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Chapter I
This story began many years ago, and its earliest moments were as quiet and ordinary as any unremarkable day.
My name is Jake Breen, and back then I had just finished high school. Those carefree years had rushed past like a single breath woven from shifting memories, changing faces, brief hopes, and lingering anxieties. With my long-awaited diploma in hand, I stood at the horizon of adult life and felt completely free.
My parents were kind people, a little old-fashioned in their habits. My father worked as a financial clerk and preferred silence and order; my mother taught literature and adored romance novels. I often found her reading either in the stillness of her room or in the small gazebo in our backyard, a book resting on her knees, her eyes glimmering with tears. She lived through every story as if it belonged to her.
Our house always carried the warm scent of old books mixed with the sharp aroma of freshly brewed coffee. My parents were perfectly happy to have me stay with them until college began, safe under their roof. But I was a stubborn teenager, restless and eager to break away.
I also had an older sister, Emily. We had always gotten along wonderfully, and despite the years between us I felt a bond with her that was uniquely our own. She had moved to a small town about a two-hour drive from us a few years earlier. She invited me to visit more than once – at first gently, almost cautiously, and in her most recent letter with a hint of insistence, as though she sensed something troubling on the horizon.
But the spirit of rebellion had already taken root in my mind. I wanted to find a job for the summer, even if it wasn’t the most pleasant one, rent a room even if it was barely larger than a closet, and try living on my own for the first time. Why remain under the protective shadow of my parents or my sister when I had a chance to step into the light of my own choices?
I was flipping through the local newspaper – yes, an old-fashioned printed one, just like my father preferred. Between ads for dance lessons, used refrigerators, and plumbing services, I found a short notice:
«Assistant wanted for painting and minor repairs in an old house. Lodging provided. Good pay. Contact number… Ask for Felton.»
I read the advertisement twice, and everything about it felt suspiciously simple. No details, no address, nothing concrete at all. Only promises and the faintest shadow of something quietly alluring. Naturally, I called at once. The man who answered had a polite, slightly muffled voice. We agreed to meet the following day in an old café downtown.
The café was called Bun & Bourbon. The name was amusing, and the interior was even more so. Everything inside seemed frozen somewhere in the early seventies: vinyl-covered seats, brass lampshades, coffee cups with heavy saucers worn thin along the rims. A man was sitting at a table by the window.
Chapter II
I recognized him at once, guided by nothing more than a feeling. He looked as though someone had cut him out of an old black-and-white photograph: solidly built, with a round face fixed in an expression of polite unease. His hair was neatly brushed back, his jacket was gray and heavy in texture, and his eyes – large, gray, and inexplicably troubled.
«You… Jake?» he asked as he rose and offered me his hand. «Well then, I’m Felton.»
«Pleasure to meet you», I replied politely, shaking his slightly trembling hand.
His palm was damp and at the same time cool. He gestured for me to sit, and we ordered coffee. I expected him to start talking business right away, but instead he studied me with a strange mixture of hope and fear. I did look older than my age – tall, reserved, carrying that early-grown seriousness that comes to those who start making decisions for themselves too soon, yet in Felton’s eyes I was still yesterday’s boy.
Even so, he addressed me with respect: a measured tone, not a hint of condescension, and always the formal you, as if he were trying to pass a small portion of responsibility through the word itself. It made me unconsciously straighten, sensing that whatever lay ahead would not be simple.
«Well then, I’m Felton», he repeated, as though reaffirming the name. «And I suppose you’d like to hear a bit more about the place mentioned in the advertisement?»
«Yes, sir, that would be nice», I replied with a slight nod and a cautious smile.
«The thing is… the house…» Felton began, awkwardly and with a slight stammer, as though he were choosing each word with careful reluctance. «How should I put it… it’s rather… unusual. People say it has a rather unfortunate reputation. Rumors have it that strange things happened there – items would disappear, even though the place was always securely locked. No one has lived in it for years, but one of the neighbors, who wasn’t afraid to walk his dog near it back then, swore that at night the floorboards creaked inside, as if someone were wandering through the empty rooms. And at dusk, he claimed you could make out a faint dark figure standing in the windows. A year ago I hired a crew to begin repairs, and no one has seen them since. Everyone decided they simply ran off with the advance payment…»
He glanced around the café and lowered his voice.
«The last person to live in that house was my great-grand-aunt. She spent her entire life there, but one day she simply vanished. It happened not long after the mysterious death of her sitter.»
Felton fell silent for a moment, lost in thought. Then, with a weary sigh, he went on:
«Yes… the old woman disappeared without a trace. The police and the family searched everywhere, but it was useless.» He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
I looked at him with a hint of disbelief. Conflicting feelings stirred inside me – something between annoyance and an unexpected surge of sympathy.
«I see. A house with a history», I replied, trying not to sound impatient. «But sir, with all due respect, I don’t believe in ghosts. It’s just walls and wood and… probably brick, or whatever else a place like that is made of…»
At my words he smiled, though the smile was oddly crooked and a little strained, as if he were wearing a mask that restricted his expression. Then he took from his small, well-worn dark-brown suitcase an old key that looked surprisingly heavy, along with a neat little envelope containing the advance payment, and the sight of it lifted my spirits at once.
The key looked as though it belonged in a grim fairytale: darkened with age, its teeth intricate, the metal engraved with delicate patterns. In his hand it didn’t resemble an ordinary object at all, but rather a stolen museum relic or a rare archaeological find.
«If you happen to change your mind… don’t hesitate to call me», Felton said, nodding as he passed me the envelope but still holding the key. «I’ll understand, and I won’t ask you to return the advance.»
I shrugged and gave him a skeptical smirk. In truth, I was already deeply intrigued. And Felton, before saying any of this, had likely understood that my pride would never let me run off with money I hadn’t earned honestly. The whole thing – the shadow of a mystery, the whisper of a local legend, the faint trace of danger, stirred my imagination, played on my nerves, and, I admit, awakened a thrill. I felt a prickling anticipation rising somewhere inside me, the kind a child might feel when peeking for the first time into a forbidden room where wonders or strange curiosities might be hidden.
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