in their minds, not in their nightmares. We just want to move on and forget that house ever existed."

My heart went out to this family, etched with the unmistakable lines of prolonged suffering. Their eyes held a deep weariness, a hollow echo of something truly horrific they'd endured within those very walls I was investigating. I took a breath, choosing my words carefully, my voice softer than usual.

"It is not my intention to cause your family further distress, to force you to relive what you went through in that house," I began, my gaze steady but sympathetic. "I am just trying to gather as much information as possible so that I can help the current owners. They're at their wit's end. Especially with their daughter, who strangely enough, seems almost unaffected by it all, while everyone else is unraveling. Did you experience anything like that? A child who seemed… unaffected?" I asked, leaning forward slightly.

Sarah, seated opposite me, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, let out a short, almost involuntary sigh. Her eyes, clouded with distant memories, met mine, then flickered away. "No," she replied, "No, we didn't experience anything like that. Quite the opposite, in fact. Both our children were terrified of that house. Utterly, completely terrified." She shook her head slowly, a grim memory playing across her features. "From the moment we moved in, there was an unease. They wouldn't settle. They wouldn't sleep in their own rooms, not without a fight, not without tears and screams echoing down the hall. Especially not the room at the end of the hall. That one… that one was the worst."

She paused, seemingly lost in the past. "After a while, Sally absolutely refused to set foot in that room alone, let alone sleep in it. For a while, she’d sneak into Tommy’s room, huddle with him for comfort, both of them whispering about shadows and cold spots they swore they saw and felt. But as things got progressively worse, as the… activity escalated, even Tommy’s room wasn't enough. It wasn't long before they both ended up crammed into our bed with us, night after night, shivering under the covers, clutching their stuffed animals, desperate for any shred of safety."

"That must have been unbearable for you both, seeing your children so utterly terrified, yet unable to offer them true sanctuary within their own home," I said, my voice heavy with genuine empathy.

David let out a low, bitter sound, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. "It chose its targets, that’s what it did. And the children were easy prey. It thrived on their fear, I think. It fed on it." He pushed a hand through his already dishevelled hair, looking utterly spent. "We tried everything. Nightlights, even moving their beds into our room... nothing worked. The things they saw, the things they felt."

"What sorts of things did they describe?" I asked, leaning forward, my gaze moving between them. "The 'dark shadows' you mentioned earlier, David? Were there specific areas, or objects, that seemed to trigger their fear more than others?"

Sarah's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "The shadows… yes. But in the shadows, they'd see things. Shapes. They'd say it watched them. Always the feeling of being watched. But the worst was the music box. We got Sally a little ballerina music box for her birthday, a beautiful porcelain one. It would play on its own. Not just once or twice, but over and over, sometimes softly, sometimes jarringly loud. Sometimes it would start in the middle of the night, from the hallway outside their bedroom, when we'd put it away hours ago. And it always stopped the moment we opened the door. Sally would scream, begging us to get rid of it. But no matter where we moved it, it would appear again, on her bedside table, playing." She closed her eyes, a single, silent tear tracing a path down her cheek. "We finally smashed it. Pounded it to dust with a hammer. Thought that would be the end of it. It wasn't."

"No," David agreed, his voice flat. "It just got creative." A mirthless chuckle escaped him. "After that, they started seeing the ballerina. Not the music box, the ballerina. A ghostly figure, they swore, dancing in their rooms. Especially in that room. The one Sarah mentioned. The one at the end of the hall. It always started there."

"Did the ghost ever try to communicate with you?" I asked, "or was all the activity around the children?"

Sarah and David looked at each other before answering. Sarah sighed, a long, weary sound, and David reached over to put a reassuring hand on her arm.

"It's… not as simple as a conversation, you understand." David started

"No," Sarah confirmed, her voice a little strained. "She never spoke to us directly. Not in words, anyway. It was more… an overwhelming presence. A feeling. And yes, it was almost always about the children."

"But what kind of activity? What did she want?" I asked

“It was drawn to them. Especially Sally. The little trinkets in her room, they'd rearrange themselves. Toys would move, just slightly. We'd hear whispers, faint laughter sometimes, when no one else was there."

"And the cold spots. Like walking through an icebox in a single step. Always strongest when the children were playing near that room. Or worse, when they were in it." David added "It wasn't overtly hostile to start with, more… possessive. Like she wanted to be with them. Almost like… she didn't want to be alone anymore, but when they got scared and started refusing to go into that room that’s when things changed."

"So she wasn't communicating with you because she was trying to communicate with them.” I said

Sarah shuddered, pulling her hand away from David's to rub her arms. "Exactly."

“And what was it she wanted?” I pressed the question hanging heavy in the air. “To play? To keep them there? What changed when they started refusing to go into that room?”

David’s jaw tightened. “She wanted them to stay. To be hers. That’s what it felt like. Not in any benevolent way either. It was… an insistence. A demand. When they started fighting it, when they truly became terrified and refused to even step foot in the room, that’s when it turned ugly. That’s when the whispers turned to screams in the night, the toys moving became objects thrown with force. It was like a child throwing a tantrum, but with the power of something ancient and malevolent.”

Sarah shivered again, nodding. “The gas leak, the tripping hazards… It was all after they started sleeping in our room every night. As if the house was trying to force them back, to punish them for not obeying. It felt like it was trying to hurt us, so that they would be vulnerable, so that they would have to rely on it again, or be forced back into that space. It didn’t want them to leave.”

This did not sound like a typical haunting but a malevolent spirit intent on causing harm to the occupants of the house. I need to find out why Ashlynn is so fixated on Adrianna, if I don’t her life could be in danger. 

"Thank you for talking to me about this," I began again, my voice softer, more empathetic this time. "I know it can’t have been easy reliving all of this. There is just one more thing," The Millers watched me, their faces etched with a profound weariness, the initial surprise I’d caused slowly hardened into a resigned acceptance that this interrogation wasn't over yet. They seemed to brace themselves, their shoulders minutely tensing.

"While you were living in the house," I stated, leaning forward just a fraction, keeping my voice level, "you hired a paranormal detective agency, didn't you? A group specifically called the Paranormal Taskforce."

A faint shadow crossed Sarah’s face, a flicker of something akin to remembered desperation. “That’s right,” she interjected almost immediately, her voice flat, devoid of its earlier hopeful timbre. “We hoped they would be able to help. We were… at our wits' end. They came to the house several times, conducted their investigations �" set up cameras, audio recorders, thermal imaging… all the gadgets you see on those TV shows.” She gave a short, humourless laugh. “But they never seemed to be making any real progress. It was just a lot of talk, a lot of equipment, and no answers. No relief. We moved out shortly after that, we couldn't take it anymore.” Paul nodded slowly beside her, his gaze finally meeting mine, a silent echo of her despair.

“I’m sorry to hear they weren’t able to help provide you with the solace you sought,” I replied, my tone genuinely regretful as I considered the futility of their past efforts. “I actually spoke to them earlier today to see if they could provide me with any information that may be relevant to my own investigation. Given their prior dealings with the property, I thought their findings might shed some light.” I paused, choosing my words carefully. "However, you never officially closed the case with them. Because of that, they are reluctant to give me any details, citing client confidentiality. They have, however, said that if I could get written consent from you, then they would release the full files to me.”

I watched their faces, noting the flicker of surprise, then suspicion, then a deep, almost painful consideration. They exchanged a look, a silent conversation passing between husband and wife, a shared memory of fear and frustration. The files from the Paranormal Taskforce, I thought, could hold vitally important information that may finally help me understand what was happening in that house.

David, with a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of years, he pushed himself up from the sofa. His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic, as he walked to a wooden bureau on the other side of the room. He opened a deep drawer, the sound of wood on wood echoing faintly, and took out a crisp sheet of paper and a simple ballpoint pen. He settled at the small desk tucked into the corner, his back to me for a moment, and began to write, the distinct scratch of ink on paper filling the stillness.

When he was done, he returned, the paper held out in his hand. I reached for it, my fingers brushing against his briefly as I took it, my eyes scanning the concise declaration. It was precisely what I needed.

“I, David Miller, give permission for any files or documents relating to our case regarding 465 West Street, Whiteside WS3 1DF to be released to Annabelle Lunnís from SpectraByte.”

This statement was followed by his firm signature, the ink still faintly wet. A quiet wave of relief washed over me. I had it.

“I hope this allows you to help the current owners of that house” David said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, as if severing a final tie to a painful past. He gave a curt nod towards the door. “But if there is nothing else, I think it’s time you leave.”

"Thank you both for taking the time to talk to me today," I said, my voice a little hoarse, but sincere. "I know it can’t have been easy, reopening those wounds."

I turned to leave, but before I could take a second step, Sarah was suddenly on her feet, a desperate urgency in her movements. Her hand shot out, her fingers gripping my forearm just above the elbow. Her eyes, still raw from unshed tears, pleaded with mine.

"Please," she whispered, her voice barely a breath, "you have to let me know what happens with the current owners. I can’t bear to think of another family suffering like we did. It's not right."

I met her gaze, a quiet understanding passing between us. "Of course, Sarah," I said gently, covering her hand with my own for a brief moment. "I will let you know if we make any progress, if there’s any resolution."

David, who had stood silently by the door during this exchange, stepped forward, his face a mask of weary resignation. He gestured curtly towards the hallway. As he showed me to the door, his voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. "I wish I could say it has been a pleasure meeting you," he stated, his eyes fixed on some distant point beyond my shoulder, "but it really hasn’t. I hope we never meet each other again, under any circumstances."

I gave a brief, acknowledging nod, understanding the depth of his sentiment, and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, leaving the heavy atmosphere of their home behind. As I walked to the car I mulled over what they had told me, Ashlynn seemed to be drawn to the children and that really worried me, especially as Adrianna did not seem to be affected in the same way the Millers children had. They had been terrified of her but Adrianna, according to her parents, displayed not a shred of fear. Not even curiosity. Just an unnerving, almost stony indifference to the inexplicable phenomena that gripped their home. The question is why? Why was Adrianna immune to the terror that crippled others? Was she somehow different, was Ashlynn's influence manifesting in a more insidious, less obvious way? Or was it something far more sinister, a chilling familiarity that bypassed fear altogether, hinting at a connection so deep, so unsettling, that it defied all rational explanation? 

The drive to Redfall went by in a blur, my mind still whirring with the information the Millers had given me. The only thing I knew for certain, the singular, unwavering beacon in the storm of uncertainty, was that I needed to do something to help the Becketts.