The clock in Alice Harrow''s modest living room struck midnight, its chime echoing through the silent house. She sat cross-legged on the worn rug, David''s research notes spread out before her like fragments of a shattered mirror. Her hands trembled as she picked up one of the pages, the words scrawled in her husband''s unmistakable handwriting: "Ashford House holds the truth they fear."


    Fear. The word reverberated in her mind as she traced the ink with her fingertips. Greystone was a town steeped in silence and shadows. For weeks, she had wandered its narrow streets, feeling the weight of every wary glance and whispered warning. The townsfolk acted like their very lives depended on forgetting something—a collective amnesia that cloaked the town like an oppressive fog.


    Alice set the page down and leaned back against the couch, her gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the pale moonlight bathed the empty streets in an eerie glow. Her heart ached with grief, but an even stronger force stirred within her: determination. Whatever had claimed David''s life, she would uncover it. She owed him that much.


    The Stranger’s Warning


    The next morning, Alice found herself at Greystone’s only café, a quaint little place called The Crimson Bean. The air was heavy with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and baked goods, but the usual morning chatter among the patrons seemed subdued. Conversations halted as Alice entered, and a few heads turned her way. She ignored their stares and approached the counter, ordering a black coffee to go.


    As she waited, an elderly man seated near the window beckoned her over. His face was lined with age, his eyes cloudy yet sharp, like they held secrets he had no intention of sharing. Against her better judgment, Alice approached him.


    "You’re the journalist’s wife," he said, his voice low and gravelly. It wasn’t a question.


    "Yes," Alice replied cautiously. "My name’s Alice Harrow. Did you know David?"


    The man nodded, his gaze darting around the café as if ensuring no one was eavesdropping. "Your husband was a brave man. Too brave for his own good." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Greystone isn’t what it seems, Mrs. Harrow. It hasn’t been for a long time."


    Alice''s pulse quickened. "What do you mean?"


    The man hesitated, his hands gripping the edge of the table. "They’ll tell you to leave it alone. To forget. But you can’t trust them. None of them. Not the mayor, not the sheriff—no one. They’re all in on it."


    "In on what?" Alice pressed, her voice trembling with urgency.


    Before the man could answer, a sharp voice cut through the air. "Frank, you’re rambling again."


    Stolen story; please report.


    Alice turned to see a middle-aged waitress standing behind the counter, her hands on her hips. She shot Alice a warning look before addressing the old man. "Leave the poor woman alone. She doesn’t need your crazy stories."


    Frank muttered something under his breath and turned back to his coffee. Alice wanted to push him for more, but the waitress’s glare left no room for argument. Reluctantly, she returned to the counter, collected her coffee, and left the café.


    The Forbidden Files


    The encounter with Frank left Alice more unsettled than ever. That afternoon, she decided to visit the Greystone Historical Society, hoping to find more information about Ashford House. The building was a small, unassuming structure on the outskirts of town, its stone fa?ade weathered by time. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and wood polish.


    A woman in her sixties greeted Alice at the front desk. "Can I help you?"


    "I’m looking for information on Ashford House," Alice said, trying to keep her tone casual.


    The woman’s friendly demeanor vanished in an instant. "I’m afraid we don’t have much in that place," she said curtly. "It’s just an old ruin."


    Alice frowned. "Surely there must be something. It’s part of the town’s history, isn’t it?"


    The woman hesitated, her gaze shifting to a door marked "Staff Only." After a moment, she sighed. "Wait here."


    She disappeared through the door, leaving Alice alone in the dimly lit room. Minutes later, she returned with a single folder, which she placed on the counter.


    "This is all we have," she said. "But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t take it out of the building."


    Alice nodded and opened the folder. Inside were a few faded photographs of Ashford House, a brief newspaper article about its construction, and a cryptic note written in looping cursive: "Some secrets are better left buried."


    As Alice scanned the documents, she noticed a name that caught her attention: Samuel Greystone. According to the article, he was one of the town’s founders and had been instrumental in the construction of Ashford House. Her mind raced as she recalled David’s notes. He had mentioned Samuel Greystone multiple times, though never in detail.


    "Do you know anything about Samuel Greystone?" Alice asked.


    The woman stiffened. "He was one of the founders. That’s all you need to know."


    Before Alice could respond, the woman snatched the folder off the counter. "I think we’re done here," she said firmly. "Have a good day."


    Alice left the historical society with more questions than answers.


    Unraveling the Web


    Over the next few days, Alice continued her investigation, piecing together fragments of information about Ashford House and the town’s founders. She spoke to anyone willing to talk—shopkeepers, retirees, even teenagers loitering in the park. Most gave her vague, dismissive answers, but a few hinted at something darker.


    "People say the house is cursed," one teenager told her. "My grandma says anyone who goes in never comes out."


    An elderly woman at the market whispered, "The house has always been evil. It’s not natural."


    Despite the warnings, Alice pressed on, determined to uncover the truth. Late one night, she sat in her living room, surrounded by David’s notes, when she noticed something she had overlooked before—a reference to a hidden diary. According to the notes, Samuel Greystone had kept a personal journal, which David believed contained critical information about the town’s history.


    But the diary’s location was a mystery. David’s notes mentioned several possibilities, but one stood out: Ashford House.


    A Growing Obsession


    Alice became consumed by the idea of finding the diary. She spent hours researching Samuel Greystone, scouring the internet and old records for any clue that might lead her to the elusive journal. Her obsession began to take a toll on her health—she barely ate, slept only a few hours a night, and avoided contact with friends and family.


    The town’s unease toward her also grew. People avoided her on the streets, and whispers followed her wherever she went. Even the sheriff paid her a visit, warning her to "let sleeping dogs lie."


    But Alice refused to back down. She felt as though she were on the brink of a revelation, one that would not only explain David’s death but also expose the truth about Greystone’s dark past.


    The Pull of Ashford House


    One evening, as Alice stared at the photograph of Ashford House from the historical society, a strange sensation washed over her. It was as if the house were calling to her, beckoning her to uncover its secrets. Her chest tightened, and she clutched the photo, her mind racing with a mix of fear and determination.


    "I have to go there," she whispered to herself. "I have to know."


    The decision was made. Despite the warnings, despite the danger, Alice knew she had to step inside Ashford House. Whatever awaited her there, she was ready to face it.