The old Victorian townhouse on St. Dunstan's Street had always felt like a place suspended in time. Isabelle had lived there for as long as she could remember, surrounded by its relics and echoes, yet today the house seemed more oppressive than usual, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for something—or someone—to break the silence. The ivy outside had crept further up the walls, and the broken windows let in more than just drafts; they let in the whispers of the past.
Isabelle had been digging through the attic for hours, sorting through boxes of forgotten photographs and dusty old furniture. Among the heaps of relics from the past, she had found nothing of particular interest until, just as the light began to dim, her eyes landed on an old wooden box tucked away in the corner. It was small, simple—marked with the faded initials "EB," which she immediately recognized. Evelyn Bellamy.
The box felt heavy in her hands, the weight of it pressing against her palms as if it contained more than just paper and memories. Inside, there was a small journal—its leather cover cracked and worn, the pages yellowed with age. Isabelle's breath caught in her throat as she flipped through the first few pages. The handwriting was elegant, sharp, familiar. This was Evelyn's journal.
Her heart raced. She had read about Evelyn before, in the dusty archives at the Canterbury Cathedral and in the cryptic notes that had been left behind by her mother. Evelyn's story had always seemed like a distant echo, something buried beneath the weight of time. But now, in the quiet stillness of the attic, Isabelle felt as though she were holding a bridge to the past, one that had been hidden from her for far too long.
There were no immediate clues to her mother's involvement with Evelyn—at least, not in the first few pages—but the journal was filled with cryptic references to someone named "Margaret," along with strange symbols and what seemed like secret codes. Isabelle couldn't shake the feeling that this was something far more important than a simple diary. There was a mystery here, one that had remained unsolved for decades.
Her fingers traced the faded ink, the words blurring as her mind raced to make sense of it all. She needed more. Isabelle had always been a seeker of truth, a solver of riddles, but the deeper she delved into this mystery, the more elusive the answers seemed. She was convinced now that her mother's connection to Evelyn—and whatever secrets had been buried with her name—was the key to understanding the strange occurrences that had followed her all these years.
A sudden noise broke her concentration. It was soft at first, barely perceptible—a rustling, a scraping sound coming from the walls. Isabelle stiffened, her heart beating faster. She had heard it before, faintly, at odd times: the sound of something scratching at the walls, as if something—or someone—was trying to get out.
Curious and more than a little unnerved, Isabelle put the journal aside and made her way downstairs. The sound grew louder as she approached the basement. The walls of the house seemed to hum, vibrating with a presence that made her skin crawl. It was as though the house itself were alive, remembering things it had been forced to forget.
At the bottom of the stairs, Isabelle hesitated. The basement was cold and damp, the air thick with the scent of old wood and mildew. She had never spent much time down here, but today it felt different. Something called to her, pulling her forward despite her unease. The faint scratching sound was louder now, almost frantic. Isabelle glanced around, half expecting to find a rat or some other mundane explanation, but the walls seemed too thick for such a small creature to make this much noise.
Her eyes fell on an old, cracked stone wall at the far end of the basement. The sound was coming from there. She stepped closer, her breath shallow, and as she did, the scratching stopped.
Isabelle reached out, running her fingers along the cold stone. There was nothing remarkable about the wall—it was rough, uneven, and covered in a thin layer of dust. But something about it felt wrong, as if it were hiding a secret, something that didn't belong. She pressed her ear against the stone. The faint whispering she had heard earlier began again, a soft murmur, like voices from the past.
She backed away, heart pounding. Isabelle had lived in this house for years, and the only sounds she had ever known were the occasional creaks of the floorboards and the hum of the house settling in the night. But this? This was different.
The whispers grew louder again, echoing in the space, and Isabelle's curiosity overcame her fear. She needed to know what was hidden behind this wall. The idea of something buried—perhaps something important, something that connected her to the past—was too much for her to ignore.
Without thinking twice, she grabbed a nearby crowbar from a pile of old tools. The rusted metal felt heavy in her hands, but she could already sense that this was no ordinary wall. She needed to open it, to find out what lay behind it.
With a grunt, she pressed the crowbar against the edge of the stone and began to pry. The wall resisted at first, but with each tug, the stone groaned, until finally, with a loud crack, a portion of it gave way.
Isabelle took a step back, her breath catching in her throat. Beyond the stone was a narrow, dark passage, so narrow she had to squeeze through to enter. The air in the passage was stale, heavy with dust and the faintest trace of something…else. She felt as though she were intruding on a space that had been sealed for centuries, a space that had not seen the light of day for a long, long time.
The passage was lined with shelves, and as Isabelle ventured deeper into the darkness, she reached out to touch the shelves, her fingers brushing against old leather-bound books, papers, and what appeared to be ancient documents. The smell of aged paper and leather filled her nose. But it wasn't just the smell that made her skin prickle. It was the sensation that she was not alone, that something—or someone—had been here before her.
She scanned the shelves quickly, her eyes falling on a few objects that seemed out of place. At the back of the passage, she saw a small wooden box—like the one she had found in the attic earlier. Only this box was old—much older. It was covered in strange markings, symbols she recognized from Evelyn's journal.
Isabelle's heart skipped a beat. She reached for the box, her hands trembling as she lifted it carefully. The symbols on the box seemed to glow faintly in the dim light, as though they were waiting for her touch. She set the box down in front of her and, with a mixture of excitement and trepidation, opened it.
Inside, there was a stack of letters—tied with a crimson ribbon. Isabelle's breath caught again. The letters, like the box, were old—worn at the edges, yellowed with age. And as she untied the ribbon and opened the first letter, she realized that she was holding another piece of the puzzle. Evelyn Bellamy's story was far from over. And now, Isabelle was closer than ever to uncovering the truth.
As she read the first few lines, a chill ran down her spine. The letter was addressed to someone named "M.E."
Margaret Elwood.