Hidden Pages in the Storm‑Ravaged Room
I stood in Evelyn’s old bedroom, the air thick with the smell of damp wood and old perfume.
The night‑light flickered, casting long shadows over the cracked plaster.
My hands brushed a loose floorboard, and it gave a soft sigh as it lifted.
Underneath, a weather‑worn notebook lay, its cover half‑torn, pages swollen with rain.
I pulled it out, feeling the brittle paper crumble like old leaves.
The words were Evelyn’s own, written in a hurried, looping script.
“I think someone is watching us,” she wrote on the first page, ink smudged by tears.
Each entry grew more frantic, describing footsteps on the porch after dark, a faint humming outside the window.
