Echoes from the Past

The drive back home was quiet, the letter folded neatly in Alex's jacket pocket. Chris had dropped him off with a distracted wave, muttering something about finishing a project before morning. Normally, Alex would have teased him about his last-minute habits, but tonight, his mind was elsewhere.

The Reardon family home was one of those old, creaking houses that seemed like it was held together more by stubbornness than nails. It had weathered generations of birthdays, Christmases, and arguments over the dinner table. Its walls were lined with faded photographs, evidences of lives Alex had never known but was supposedly connected to.

As he stepped inside, the familiar scent of rosemary and the faint medicinal tang of herbs greeted him. His grandmother's doing, as always. She insisted the smell kept the house "clean." Alex wasn't sure what that meant, but he didn't argue.

"Is that you, Alex?"

Her voice carried from the living room, sharp and clear despite her age. Alex kicked off his shoes and walked in, finding her in her usual spot, an armchair by the fireplace, a cup of tea balanced on the side table. The soft glow of the lit fire painted her silver hair with streaks of gold.

"Yeah, it's me," Alex said, sitting on the couch across from her.

She squinted at him, her piercing gaze seeming to cut straight through him. "You've got something on your mind."

Alex hesitated. His grandmother wasn't one for sugarcoating, and he knew once he brought up the letter, there'd be no going back. Still, he'd come this far.

"I got a letter," he said finally, pulling it out of his pocket.

She set her tea down and reached for it. Her hands, though weathered, moved with a steadiness that belied her age. She unfolded the letter and read it in silence, her expression growing darker with every line.

When she finished, she folded it back up, setting it on her lap like it might bite her.

"Blackwood House," she said, her voice low.

"You've heard of it?" Alex asked.

Her eyes narrowed. "Of course I've heard of it. That place is a blight on this family. A curse."

Alex frowned. "It's just a house, Grandma."

"It's never just a house," she snapped, her tone sharper than he'd expected.

He blinked at her, startled. His grandmother rarely raised her voice, but now there was something almost frantic in her eyes.

"You think this is some blessing? Some lucky break?" she continued, leaning forward. "That house is poisoned, Alex. It's claimed more lives than you know, and it'll claim yours too if you're not careful."

Alex opened his mouth to argue, but she wasn't done.

"Did your father ever tell you why we left that town? Why we cut ties with the rest of the family?"

"No," Alex admitted.

Her gaze softened, but her voice remained firm. "Because that house destroys everything it touches. Your great-uncle Tobias? Dead. Your grandfather? Gone. And now, it's reached for you."

"That's... superstition," Alex said, though his voice wavered.

Her expression turned sorrowful. "Call it what you want. But don't think you can ignore it."

She stood, moving with the slow deliberation of someone who carried more years than they cared to admit. Alex watched as she walked to a cabinet by the fireplace, unlocking it with a key from around her neck.

From inside, she pulled out a small, leather-bound book, its edges worn and its binding cracked. She handed it to Alex, her hands trembling slightly.

"This belonged to Tobias," she said. "He kept a record of his time in that house."

Alex turned the book over in his hands. The leather was cool to the touch, and the faint smell of mildew clung to it.

"What's in it?" he asked.

"Truths," she said cryptically. "But truths won't protect you. Only keep you from being blind."

"Blind to what?"

"To the things that walk in the dark," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Alex felt a shiver run down his spine, but he shook it off. What was it with him today?

"Grandma, it's just a house. An old, abandoned house. What's the worst that could happen?"

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite place, something between pity and fear.

"You'll see," she said finally. "And when you do, I hope it's not too late."

Alex stared at the leather-bound journal, its dark cover almost absorbing the dim light from the fireplace. Something about it felt… wrong. It was as if the book itself carried the weight of the years it had endured.

"Go on," his grandmother urged, her voice soft but insistent. "Open it."

With a deep breath, Alex undid the delicate clasp that held the journal shut. The pages were brittle and yellowed, the ink faded in places but still legible. He frowned. The handwriting matched that of the letter, elegant but slightly uneven.

The first entry was dated over thirty years ago.

"March 2, 1991

The house feels alive. Not in the way a home is supposed to, with warmth and laughter, but something darker. I hear whispers at night, coming from the walls. When I follow them, they stop, like they're toying with me. Yesterday, I found scratches on the basement door. I didn't put them there."

Alex glanced at his grandmother, whose face was a mask of grim resolve.

"Keep reading," she said.

"March 8, 1991

I thought it was just my imagination. Stress, maybe. But it's not. There's something in this house, something that watches. Last night, I woke up to find the bedroom door open. I always close it before bed. Always. And this morning, I found a dead bird on the windowsill, its neck twisted, its wings spread like it had been placed there."

Alex shivered, his eyes scanning ahead. The entries grew shorter as they went on, the handwriting more erratic.

"March 22, 1991

I can't stay here much longer. Every night, the whispers grow louder. They call my name. They tell me things I don't want to know. I found the basement key today. God help me, I think it's time to see what's down there."

Alex closed the journal abruptly, his fingers trembling.

"What happened to him?" he asked.

His grandmother's gaze didn't waver. "He went to the basement. He never came back."

The room fell into silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound.

----

Later that night,

The Reardon dining table had always been too big for its occupants. It was designed for family gatherings that no longer happened, its long surface now filled with mismatched placemats and a centerpiece of dried flowers.

Alex sat at his usual spot, trying to focus on his food, but his mind kept drifting to the journal tucked into his bag upstairs.

His father, a broad-shouldered man with the same sharp jawline as Alex, was scrolling through his phone, only half-engaged with the conversation. Across from him, Alex's mother was cutting into her chicken, her brow furrowed as she listened to his younger brother chatter away.

"…and then Jason said he could eat three burgers in under a minute, but he totally choked after the first one!" Ethan, Alex's ten-year-old brother, giggled, stuffing a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"That's nice, sweetie," their mother said absently, though her eyes flicked to Alex. "You've been quiet tonight. Something on your mind?"

Alex hesitated. His grandmother's warnings lingered in his ears, but he couldn't avoid the subject forever.

"I got a letter," he said, his voice careful.

His father looked up from his phone, finally giving him his full attention. "A letter?"

Alex nodded. "Apparently, I inherited a house. From great-uncle Tobias."

The room fell eerily silent. Even Ethan stopped chewing, his wide eyes darting between Alex and their parents, seeking for clarification on the sudden tension.

His mother was the first to speak. "Blackwood House?"

Alex nodded again.

His father's face darkened, a shadow of something unfamiliar crossing his features. "You're not going there," he said firmly.

"I have to," Alex said, surprised at how defiant his voice sounded. "I need to see it for myself."

His father's fist hit the table, rattling the dishes. "That house is nothing but trouble. It killed Tobias, and it'll kill you too."

"Jonathan," his mother said softly, placing a hand on his.

"No," he snapped, pulling away. "This is exactly why we left that town. I'm not letting it pull my son back into its madness."

Alex stared at him, anger bubbling in his chest. "You think ignoring it makes it go away? That's not how it works."

"Stop it, both of you," his mother said, her voice trembling.

But it was his grandmother who ended the argument.

"You can't protect him from this," she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife.

His father turned to her, his face pale. "You want him to go there? After everything that house has done?"

"I don't want it," she said, her tone controlled. "But it's already started. The house chose him. If he doesn't go, it'll only get worse."

Ethan's small voice broke the silence. "What's in the house?"

The table went still.

Alex's father pushed his chair back abruptly, standing and leaving the room without another word.

"Grandma," Alex said hesitantly, "what did he mean? About it killing Tobias?"

She sighed, her frail hands resting on the table. "Tobias wasn't the first, Alex. That house has claimed more Reardons than you know. Your father's anger comes from fear, fear of losing you too."

Alex swallowed hard, the weight of her words settling on his shoulders.

"Are you scared?" Ethan asked, his wide eyes locked on Alex.

He forced a smile, ruffling his brother's hair. "Of course not. It's just a house, buddy."

But even as he said it, he felt the lie on his tongue.