The air in the house was thick with dust, a heavy reminder of everything that had been left behind. Isabelle stood still in the doorway of the house she had grown up in, looking at the empty hallway that had once been so full of life. The place felt hollow now—her father's study locked behind a closed door, his once meticulously organized shelves now bare, save for a few forgotten relics that seemed to weep in silence.
The house on St. Dunstan's Street was a weather-beaten Victorian townhouse, facing the ruins of Westgate Towers. If walls could whisper, these ones would have so many stories to tell. Every crack in the brick seemed to carry a memory. The ivy outside had grown thick and wild over the years, creeping over cracked windows and making the house feel as though it was slowly being swallowed by the earth itself. It was a house that held its age proudly—untouched, or perhaps untouched by the right hands.
Isabelle's hands trembled slightly as she reached for a box sitting near her feet. It was packed with a haphazard assortment of things—old notebooks, photographs, a small silver frame that had belonged to her grandmother. Her mother's soft, measured footsteps sounded behind her, pulling her out of the reverie.
"Isabelle, are you alright?" Her voice was calm, even distant, as though she had long since accepted that this moment was inevitable.
Isabelle glanced back at her mother, who stood at the top of the staircase. Her face was unreadable, her eyes tired and empty. Isabelle's heart sank; her mother had never truly been present in her life, not in the way Isabelle had hoped. She was always there physically, but emotionally distant, and even now, as they faced the task of clearing out the family home, she seemed to fade into the background.
"I'm fine," Isabelle replied, her voice softer than she intended. She turned back to the box, avoiding her mother's gaze. There was something about the act of sorting through her father's things that felt like an intrusion—like she was uncovering pieces of a life she hadn't been allowed to see. Her father had always been a quiet man, more comfortable in his own world than in the company of others. But Isabelle had always believed there was more to him—more to his history—than he had let on. And now, in his absence, it felt like that history was slipping through her fingers.
She opened the box and sifted through the contents, picking up an old postcard. The edges were curled, faded by time. It was a picture of the Bellamy family estate, a sprawling house that Isabelle had only heard of in hushed whispers. The name "Bellamy" had never been a stranger in her family's conversation, but there had always been a distance—a reluctance to speak openly about them. Isabelle knew that much of her father's family had come from that old house, and though they no longer spoke of it, there was a connection, a thread that tied them together. But what that thread was—she couldn't remember.
She placed the postcard down and reached for another item, an old, yellowed newspaper clipping that fell out from between a stack of books. Isabelle unfolded it carefully, the brittle edges crinkling under her touch. The headline was stark, cold in its simplicity: Margaret Elwood Found Dead in Bellamy House—Assistant Evelyn Bellamy in Custody. The words seemed to leap out at her, like a slap to the face, but it was the name beneath the headline that made her heart skip a beat.
Evelyn Bellamy.
Isabelle's fingers hovered over the paper. She'd heard the name before, of course—rumors whispered in the halls of her family's past, strange and unsettling stories about the Bellamy family and the tragedy that had once befallen them. But she had never really known the truth of it, never understood how her family was connected to the dark cloud that hung over the Bellamys' name.
She glanced back at her mother, but there was no reaction. No recognition. "Mom," Isabelle ventured, her voice quieter now, "do you remember Evelyn Bellamy?"
Her mother's expression stiffened ever so slightly. Isabelle didn't miss it. Her mother's lips pressed into a tight line, and she gave a small shake of her head. "Evelyn Bellamy? I—I'm not sure. I think she might have been a distant relative, or someone your father mentioned once."
Her words were noncommittal, but Isabelle could hear the faint tremor in her voice, the subtle way her mother avoided eye contact. Isabelle felt a pang in her chest. She wasn't surprised. Her mother had always skirted around certain subjects, especially when it came to family history.
But this time, something in Isabelle stirred. She wasn't going to let this go.
Turning back to the box, Isabelle pushed aside the remaining clutter and found another object: a small leather-bound journal, its cover worn and cracked with age. The initials "EB" were embossed on the front in delicate gold leaf, the letters faded from time. Isabelle felt a strange pull in her chest as her fingers brushed over them.
Evelyn Bellamy.
She swallowed hard, suddenly overcome by a strange sense of familiarity, as though the journal had been waiting for her all along. She pulled it from the box carefully, feeling the weight of it in her hands. The old leather was cool to the touch, and the pages inside smelled faintly of dust and mildew. It felt both fragile and eternal at the same time.
Without thinking, Isabelle opened the journal to the first page. The ink was old, and the handwriting was faint, but it was still legible. The first entry was dated 1945.
Isabelle leaned closer, her pulse quickening as she began to read the words written so long ago.
"Margaret Elwood came into the shop today. She didn't seem to notice that I was trembling when I handed her the book she requested. She always had such an unsettling presence, as if she was both with you and yet always somewhere far away…"
The entry ended abruptly, as if the writer had been interrupted. Isabelle's eyes lingered on the words, a strange unease stirring inside her. Who was Margaret Elwood? And why did Evelyn seem so anxious in her writing?
Isabelle turned the page, and the story began to unfold—fragments of Evelyn's life, her quiet observations of the world around her. But the more Isabelle read, the more she felt a growing sense that Evelyn had known something—something important—something that would change everything Isabelle thought she knew about her family.
She turned another page. And then another. But it wasn't until she reached the final entry on the last page of the journal that she found something that made her blood run cold.
"There is a man in the shadows. I don't know who he is, but he is watching. He always watches. He wears a dark coat and carries a cane. The scent of lavender follows him like a ghost."
The journal slammed shut in Isabelle's hands, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart raced as she sat frozen, her mind reeling. The scent of lavender. She had smelled that same scent before.
Her father.
Isabelle's hands shook violently as she sat in the attic, alone, surrounded by dust and silence. The journal was no longer just a piece of history—it was a warning. Evelyn Bellamy had known something, and now Isabelle was going to uncover it.
But as the echoes of the past crept closer, Isabelle felt an undeniable chill settle deep in her bones. The shadows were watching.