Morning brought a fragile courage. Sunlight, weak and filtered through the grime on the windows, made the house feel less menacing. I dismissed the night's events as stress and an overactive imagination. Leo, of course, had heard nothing. We decided to venture into Ravenswood for supplies and to meet the neighbors. The general store was the town's social hub, a small, cluttered space that fell silent the moment we entered. An older woman with sharp eyes and a pinched mouth stood behind the counter, her gaze tracking us like a hawk.
“You’re the ones at Blackwood,” she stated. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” Leo said, his charming smile firmly in place. “I’m Leo, this is Alex. We inherited the place.”
“Hmph.” She rang up our groceries with brisk, efficient movements. “Arthur’s kin. Should’ve let that place fall in on itself.”
“It’s a bit of a fixer-upper,” Leo agreed amiably.
“It’s a blight,” she corrected, her voice low. “No one goes there. No one should.” She looked directly at me, her eyes boring into mine. “He wasn’t right, your uncle. The things he’d talk about near the end. The whispers. The woman in the walls.”
A cold knot tightened in my stomach. “Woman in the walls?”
She shoved our bag across the counter. “You should leave. While you still can.”
We left the store under the weight of the townsfolk’s stares. Their hostility wasn't just the usual small-town suspicion of outsiders; it was layered with a deep, superstitious fear. Back at the manor, the encounter left me unsettled. I tried to focus on cleaning, starting with the grand staircase. As I polished the dusty banister, my fingers traced a series of shallow scratches on the underside of the wood. Curious, I got a flashlight. They weren't random. They were words, carved with painstaking effort.
The words sent a jolt through me. It was the same ‘she’ from the store. I ran my finger over the grooves, feeling a sudden, overwhelming connection to my uncle. He had felt this presence too. He had tried to leave a message. That afternoon, while Leo was clearing brush outside, I investigated the library. The books were old, mildewed, many falling apart. I pulled a heavy volume on local flora from a high shelf, and a small, leather-bound journal slipped out from behind it, landing on the floor with a soft thud. My heart raced as I picked it up. It was my uncle’s. The first few pages were mundane notes on household expenses. But then, the entries changed.
October 12th: The whispering started again last night. Not from the vents, but from the corner of the room. As if she’s standing right there.
October 30th: I saw her today. A reflection in the window as night fell. A pale face, dark hair, standing behind me. When I turned, there was nothing. The smell of lilies was overwhelming.
November 5th: She is angry. Things are moved. Pictures are turned to the wall. She doesn’t want me here. But where can I go? This is my home.
I closed the journal, my hands trembling. This was no longer just a feeling or a strange noise. My uncle had documented it. He had seen her. The woman in the walls. And now, we were living in her house.
