The House on the Outskirts

Hey love, pull up a chair and let me tell you about the night we spent in that old cottage out on the edge of the village.

We pulled up just as the sky was starting to turn that soft evening blue, not quite dark yet. The car coughed, sputtered and died, and everything went dead quiet except for the wind rattling dry leaves across the yard and rustling the tall grass.

Wow, Sam said, hauling his rucksack out of the boot. This is practically a holiday resort for anyone with a sturdy mind.

More like a budget getaway for anyone over forty who cant afford a proper hotel, Poppy added, squinting at the place. Just look at it.

The cottage looked a bit crooked, though the walls were actually straight if you stared long enough. Moss clung to parts of the roof, the attic window was boarded up from the inside, one groundfloor window was missing its glass and was patched with a torn piece of plastic that flapped in the breeze.

Talk about nostalgia, Dave said, slamming the car door shut. Remember how we used to sneak over here at school? We were terrified to go in during the day, but at night it felt like someone was standing behind the glass.

That was your fear, Milly replied, tugging at her scarf. I never went in. My mum used to drive me home before dark.

Sam chuckled. He was fortytwo, his back aching from the drive, his temples throbbing, and he thought back to the days when we could walk here from the other side of the village, laughing, carrying packets of peanuts and cheap fizz, and no one complained about sore backs.

So, whats the plan? he asked, snapping his palms together. Whos the chief ghosthunter?

You are, Poppy said. You were the one who suggested we go.

He really had. When the group chat buzzed about getting away for the weekend, Sam dropped a picture of an abandoned house with the caption Lets go hunt some ghosts. Hed found the photo in the village Facebook group where people were gossiping about a longempty cottage. Everyone thought it was a joke, but then it turned out to be the only realistic option. The usual B&Bs were pricey, holiday lets were booked solid, and a distant relative of Daves, through a thirdhand, swore the place was legally ownerless and abandoned, so no one would complain if we spent a night.

We moved closer. The doorway smelled of damp wood and age. No keys, the lock had been ripped out ages ago. Sam shoved the door with his shoulder; it gave grudgingly, sending a puff of dust spilling out.

Good lord, Milly whispered. Feels like were stepping into someone elses life.

Inside it was cool, smelling of stale timber, dust, and old plaster. Sam took a deep breath, his throat tightening. The floorboards creaked underfoot but held. In the entrance hallway a motheaten coat hung on a nail, rusted keys lay beneath it, and a mismatched pair of boots sat in the corner.

Look at that, Dave said, the ambience is already spot on.

We slipped into the main room. The walls were peeling, with bits of faded floral wallpaper peeking through. In the corner sat a sagging sofa with a dented mattress, draped in a grey, dustcovered blanket. A table nearby was littered with yellowed, crumpled papers.

Poppy brushed the window frame. The wood was rough, the paint flaking.

If any of us get sick, Ill kill you, she warned Sam, her tone dripping with the usual banter.

Ive got a firstaid kit, he replied. And were not camping in a tent, love.

He tried to sound casual, but the cottage pressed on his chest. Nothing out of the ordinary, just an old, derelict building the sort you find all over the country. Yet because it sat on the edge of where we grew up, it felt personal.

Dave and Milly hauled sleeping bags and inflatable mattresses from the car, Poppy unpacked plastic plates, a thermos of soup, sandwiches and cheese. Sam checked for power and, thank heavens, found a single working socket. He plugged in the charger, and a dim yellow bulb flickered to life.

Ah, civilisation, Milly said.

We ate around the table, and the chat drifted to the usual jobs, kids, mortgages, the news. Laughter rose a shade too loud, as if we were trying to drown out the house itself.

So, who lived here? Poppy asked, biting her sandwich. I only remember being warned that a psycho lived here.

Not a psycho, Dave replied. Just a bloke who lost his wife, his son vanished, and eventually he went off his rocker.

Is that your own story or an official one? Sam asked.

My dad used to tell it. Dont go in, the owners angry, hell bite. Then they said they found him or maybe he disappeared himself. Anyway, a grim tale.

Millys eyes dropped. Shed lost her mum recently, and the funeral had been a nightmare. Sam knew she clung to every little detail to keep herself upright.

Alright, lets make this an official horror night. After we eat, well explore attic, cellar, any room with creepy writing. Whoever screams first does the dishes, Sam announced.

Poppy snorted. Classic excuse to get out of work.

When wed finished eating and warmed up a bit, we grabbed flashlights and started prowling. Sam led. The corridor was darker than the bulb could reach. Peeling paint, a crooked mirror reflecting our silhouettes, an old rug with holes.

This could be a film set, Milly murmured.

Were already filming, Dave replied, raising his phone.

The rooms blended into each other empty wardrobes, bare walls, old newspapers, broken plates. One wall held a faded calendar showing a seaside view, dated about twenty years back.

Imagine looking at that sea every day and never leaving, Sam said.

Just like us, Poppy noted.

Sam shrugged. Hed once dreamed of leaving the village, then the town, then the country, but ended up stuck in the district office, crunching other peoples money. Sometimes he felt his life was a stuck calendar nobody turned.

We finally found the attic after a hidden stair behind a narrow hallway. The wooden steps creaked but held. Up top it was dark, smelling of dust and stale damp.

Watch out, Sam warned. If anything falls, Im not responsible.

The attic was low, with a sloping roof, spider webs between the joists, boxes and old suitcases stacked along the walls.

Looks like a graveyard of other peoples stuff, Dave said.

Poppy leaned over a box. Books and notebooks.

Sam shone his torch inside. Indeed, there were worn books, school notebooks, a thick graph paper notebook bound with twine.

Treasure, he grinned, pulling the notebook out. The twine loosened easily. On the cover, in a ballpoint pen, someone had written Diary. 1998. The hand was messy, a bit childish, but the letters were big.

Now it gets interesting, Milly said, a hint of fear in her voice.

What are you scared of? Its just a notebook, Sam replied, though he felt a knot tighten in his chest.

We all settled back in the main room, the yellow bulb casting a small circle of light while the rest stayed in darkness. Outside the wind howled and a loose board clattered somewhere.

Sam opened the diary. The first page bore the name Sam the surname smeared by damp.

Okay, go on, Dave urged.

Sam cleared his throat and read aloud:

10 March. Had it with dad again. He says Im a loafer, Ill never make it. I told him Id leave home when Im eighteen. He laughed, said Id have nowhere to go. I dont know what to do. Feels like Im stuck forever.

He paused. The room fell silent, even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Wow, straight from the 90s, Dave said.

Next, Milly whispered.

Sam turned the page. The ink was smeared in places, as if the writer never stopped.

15 March. Mum cried again last night. Heard it through the walls. Wanted to go in but didnt. Shell say everythings fine, but I know it isnt. Dad came home drunk, shouted, threw things. Today he smashed a mug against the wall. Bits are still on the floor.

Poppy flinched. Sam saw her grip the table edge tighter. He remembered her own father, who used to come home reeking of alcohol and shouting. She rarely spoke about it, but the memory flickered.

Enough? Poppy asked. We didnt come here for therapy.

Just a bit more, Milly said. Please.

Sam wrestled with the urge to stop and the strange guilt of prying into a strangers life, but the diary lay open and kept pulling him.

He kept reading about school, friends, a boy named Sam who wanted to become a programmer, a father who mocked the dream, a mother who stayed silent, a younger brother in hospital, and a father blaming everything on him.

Thats us, in a way, Dave said, halfjoking, halfserious.

Sam nodded. Wed all lived versions of that story parents passing down their hurts, kids yearning to escape, then staying.

The wind outside grew louder. A door somewhere slammed. Milly jumped and giggled nervously.

The house is talking, Dave said, playing along. It doesnt like us reading its secrets.

Very funny, Poppy muttered.

Sam flipped to a later entry, the writing larger, hurried.

24 April. Doctors said brother wont get better. Mum spent twenty minutes in the loo, never came out. Dad said it was my fault. If I hadnt been born, things would be different. I know thats a lie, but it hurts.

A lump formed in Sams throat. He stopped reading aloud, ran his finger over the lines, feeling the weight of guilt that wasnt his but resonated deep inside.

Whats next? Milly asked.

Nothing special, Sam said. Just usual stuff.

Give it to me, Poppy said, reaching for the notebook.

He hesitated, wanting to keep the words to himself, but handed it over. She started reading, frowning now and then. Milly peeked over her shoulder. Dave paced, checked the corridor, then came back.

Theres still a bed in the bedroom, with a mattress. Creepy to think who slept there, he noted.

Poppy slammed the notebook shut. Thats enough for tonight.

What? Dave asked.

Nothing, just I dont want to go on, she said, sliding the notebook back onto the table. Later parts get into the hospital, the funeral. Im not ready.

Milly got up. Ill make tea. Im freezing.

In the kitchen if you can call it that they found an old stove that surprisingly still worked. They boiled water, Milly fussed with tea bags, and Sam watched her shoulders tremble a little.

How are you? he asked.

Okay, she replied. Just feels too familiar, like reading your own life with different names.

He thought of his own dad once throwing an ashtray at the wall, Sam cleaning up the shards and wondering if a better life would have been different.

They sipped tea on rickety stools, trying to talk about light things, but the house had already woven its story into theirs, and it wasnt easy to shake off.

Lets do a séance for Sam later, Dave suggested, halfserious.

Youre mad, Poppy said. There are no ghosts.

What else is it then? Just an old house? Then why does it feel off? Dave asked. Why am I uneasy?

Because youre suggestible, Milly said, and because were reading someone elses diary.

Sam fell silent, thinking of his own diary from school, then university, then the one hed tucked away after marriage and kids. It sat in a box on an attic shelf, gathering dust. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if someone found it after twenty years.

Night fell fast. The wind turned into a fullblown storm, rattling loose boards. Inside, the temperature dropped despite the heater Dave had brought.

They spread the sleeping bags across the main room. Poppy insisted they all sleep together, not separate.

Im not going to lie alone in this hole, she said, calling herself a scaredycat.

Me neither, Milly added.

Sam curled up against the wall. The mattress creaked softly. They switched off the bulb, leaving only the torchs dim beam pointing at the ceiling. The light was weak but kept the darkness at bay.

So, scary stories? Dave asked, settling in.

We already read one, Milly replied.

They chatted a bit more, but fatigue took over. Sam felt his body grow heavy, thoughts thickening. Somewhere in the hallway a door slammed, making both of them jump.

Just the wind, Sam said, trying to sound confident.

Or Dave went to the loo, Milly guessed.

Sleep took them, the house sighing as if it were breathing with them.

In his halfdream, Sam saw the cottage not as a ruin but as a livedin home: soup on the stove, a TV playing some concert, a teenage boy on the sofa scribbling in a notebook, voices arguing in the hallway, a door slamming. He woke to a thud, the room dark, his torch dead. He sat up, heart pounding.

Hey, he whispered. Anyone hear that?

No answer. He looked around, saw an empty spot where Milly should have been.

Milly? he called louder.

Silence. Only the wind and the faint creak of the house.

He sighed, reached for his phone, its pale glow lighting the room. Poppy lay turned away, Daves mouth was open in a soft snore, Millys space was empty.

Lily? he muttered, then realised it was Milly.

A shuffling sound came from the hallway. He stepped out, torch in hand, the beam catching dust motes. The air smelled of old wood and stale plaster. The kitchen doorway was cool.

He peered in nothing but a tipped mug on the table.

Then a faint whimper rose from upstairs. His skin prickled. He cursed himself for being a fortytwoyearold man scared of his own attic.

He trudged up the creaking stairs. The flashlight revealed joists, boxes, suitcases. In the corner, near the pile of books, Milly sat on the floor, hugging her knees, eyes red.

Whats wrong? Sam asked, kneeling beside her.

You scared me, she whispered, wiping tears. I I was reading those notes again and wanted to see if there was anything left.

She showed him another thin notebook, softcovered, dated S. 2001. Winter.

It says he left for the city, came back when dad died, stayed here alone and she swallowed. He writes about hearing footsteps, thinking its the wind, talking to himself to stay sane. Mom went to her sisters, he stayed.

Sam felt a knot tighten. Staying. Hed once decided to stay for his mother when his dad passed. Hed stayed, while his brother left. Now his own mother was old and ill, and he felt that same weight.

More? Milly asked.

She turned a page. The boy wrote about fearing the house would swallow him, about the silence after his dads death, about speaking to a presence that wasnt there.

Millys voiceAs the wind howled outside, we all sat together in the dim light, realizing that some stories never truly endthey simply become the quiet echoes we carry with us forever.