Page 2 of Where The Devil Kneels

Getting ready for bed becomes my routine. I check the window locks three times, each click loud in the quiet, and leave my bedroom door slightly open, a habit from wanting both safety and a way out. I keep my phone and flashlight close, small comforts against the night. Familiar routines help for a moment, but the anxiety stays, creeping over me.

I get under the quilt and watch the candle’s flame make shadows on the ceiling. At first, they move gently, but soon the darkness feels alive. Sleep stays just out of reach as my mind runs through ghost stories that might explain the strange feeling in the house. Just as I start to drift off, I hear wood creak in the hallway, like someone testing their step. I’m instantly awake, eyes wide but unable to see in the darkness.

My body sits up before I even think, my heart pounding in my chest. The candle flickers one last time before the room goes completely dark. I blink into the blackness. The bedroom door, which I left open, is now closed. Cold fear settles in my stomach as I search the nightstand for my flashlight. Its solid weight is both comforting and a reminder that I’m truly alone here.

The flashlight beam slices through the darkness, lighting up the edge of my desk, the corner of a bookshelf, and the curve of a chair arm. Everything looks strange now. I listen hard for any sound beyond my own shallow breathing, but the silence only makes me more sure I’m not alone. I feel eyes on me from the dark. My fingers grip the sheets, my knuckles turning white as I force myself to breathe. Don’t move. Don’t scream. Think.

I move my flashlight across the room again, catching dust that floats like tiny stars in the beam. The fear stays, heavy on my chest. Every breath feels hard. The silence isn’t empty—it’s full of whispers I can almost hear, secrets pressing against the walls. Dawn seems far away, and I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere in this house, shadows are gathering, ready to reveal things I’ve tried to avoid all my life.

Chapter two

Whispers in the Walls

Theairinmystudy clings to me like spiderwebs, thick with dust and anticipation, as I sort through the mess of unpacked boxes. The smell of antique paper and wood polish fills the room, mixing together with the shadows from the dying daylight that slips through the heavy velvet drapes. Each book I place on the shelf helps steady my thoughts, centring me in this house that already seems to utter secrets I’m not ready to face.

The shelves strain under my books, a mix of worn architecture volumes and glossy books about local folklore. I stack them carefully, lining up their bindings. Even as I work, the darkness in the corners seems to grow deeper. I stop for a moment, my hand suspended over a cracked leather-bound diary—an heirloom from another time, holding memories of its own.

After what seems like hours, I reach the last box. Inside are personal items which remind me of who I am beyond this project. I find my camera, journals, and a scarf that still holds the odour of old memories. Each thing I set on the desk feels like a small offering to the house, a way to fill the emptiness with something real.

As I lean over to sort through some photographs, my pulse throbs and jumps with nervous curiosity. I notice something odd: one floorboard is raised a little, not quite even with the rest, as if waiting to be found. My heart beats faster as I kneel down, nerves on edge, and grab a letter opener from the desk. The metal catches the last bit of light as I pry up the board. It pops free, revealing a dark space underneath, and a combination of fear and excitement rushes through me.

Dust rises as I lift the board. Inside the gap, I find a small bundle of old photographs. My breath catches. Each picture shows Hale Manor from different angles, wrapped in shadows and age. People’s faces are only half-seen, hidden by darkness or damage. They look like ghosts from the past. My hands quiver as I go through them, both drawn in and uneasy.

I turn one photo over and find strange markings, symbols, and rushed writing that seem to move on the page. My heart skips as I spot a phrase underlined in worn ink: "Some places protect their own." The words hit me hard, filling me with both meaning and a spark of fear. Who or what do they protect against?

Before I can think about what I’ve found, a sudden knock at the door startles me, making me jump. I quickly hide the photographs under some papers and push the board back into place before hurrying to answer. My nerves are on edge as I open the door to someone whose bright smile seems out out of place amid the estate’s gloom.

Nora Voss, as her nametag says, stands on the porch holding a welcome basket full of baked goods and handwritten notes. Her cheerfulness shines, a sharp contrast to the still, muted world inside my house. I hesitate, feeling unsure, but a bit of tenderness breaks through. I step aside and invite her in.

"Welcome to Hale Manor," I say, forcing a smile that doesn’t feel natural, my nerves showing. "Elara Hale," I add, leading her into the study. I feel exposed as she looks around, her eyes taking in the clutter—journals, scattered photos, and my tattered scarf on the desk. Embarrassment and worry mix inside me.

Her gaze lands on the chaotic array of books, then returns to me. She grins, mischief gleaming in her bright blue eyes. “Nora Voss! I hope you don’t mind a nosy neighbour,” she says. “It’s not every day the estate changes hands. How are you finding it so far?”

I focus on the basket and pretend to look through it, hiding my nerves. I mutter, "It's a work in progress," my voice careful and guarded. "There's still a lot to discover." My face shows my doubt as I speak.

“Uncover?” Nora giggles—a bright, melodic sound at odds with the room’s gloom. “There’s plenty of history here, I’m sure. Do you know much about the estate’s past?” she asks, her eagerness catching me off guard.

“Just the basics,” I answer, my words seeming flat. “Hale Manor has definitely seen better days.”

Nora leans against the door frame, an eager light flashing in her eyes. She prompts, “You’ve heard the stories then? The gossip?”

A sense of unease grows inside me, tight and tense. I raise an eyebrow and tilt my head. "What stories?"

Her enthusiasm shifts, voice falling. “People talk, you know. There have been disappearances.” She hesitates, as if debating whether to say more, immersed in her own curiosity.

"Is that so?" I ask, trying not to show the shiver her words send throughout me. A chill of fear and disbelief runs through me. I notice an envelope on my desk move slightly, but when I look straight at it, it stays still. I push the thought aside and focus on Nora, hiding my mounting unease.

“Some think this house has a mind of its own,” she continues, voice softening to a hush. “Others believe it protects those within.”

The strange phrase echoes in my mind, mingled with the house's gloom. "I wouldn’t take that too seriously," I say, hoping I sound more relaxed than I feel.

Nora leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You haven’t noticed anything... unusual since moving in, have you?” she asks, searching my face.

I study her face, trying to figure out if she knows something or is just repeating rumors. Confusion and worry build deep inside me as I stand among the clutter. I notice small things moving at the edge of my vision—a candlestick tilts, a quill rolls, an envelope slides toward the floor. Each shift makes me more uneasy, and I wonder if she sees it too.

Her eyes widen, but she recovers quickly. The tension is noticeable between us. I watch her gauge my reaction. Her willingness is now eclipsed by an unspoken realization. "I—uh, nothing out of the ordinary, I guess. I’ve only just moved in yesterday." The denial hangs in the air, an awkward tension thickening.

With one last look, she retrieves her basket. Her smile widens, as if sensing my distance. “I should let you get back to... unpacking,” she says. “But do get in touch if you need anything. We’re a tight-knit community here.”