It Lives Within

Chapter 1: Foundations

They arrive on a Tuesday, when the air is thick with the promise of rain and the wind whispers secrets through my eaves. Through my windows, I watch twelve-year-old Emma lean her head against the car window, her breath fogging the glass. She traces a heart in the condensation, then adds: "Mom + Dad + Em + Li = Home."

"We're here, pumpkin," Sarah says, reaching back to squeeze her daughter's knee. "Ready for our new adventure?"

Emma manages a small smile. "As long as I don't have to share a bathroom with the troll anymore."

"Hey!" Eight-year-old Liam protests, but he's grinning as he shoves his sister's shoulder. "You're the troll. You take forever in there!"

"Do not!"

"Do too! Mom, last week she took forty-three minutes. I counted!"

Mike catches Sarah's eye in the rearview mirror, and they share a quiet smile – the kind that speaks of years of private jokes and weathered storms. If only they knew what storms await them here.

"Alright, troops," Mike says, his voice carrying that forced cheerfulness I've heard in so many fathers before him. "Let's go check out our new kingdom."

As they pile out of the car, I feel their presence – their life force, their hopes, their fears – filling my spaces. Mike steps out first, placing a hand on my door frame. The contact sends shivers through my framework. He's a tall man with shoulders that slouch slightly under an invisible weight, but when Liam runs up and hugs his waist, he straightens just a bit.

"Can I pick my room first?" Liam asks, bouncing on his toes. "Please, please, please?"

"Age before beauty," Emma sing-songs, ruffling her brother's hair as she passes.

"Mom!"

Sarah laughs, the sound bright against my dark histories. "How about we all explore together? Family adventure?"

"Race you upstairs!" Liam bolts through my doorway, his sneakers squeaking on my hardwood floors.

"Liam Cooper, no running in the-" Sarah starts, then catches herself. A small frown crosses her face. "Well, I guess it is our house now."

Our house. If only she knew.

Mike wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her close. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," Sarah says quickly – too quickly. "It's just... big. Empty."

"Not for long." He kisses her temple, and I feel her lean into him, drawing strength. "Soon it'll be full of Liam's Lego landmines and Emma's art projects and your stress-baking experiments."

"Hey! My stress baking is awesome."

"Remember the Great Sourdough Incident of 2023?"

"That was one time!"

Their laughter echoes through my halls, and for a moment, I allow myself to hope. They're strong together, this family. Their love for each other shines like light through my windows. Perhaps...

"Dad!" Liam's voice carries down from upstairs. "There's a weird door up here!"

Emma's voice follows: "It's just a closet, dummy."

"Is not! Look, it's got these crazy symbols around the-"

My beams creak in warning, and the door slams shut before he can finish. Above, Liam yelps.

"You okay up there?" Mike calls, already heading toward the stairs.

"Fine!" Liam answers. "The wind must've caught it."

But Emma remains at the top of the stairs, her hand on the banister where Elizabeth Arlington gripped it last. Her eyes seem to focus on something beyond the visible. A chill runs through her, and I feel a familiar stirring in my depths.

"Emma?" Sarah's voice is soft with concern. "Everything okay, sweetheart?"

Emma blinks, shaking off whatever shadow touched her mind. "Yeah, just... thought I heard something. Like... singing? But far away."

Sarah climbs the stairs to join her daughter, wrapping her in a tight hug. "It's a big change, I know. But we're going to make this work. Together."

"Promise?"

"Cooper family promise." Sarah holds up her pinky, and Emma links hers with it, a ritual clearly years in the making. "Nothing can break us apart."

Oh, how I wish that were true.

As the day progresses, they fill my rooms with life. Liam sets up his dinosaur collection on the windowsill, explaining each one's species and diet to nobody in particular. Emma pins up her sketches – hauntingly good for her age, all shadows and twisted trees. I watch Sarah organize the kitchen, humming off-key to music only she can hear, while Mike assembles furniture with more enthusiasm than skill.

"Dad, that shelf is crooked," Emma points out.

"It's artistic," Mike defends. "Like your drawings."

"It's drunk," Liam declares, making them all laugh.

Night falls too quickly, bringing rain that patters against my windows. The family gathers in what will be their living room, sitting on boxes and cushions, sharing pizza and dreams.

"Okay, best thing about the new house," Sarah prompts. "Go!"

"My room is bigger!" Liam says around a mouthful of pizza.

"The bay window in my room," Emma adds. "Perfect for reading."

"The kitchen," Sarah sighs happily. "So much counter space."

"The price," Mike jokes, earning an eye-roll from Sarah.

"Romantic."

He catches her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "The fresh start," he amends softly.

If only they could hear me, I would tell them that nothing here is as it seems. That beneath their dreams of fresh starts lies a history written in pain and darkness. As they drift off to sleep in their respective rooms, I remain vigilant. In the quiet hours, I feel the familiar stirring again, starting in the basement where Harold Blackwood took his final breath.

In her room, Emma sits up suddenly, her sketchbook falling from her lap. On her wall, cast by nothing, shadows dance. They form shapes – faces she almost recognizes, hands reaching toward her bed. A whimper escapes her throat.

"Emma?" Liam's voice comes from her doorway, small and uncertain. "I had a bad dream. Can I..."

"Come here, troll," she says immediately, lifting her blanket. He scrambles in beside her, and they curl together like they must have done hundreds of times before. The shadows retreat, just slightly.

"Love you, Em," Liam mumbles, already drifting off.

"Love you too, squirt."

I watch them, these siblings finding comfort in each other's presence, and feel something twist in my depths. A memory of other siblings, other whispered comforts in the dark. The Arlington children. The Thompson twins. So many others.

In the master bedroom, Mike's brow furrows as whispers invade his dreams. Sarah reaches for him in her sleep, and their hands find each other in the darkness. Such a simple gesture. Such fragile love.

A single drop of water falls from the ceiling in Emma's room, warm and thick. It lands between the sleeping siblings, red against white sheets. By morning, there will be no stain, no evidence. Just another secret for me to keep, another shadow for them to doubt.

For I am more than wood and stone, more than a simple house. I am a hunger that has waited generations to be fed. And as I watch this family – their love, their laughter, their gentle moments – I wonder: Will they be strong enough to survive what's coming? Or will their love for each other be their ultimate undoing?

Only time will tell. And time, as I've learned through countless years, is a cruel and patient master. Almost as cruel as I have become.