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Chapter 1 — The House by the Lake

The road turned from gravel to dirt long before they saw the house.
Autumn light poured through the windshield in narrow bands, cutting across the dashboard in trembling gold. Dust rose in the car’s wake and drifted back down like tired snow.

“Almost there,” Thomas said, though he’d said it three times before. His voice was calm but clipped—the voice of a man trying to convince himself that the distance ahead would soon shrink to something he could manage.

Beside him, Margaret pressed a folded map against her knee, tracing the thin line of the creek that ended in the lake behind their new property. Josephine watched from the back seat, her chin resting on the window frame, her eyes following the motion of the trees. They seemed to lean toward the road, as if curious about the newcomers.

The farmhouse appeared suddenly at the crest of a shallow hill. Its roof sagged at the edges, and the windows caught the afternoon light like blind eyes. Behind it, the lake shimmered—a silver pane rimmed by reeds and a single, towering willow whose branches dragged the surface.

Josephine whispered, “It looks sad.”

Her mother smiled faintly. “Old houses just look that way until you make them yours.”

They parked in front of the porch. Boards creaked beneath their feet as they climbed the steps, each sound swallowed quickly by the stillness around them. Inside, the air carried the cool scent of dust and damp wood.

Thomas propped the front door open. “Needs air,” he said.

The house exhaled.

Margaret moved through the parlor, fingers grazing wallpaper faded to the color of dried tea. The furniture the previous owners had left behind—an iron bedframe, a sideboard, a mirror—stood like patient ghosts waiting to be acknowledged.

Josephine wandered toward the back, drawn by the faint reflection of the lake through a kitchen window. Outside, she could see the willow more clearly, its branches swaying though the air was still.

"I like the sound the leaves make when they fall on the water. They don’t sink right away. They think about it first."

They began to unpack. The low sun moved slowly across the windows, and the house changed color with it—gray at morning, amber at dusk. Josephine found a small bedroom at the top of the stairs. The window there faced the willow.

That night she woke to a soft tapping.
At first she thought it was the branches brushing the glass, but the rhythm was too careful—three taps, a pause, then one. She sat up. The moonlight washed her floor pale and empty. When she crossed to the window, she saw nothing but her own reflection.

Yet the tapping continued, faintly, from inside the wall.

"Sometimes I knock so they know I’m here. Sometimes I just listen back."

By morning, Thomas had already started repairs. The porch rail had rotted through; the cellar door wouldn’t stay shut. Margaret brewed coffee that smelled stronger than the air deserved. Josephine sat on the step, hugging her knees, watching mist roll off the lake.

A single swing hung from the willow. She hadn’t noticed it before—one thick rope, frayed at the knot, a wooden seat swaying lazily.

“Did you see that yesterday?” she asked.

Her mother looked up from a basket of linens. “See what, darling?”

“The swing.”

Margaret followed her gaze. The branch was bare. Only sunlight moved through the leaves.

When Josephine turned back, the rope was gone.

That evening the wind rose. It carried the scent of rain and something older—iron, maybe, or stone. The house groaned softly, the way a sleeper shifts beneath a heavy blanket.

Margaret dreamt of footsteps pacing above her. Thomas blamed loose boards. But when he went to check, the attic door stood open though he swore he’d latched it.

He found only dust and a child’s shoe, half-buried under insulation.

"Mama says not to play near the water. But the water listens better than she does."

By the third day, the silence between them began to feel crowded. Thomas worked longer outside. Margaret hummed to herself while cooking, each note trembling off-key. Josephine spent hours by the window, sketching the lake and the tree. In every drawing, the swing appeared—sometimes faint, sometimes clear, always swaying.

One afternoon, while her parents argued softly in the kitchen, Josephine wandered down the slope to the lakeshore. The grass was cold against her ankles. The willow loomed above her, its roots twisted like old hands.

She reached out and touched the trunk. The bark felt smooth, almost warm.

Behind her, something moved—a ripple in the reflection, a shadow that didn’t belong to her. She looked back toward the house. Every window was watching.

"If they stay, I won’t be lonely. But they never stay for long."

When the rain finally came, it came all at once. It beat against the roof, drummed on the windowpanes, filled the eaves with whispering water. Josephine lay awake, counting the seconds between thunder and flash.

In one of those flashes she saw a figure beneath the willow—small, pale, head tilted toward the house as if listening for the sound of her breath.

And when the next thunder rolled, the windowpane showed only rain.

(the parts that speak in first person in " "'s are the ghosts POV)