Chapter 1 : The Argument

Ayla POV:-

"Ayla, you're being ridiculous," my father growls through the speaker on my phone. I glare at it in response, refusing to argue with him.

But he's not having it. "You're really going to waste your life in that dump? Parsons Manor is a relic of the past. It's old, it's decrepit, and it's a money pit."

I feel my anger rising, but I try to keep my cool. "I've made up my mind, Dad. I'm moving back to Parsons Manor."

There's a pause, and for a moment, I think the line has gone dead. But then my father's voice comes back, dripping with venom. "You're just like your mother. Stubborn and foolish."

I feel a sting from his words, but I'm not going to back down. "I'm nothing like her," I lie. "And even if I was, that wouldn't be a bad thing."

My father's laughter is cold and mirthless. "You're just as weak as she was. You'll never amount to anything. You're just a stupid little bitch."

My anger boils over, and I spit out the words. "Fuck you, Dad. You're just a miserable asshole."

"Oh, so now you're cursing at me?" my father's voice rises. "You're just a disgusting little bitch. You'll never be worthy of anything."

I've had enough. "You know what, Dad? You can just go fuck yourself. I'm done with this conversation."

"Asshole," I mutter under my breath, feeling a surge of satisfaction at having cut him off.

I'm shaking with anger, but I'm also relieved. I've been dreading this conversation for weeks, but now it's over.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm down. I've got a long drive ahead of me, and I need to focus.

As I pull up to the entrance of Parsons Manor, I feel a sense of trepidation wash over me. This house holds a lot of memories, some good, some bad.

But I'm determined to make new memories here, to reclaim this house and make it my own.

The trees seem to close in around me as I drive up the winding driveway. The house looms before me, its turrets and gargoyles reaching towards the sky like skeletal fingers.

I shiver, despite the warmth of the summer evening. There's something unsettling about this place, something that makes me feel like I'm being watched.

But I'm not going to let that scare me off. I'm going to make this house my home, no matter what.

I park my car and step out onto the driveway, feeling the gravel crunch beneath my feet. The air is thick with the scent of blooming flowers and fresh-cut grass.

I take a deep breath, feeling a sense of peace wash over me. This is it. This is my fresh start.

But as I turn to face the house, I feel a shiver run down my spine. Something doesn't feel right.

And then I see it. A curtain flickers in the window of the attic. I stand there for a moment, frozen in uncertainty. Who - or what - could be moving around in the attic?

I shake my head, chiding myself for being paranoid. It's probably just the wind or a stray animal that's gotten into the house.

I take a deep breath and step forward, my eyes fixed on the attic window. As I watch, the curtain flickers again, and I feel a shiver run down my spine.

Suddenly, the front door creaks open, and I jump, my heart racing. I spin around, but there's no one there.

The wind must have blown it open, I tell myself. But as I step inside, I feel a strange sensation, like I'm being watched.

I try to shake off the feeling, telling myself I'm just spooked from the argument with my father. But as I look around the dusty, cobweb-filled foyer, I feel a sense of unease settle over me.

This house has been empty for years, but it feels like it's been waiting for me, holding its breath in anticipation of my return.

I shiver, despite the warmth of the summer evening. Something doesn't feel right.

But I'm not going to let fear chase me away. I take a deep breath and begin to explore the house, my footsteps echoing off the walls. As I move from room to room, I feel a sense of nostalgia wash over me.

This house holds so many memories, both good and bad. But as I look around, I realize that it's not just the memories that are coming back to life.

Something else is stirring, something that's been dormant for years.

And I'm not sure if I'm ready to face it. As I explore the house, I notice that everything is exactly as I left it. The same old furniture, the same faded wallpaper, the same creaky floorboards.

It's like time stood still while I was away.

I wander into the kitchen, running my fingers over the old countertops. My grandmother used to make me cookies here. I smile, remembering the way the sunlight used to stream through the windows, casting a warm glow over the entire room.

But as I turn to leave, Adrenaline is coursing through my system now

A piece of paper on the counter, with a note scrawled in familiar handwriting.

"Welcome home," it reads.

I feel a shiver run down my spine. Who could have written this? And how did they get into the house?

I look around, but I'm alone. The house is silent, except for the creaking of the old wooden beams.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. It's probably just a neighbor or a friend who stopped by to welcome me home.

But as I look at the note again, I feel a sense of unease. Something doesn't feel right.

And then I hear it. A faint creaking sound, coming from upstairs

I try to tell myself it's just the wind or the house settling, but I know that's not true. The creaking sounds are too deliberate, too intentional.

I feel a surge of fear, but I'm determined not to let it consume me. I take a deep breath and start to make my way upstairs, my heart pounding in my chest.

As I climb, the creaking grows louder, and I can feel the vibrations of each step through the floorboards. It's like something is waiting for me, watching me.

I reach the top of the stairs and look around, but there's no one in sight. The hallway stretches out before me, lined with doors that seem to loom like sentinels.

I take a step forward, my eyes scanning the hallway. And then, I see it. A door at the far end of the hall, slightly ajar.

I feel a chill run down my spine. I'm sure I closed all the doors before I left. So who - or what - opened this one?

I approach the door cautiously, my heart racing. As I push it open, I'm met with a sight that makes my blood run cold.

The room is in disarray, furniture overturned and clothes scattered everywhere. And in the center of the room, a message scrawled on the wall in red ink more like it was blood :

"Welcome home, Ayla."

I feel like I've been punched in the gut. Who could have done this? And how did they get into the house?

I take a step back, my eyes scanning the room for any sign of who might have been here. But there's nothing. No signs of forced entry, no evidence of struggle.

It's like the person who did this was a ghost.

I try to shake off the feeling of unease, telling myself it's just some prankster who got into the house. But deep down, I know that's not true.

This feels personal.

I take a deep breath and try to focus. I need to call the police and report this. But as I turn to leave, I hear a faint noise behind me.

It's a whisper, soft and raspy. And it's saying my name.

"Ayla..."

I spin around, but there's no one there. The whisper seems to come from all around me, echoing off the walls.

I know then that I'm not alone in the house.

And that's when everything goes black.