Olivia had always dreamed of living in a house with history, a place where every creak in the floor and every faded wallpaper told a story. So, when she and her parents moved into a grand but slightly worn Victorian house in a quiet New England town, she felt like she had stepped into a storybook.
The house had been vacant for years, the real estate agent had said, but it was in excellent condition. Olivia didn’t mind the dust that clung to the forgotten furniture or the faded paintings hanging in the halls. There was something about the house that made her feel at home—until the first night.
Lying in bed, half-asleep, she heard it. A whisper. Soft, delicate, almost pleading.
“Help me…”
Her eyes flew open, heart pounding. She sat up, listening. The house was still. Maybe it was just her imagination?
The next few days passed without incident, but strange things kept happening. The attic door, which her father had firmly shut, was always found slightly open in the morning. A sweet lavender scent filled her room at odd hours, though her mother never used any perfume. And then there was the rocking chair.
The first time Olivia saw it move, she thought it was a draft. The second time, she wasn’t so sure. By the third time, she knew—someone, or something, was rocking it.
Determined to find answers, she ventured into the attic. Dust floated in the air, the wooden beams groaned under her weight, and in the far corner, half-buried under a tattered sheet, she found an old wooden box. Inside were letters, neatly tied with a faded silk ribbon. They were signed Eleanor Hastings.
The first letter made Olivia’s breath hitch.
“Dearest William,
I write to you in sorrow, for you have not come as you promised. My father forbids me from leaving, but I wait for you still. I shall wait forever if I must…