I meant to go to my room early and stay there until dawn. Margot carefully closed the journal. The pages she’d managed to separate fanned across the top of the unread section, an easy marker to see where she’d gotten to. She didn’t like the idea of leaving the book too far from sight overnight and folded a towel around it for protection before tucking it into her jacket pocket.

A low, melancholy wind bled through the window, and it was at just the right speed to create a whistle-like pitch. The kitchen was lit, but as she approached the hallway entrance, she saw the rest of the house was dark.

That isn’t right. I switched on lights as I came down from the attic. Didn’t I…? When did they go out?

She hesitated on the kitchen’s threshold, staring into the barely distinguishable lines of the lounge room’s opening and the edges of the closest couch. In the poor light, it was almost possible to picture a hand lying on the armrest, skin stretched tight across fragile bones, fingertips curled slightly to dig into the threadbare fabric.

Margot took half a step back. The image, caused by poor light and stinging eyes, vanished when she moved, returning the couch to the same forlorn structure it had always been.

For a fleeting moment, she considered spending the night in the kitchen. It wasn’t warm and there was nowhere for her to rest her head, but at least it was well lit.

Don’t stall. Get to your room. Dawn will be here faster if you can sleep.

She’d roved all through the house on her first night there, unaware of any of its history. Back then it had seemed more like an adventure, each door holding the promise of uncovering secrets. Now, the closed doors felt more akin to a threat. She’d only seen behind a fraction of them. She did not want to open any more.

Margot tied her jacket tightly around herself. She’d grown cold while she sat, and the scrapes and bruises registered as dull, icy points across her body. The mournful notes from the wind dug at her, setting her nerves on edge.

Do it quickly.

Margot fixed her eyes ahead, then stepped over the threshold and into the dark.

26

The house felt quieter than it should have. Not that there weren’t sounds—there were, and a multitude of them—but they seemed unnaturally muffled. The wind through the windows faded into a low, mournful tune that teased the edges of her hearing. The creaks of shifting wood were dulled. Even Margot’s own breaths, too quick, sounded like they came from someone several steps behind her, hidden in the darkest recesses of the hall.

And coming from somewhere ahead, barely audible, was a quick clicking, clinking sound.

Is that…? No. Don’t. Don’t think it into being.