Where The Devil Kneels

1. The Estate’s Welcome

Chapter one

The Estate's Welcome

The engine dies halfway up the drive.

I pump the gas pedal. Nothing happens. Grandmother’s estate rises through the windshield, now mine, and it feels like it’s judging me.

The headlights show decaying shutters. Thick vines wrap around the walls.

Empty windows look back at me. The trees lean in, their twisted roots pushing up the drive, as if they want to swallow it.

I can still feel the weight of the town’s stares from the gas station. The conversation died when I said where I was headed. The clerk’s hand had frozen over my change, her smile cracking like old paint. “You’re going there?”

Just like Grandmother always said, they’ve never forgiven us for what this house stands for or for what they believe it knows.

I shouldn’t have expected anything different. But I’m here now, and the house isn’t going to investigate itself.

I turn off the engine and step outside. The fresh autumn air hits me, cold against my neck. I look up. The house towers over me, showing years of neglect, covered in ivy and secrets. Its worn stone holds the marks of generations, like a tomb full of forgotten memories.

Then I see them: footprints in the gravel. Fresh. Not mine. They lead away from my headlights and disappear into the darkness under the trees, as if whoever made them might still be nearby, watching and waiting.

My hand moves instinctively to my notebook, pen already scratching across the page: Footprints in the gravel. Not mine. Will investigate later.

I walk to the front door, where the old porch wood is warped from age. I take the keys from my bag. They jangle. I pause and let the quiet settle. The biggest key, heavy and cold, sticks in the lock and resists before finally turning and opening in the fading light.

I push the door open, and the smell of dust and emptiness hits me.

The foyer stretches out, full of shadows.

Dusty furniture sits quietly, hinting at stories no one has told.

Stern ancestors stare down from their portraits, watching me with hard eyes.

I feel the weight as I step further into a house that feels like both a refuge and a trap.

I look around the main floor, feeling more alert. A quiet warning rings in my mind. The air feels thick, full of memories. I notice strange things: curtains move without a breeze, floorboards creak behind me even though I’m alone. I turn quickly, scanning the dark corners, but find nothing.

Even though I try to stay calm, unease settles deep inside me. Am I imagining things, or is someone watching? I write in my journal: 'Feeling observed. Investigate later. Bring holy water. And a bat.' Writing helps me stay grounded and keeps my thoughts from spinning out of control.

I move through the foyer, taking careful notes: “footprints moving further into the dark halls, wallpaper old and peeling, the estate seems to hold its breath as if it has secrets.” Even though this place is neglected, it feels alive with a haunting loneliness.

It draws me in, making me face fears and truths I can’t name.

For now, I am just Elara Hale. I’ve inherited this estate, carrying both its weight and its power.

Anxiety and excitement fight inside me, but I hold on to my pen, my curiosity, and my need to record the hidden stories in these walls.

These tools help me manage my feelings and give me a sense of purpose here.

The master bedroom opens up before me, showing faded wealth and old stories. Dust floats in the fading light behind thick curtains. I breathe in the calm that fills the room. I know it holds secrets, just like I do. The memory of its past life lingers in the air, inviting me to uncover more.

I place my bag on the old white desk, its surface worn from years of use.

I unzip my bag and set out my tools on the dusty top.

The steel measuring tape shines in the window’s light.

Next to it is the pH testing kit with its small vials.

My leather journal, stained with coffee on page forty-three, lies open.

My Canon camera, its display cracked from a fall, sits beside them.

These modern tools rest against velvet drapes untouched for decades.

'Just get settled,' I whisper, trying to shake the feeling that I’m intruding.

'Just another restoration project.' I move my tools around until they’re in the right place.

'This time, I’ll be living here.' I want to record everything and reveal the house’s details.

Careful notes help me feel in control of the chaos.

As I work, memories from my past slip in.

I can’t remember my parents’ laughter, but I remember the silence after their car slid off an icy bridge and vanished into a January river.

The days that followed were a blur of hospital ceilings, echoing hallways, the taste of vending-machine coffee, and social workers offering condolences.

I stood in the courthouse lobby with a small suitcase and an old photo of us at Niagara Falls, my face already learning how not to need anyone.

The relatives who took me in didn’t mean any harm.

I know that. But their love felt distant, given out like items on a checklist. My first foster room was a sun porch with a leaky window; the second was a damp basement that smelled of bleach.

I learned to keep my needs small and became quiet.

I never broke curfew, always said 'please' and 'thank you,' and did well in school so teachers wouldn’t notice the bruises under my eyes.

By the time I left the system, I believed people always left.

They left, or they died, or drifted away.

Sooner or later, you were forgotten. I turned to books, quiet places, and running alone.

I became good at noticing details others missed.

It gave me a sense of control and helped me protect myself from pain.

At university, I found a home in the archives.

The logic of cataloguing and the choreography of restoration help me impose order on history’s chaos.

My hands stayed steady even when my thoughts whirled.

I never made mistakes, never spilled acid, or left fingerprints.

I kept my own journals, filled with analytic script—grids of meaning mapped onto my messy life.

I made myself useful and essential. If no one loved me, at least they needed what I could do.

As I continue my bedroom inventory—the hairline fracture in the corner, the water mark growing like a copper flower across the ceiling—memories pour in.

My father’s voice echoes from the kitchen, reading the paper, his glasses slipping as he laughed, his mug leaving a coffee ring on page six, the comic page he read to me daily.

My mother hummed Clair de Lune while brushing my hair, her hands kind, the scent of lavender lotion remaining after she tucked me in.

I focus on the ever-present loneliness, the silent ache that presses against my chest and makes each breath heavy.

I don’t dwell on it or examine it for meaning—doing so would tear apart the careful structure I’ve built to keep myself from falling apart.

Letting the emptiness in feels dangerous, like teetering on the edge of losing myself.

So I write down facts, document data, and cling to the measurable evidence of the world, avoiding mirrors, phone calls, and nostalgia’s siren song, all to keep my vulnerability at bay.

My hands move with the routine of investigation.

The thermometer drops as I get closer to the wall, five degrees cooler than before.

I press my fingers to the plaster, its cold soaking into my skin.

I jot in my notebook: 'Abnormal temperature variance by fireplace; rule out structural causes.

' On my hands and knees, I follow the dust patterns on the floor.

My camera captures swirls that no draft could make, each one like a code waiting to be solved.

As I write down these odd details, my pen pauses.

I’ve lived in seventeen places since I was a child, never hanging pictures and using boxes as nightstands.

When landlords ask about the lease, my hands get sweaty.

I’m good at recording decay, but not at dealing with feelings.

My coworkers admire how I handle old letters, but I flinch when someone touches me.

Last Christmas, Dr. Abernathy invited us to dinner; I sat in my car for forty-five minutes and then drove home, still holding the wrapped bottle of wine.

I arrange my things carefully, putting each notebook and pencil in its place.

My fingers rest on my leather journal as I write down today’s findings.

It feels strange to finally own a home that won’t vanish with a month’s notice, but I feel more exposed than ever.

The grandfather clock chimes, its sound echoing through rooms that are mine but still feel borrowed.

I wonder if someone might someday sit across from me at the oak table one day, but I quickly push that thought away.

It’s safer to be alone than to depend on anyone, I remind myself.

I step back and look at the neat stacks of boxes and folders I’ve set out on the floor.

Something tightens in my chest—it’s not quite pride, but it’s close.

This old house, with all its secrets, might be the first thing I’ve owned that doesn’t fit in a suitcase.

The grandfather clock ticks another minute away, and I breathe out with it.

Tonight, I’ll sleep among dust and old memories.

Tomorrow, I’ll tackle the broken hinges and water stains.

My fingers touch the leather journal where I’ve listed every flaw, and I wonder if there’s room in it for my own story.

Night falls over the estate suddenly, as if someone covered the house.

I pull the curtains closed, my fingers resting on the thick fabric.

The room that felt safe in daylight now seems to move around me, familiar things turning into strange shapes as my candle flickers on the nightstand.

I know it’s just night, something everyone faces, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching me.

Getting ready for bed becomes my routine.

I check the window locks three times, each click loud in the quiet, and leave my bedroom door slightly open, a habit from wanting both safety and a way out.

I keep my phone and flashlight close, small comforts against the night.

Familiar routines help for a moment, but the anxiety stays, creeping over me.

I get under the quilt and watch the candle’s flame make shadows on the ceiling.

At first, they move gently, but soon the darkness feels alive.

Sleep stays just out of reach as my mind runs through ghost stories that might explain the strange feeling in the house.

Just as I start to drift off, I hear wood creak in the hallway, like someone testing their step.

I’m instantly awake, eyes wide but unable to see in the darkness.

My body sits up before I even think, my heart pounding in my chest. The candle flickers one last time before the room goes completely dark.

I blink into the blackness. The bedroom door, which I left open, is now closed.

Cold fear settles in my stomach as I search the nightstand for my flashlight.

Its solid weight is both comforting and a reminder that I’m truly alone here.

The flashlight beam slices through the darkness, lighting up the edge of my desk, the corner of a bookshelf, and the curve of a chair arm.

Everything looks strange now. I listen hard for any sound beyond my own shallow breathing, but the silence only makes me more sure I’m not alone.

I feel eyes on me from the dark. My fingers grip the sheets, my knuckles turning white as I force myself to breathe. Don’t move. Don’t scream. Think.

I move my flashlight across the room again, catching dust that floats like tiny stars in the beam.

The fear stays, heavy on my chest. Every breath feels hard.

The silence isn’t empty—it’s full of whispers I can almost hear, secrets pressing against the walls.

Dawn seems far away, and I can’t shake the feeling that somewhere in this house, shadows are gathering, ready to reveal things I’ve tried to avoid all my life.