The library in Ashford was a relic of a bygone era. Its towering columns, faded brick walls, and heavy oak doors hinted at a time when it had been the town’s pride. Now, it stood as a somber monument to the past, its cracked windows filtering in faint streaks of winter light. Alice hesitated on the steps, clutching David’s journal.


    Inside, the smell of old books was overwhelming, a mixture of leather bindings and dust. The silence was profound, broken only by the faint rustling of pages and the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards. Mrs. Hargrove, the librarian, sat behind a polished mahogany desk. Her silver hair was pinned into a tight bun, and her reading glasses perched precariously on her nose.


    “Good morning,” Alice said, approaching cautiously.


    Mrs. Hargrove looked up, her expression softening momentarily before a guarded look settled on her face. “Good morning. How can I help you?”


    “I’m researching something about Ashford House,” Alice began, watching as the librarian’s face darkened. “Do you have any records about its history? News articles, town archives—anything?” The woman’s lips thinned, and she adjusted her glasses. “Ashford House,” she repeated, her voice flat. “Not much to say about that place.”


    “I think there’s more than people are willing to admit,” Alice pressed. “It’s important. My brother…” She hesitated, her voice faltering. “He was the most recent victim.”


    Mrs. Hargrove’s hands stilled over the papers on her desk. She didn’t meet Alice’s eyes, but after a long pause, she rose from her chair and motioned for Alice to follow. “I can’t promise you’ll find what you’re looking for,” she said quietly. “But there are some old files in the back. Don’t take too long.”


    Alice followed her to a dusty corner of the library, where stacks of yellowed newspapers and brittle files were stored. Mrs. Hargrove lingered for a moment, then left without another word. Alone, Alice began sifting through the archives. She found it after nearly an hour: an article dated March 23, 1933. The headline read: “Ashford’s Curse Strikes Again: Family Vanishes Without a Trace.”


    The accompanying photograph showed a young couple and their daughter smiling in front of Ashford House. Alice’s breath caught as she read the details. The Thompson family had moved into the mansion six months before disappearing. Neighbors reported seeing strange lights in the windows at night and hearing unexplainable noises. No bodies were ever found.


    “Curse,” Alice murmured. “Why call it that?”


    She folded the article and slipped it into her notebook. As she turned to leave, she noticed Mrs. Hargrove watching her from the edge of the shelves. The woman’s face was pale, and she whispered, “Curiosity invites shadows.”


    David’s Funeral


    The church bells rang out over Ashford, their mournful tones resonating through the crisp morning air. Alice stood at the back of the gathering, clutching David’s journal like a lifeline. The priest, Father Mulligan, stood at the head of the crowd, his weathered face solemn as he spoke words of comfort.


    Alice’s gaze wandered. The townsfolk avoided looking directly at her, their faces masks of polite sympathy. She recognized Harold Greystone among them, his sharp features set in an expression of detached professionalism. After the service, Alice approached Father Mulligan. His robes brushed the ground as he turned to her, his kind eyes tinged with weariness.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    “You’re David’s sister,” he said softly. “I’m sorry for your loss.”


    “Thank you,” Alice said. “Father, can I ask you something about Ashford House?”


    His expression froze. He glanced around before leaning closer. “Some truths are better left buried,” he whispered. “For your own sake, let it go.” “But—”


    “Let it go,” he repeated, his tone final. He walked away, leaving Alice standing in the shadow of the church.


    Harold Greystone


    Determined to get answers, Alice approached Harold Greystone as he stepped away from the funeral procession. The lawyer’s tailored suit and polished demeanor stood in stark contrast to the gloom around him.


    “Mr. Greystone,” Alice called. “May I have a moment?”


    He turned, his piercing eyes narrowing. “Ms. Carter, isn’t it?”


    “Yes. I need to know what you can tell me about Ashford House.” A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “You’ve been speaking to the wrong people, haven’t you? Let me give you some advice: the past is a graveyard. Digging it up only invites trouble.”


    “What does that mean?” Alice demanded. “Are you saying you know something?”


    “I’m saying,” he said coldly, “that some things are better forgotten. Good day, Ms. Carter.” He strode off, leaving Alice seething with frustration.


    Clues in the Journal


    Back at her motel, Alice spread out the contents of David’s journal. The pages were filled with sketches of Ashford House, notes on local legends, and cryptic phrases like “It feeds on us” and “The cycle must continue.” One entry stood out: “The disappearances aren’t random. They’re tied to the town’s prosperity. Every major event—the railroad’s arrival, the factory boom, even the unusually mild winters—coincides with someone vanishing. It’s as if the house demands payment.”


    Alice began mapping the timeline on the wall. As she connected the dots, a chilling pattern emerged. The disappearances aligned not only with historical events but also with astronomical phenomena—eclipses, solstices, and other celestial alignments.


    Paranoia Sets In


    The next few days were a blur of research and growing unease. Alice felt the weight of the townsfolk’s stares wherever she went. A shopkeeper refused to serve her, muttering something about “bringing trouble.” At night, she heard footsteps outside her motel room, but when she looked, no one was there.


    One evening, she returned to her room to find an envelope slipped under the door. Her hands shook as she opened it. Inside was a torn diary page. The handwriting was jagged, almost frantic: “They watch from the shadows. The pact must not be broken. Beware the watchers—they are everywhere.”


    Alice’s heart pounded. Who had sent this? And why?


    A Hidden Ally


    The next morning, as Alice left the motel, an older man approached her. He wore a tattered coat, and his eyes darted nervously.


    “You’re digging where you shouldn’t,” he said in a low voice.


    “Do you know something about Ashford House?” Alice asked.


    “I know enough to warn you,” he said. “The house isn’t just cursed—it’s alive. It takes what it needs to protect this town.”


    “Protect it from what?” The man shook his head. “You don’t want to know. But if you keep asking questions, you’ll find out—and you won’t like the answers.”


    Before Alice could press him further, he disappeared into the crowd.


    Breaking and Entering


    Determined to uncover the truth, Alice broke into Harold Greystone’s office late one night. The room was meticulously organized, but she found a locked drawer in his desk. Using a hairpin, she pried it open and discovered a folder labeled “Ashford—Confidential.”


    Inside were documents detailing land purchases, contracts, and notes on the mansion’s history. One memo stood out: “Ensure all records of the 1933 Thompson case remain sealed. The pact depends on discretion.”


    Alice’s blood ran cold. The pact was real—and Harold was part of it.


    Climactic Ending


    As Alice left the office, she sensed someone following her. She quickened her pace, but the footsteps grew louder. Panic set in as she turned down a dark alley. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her shoulder.


    “Leave Ashford,” the voice hissed. “Before it’s too late.” When she turned around, no one was there.


    "Conclusion "


    Alice returned to her motel, shaken but resolute. The town was hiding something far darker than she’d imagined. The mansion wasn’t just cursed—it was the heart of a sinister pact that had claimed countless lives. And now, Alice was dangerously close to uncovering the truth.