Gran died on a Tuesday. No drama. No thunderstorm. Just a nurse calling me at three in the afternoon while I was cataloguing Victorian tax ledgers. “She went in her sleep.” That was it. The cottage became mine. Including the attic room I was never allowed to enter as a child.

Quote: “Gran showed me the hole today. Behind the third bookshelf. She said I was old enough to visit. She said not to tell Mother. The things down there whisper. They know my name from before I was born.”

And I swear on my life—something just whispered, “Emily. Finally. We were getting lonely.”

End of episode one.

I found the diary there. Not her diary. Mine.

October 17th. First entry. No—correction. First entry of the second volume. The first one I burned when I was seventeen. I told myself it was catharsis. The truth is, I was scared of anyone reading what I’d written.

Behind it is a hole. Roughly cut. Black. Warm air coming out of it. Not damp. Not dry. Something else.