The drive to Windy Hallow was long and suffocating. The car smelled like old fries and cheap air freshener, and the radio crackled between static and country music. I sat in the back, headphones on, trying to drown out the awkward silence between my parents.
We arrived just as the sun was setting. Windy Hallow wasn't much of a town - just a scattering of old houses, a general store, and a diner with a flickering neon sign. The streets were empty, the shadows stretching long and dark across the cracked pavement.
Our new house was at the end of a winding road, half-hidden by a cluster of gnarled trees. It was small and crooked, like something out of a fairytale - but not the good kind.
"Here we are," Dad said, trying to sound cheerful.
"Home sweet home," Mom added, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.
The house looked ancient. The paint was peeling, the windows were smudged with grime, and the porch sagged like it was ready to collapse. But the worst part wasn't our house.
It was the mansion next door.
It loomed over our tiny home, its towering silhouette etched against the blood-red sky. Ivy strangled its stone walls, and broken windows stared out like hollow eyes.
"That place is abandoned," Dad said when he caught me staring. "Has been for years."
"Why?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Just rumors," he said, but he wouldn't look at me.