Chapter 1

My father was an author, a believer in ghosts, and—according to nearly everyone in our village—a madman.

He wrote about haunted houses, restless spirits, and famous hauntings from the fifteenth century. His books sold in shops throughout the region. People devoured his stories, clinging to every dramatic detail, while I saw only a man who had built his life around a subject no respectable person would admit to believing in.

My father, Pierre Turner the Third, had always been fascinated by the dead.

I hated his books. I hated his strange work. Most of all, I hated that his choices followed me wherever I went.

Recently, he had taken his obsession a step further. He declared himself a medium and began visiting villagers in their homes, promising to help their dead relatives cross over.

At first, I found the whole thing amusing. Then the entire community took notice.

Their amusement turned to criticism. Their criticism turned to cruelty.

Because I was his daughter, their whispers followed me everywhere. I heard them whenever I passed a group of villagers in the street. Even sitting on our front porch became unbearable. I could feel their eyes on me through parted curtains, their judgment pressing against my skin.

Then, today, my father announced that we were moving.

I assumed we were leaving to escape the gossip. I was wrong.

“We’re moving so I can continue my work,” he explained. “There are people in another village who need my help with their ghosts.”

I didn’t care where we went, so long as I no longer had to endure the ridicule.

I packed and placed everything inside my leather suitcase. By the time I carried it downstairs, the carriage was waiting.

Pierre struggled behind me, dragging his belongings down the staircase before loading everything into the trunk. Then, without so much as a proper farewell to the house, we left.

The bumpy ride was mostly quiet. From time to time, I remembered a subject my father had tried to discuss with me before we left, though I had refused to engage. Today, however, there was a sharpness in his tone that made avoiding him more difficult.

“When do you plan on choosing a suitor?” he asked. “You were supposed to have chosen one before this day came.”

“You announced this move without warning. Where are we even going?”

“Avoiding my question, I see.”

“Father, my options weren’t really—”

“Suitable? Perhaps.” He sighed. “Listen, Kal. I need to know that you’ll be cared for.”

“You take care of me.”

“I do, but I may not always be able to.” His voice softened. “What happens if I become ill? What happens if I can no longer work? I need to know you’ll have someone beside you when I’m gone.”

“I’ll manage.”

“You shouldn’t have to manage alone. A good husband could help care for you and make certain you always have a home.”

“You mean you want someone to take responsibility for me after you can’t.”

“I mean I want you to be safe.” He reached for my hand. “I’m not trying to cast you off, Kal. You’re my daughter. I want to know you’ll be cared for.”

I pulled my hand away.

“I don’t need a stranger deciding the course of my life.”

“Nor should you marry a stranger. You should choose someone kind and dependable.”

“You say that as if choosing a husband is as simple as choosing a dress.”

“I know it isn’t simple.” He looked toward the window. “But you must think about your future.”

I turned away from him. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Very well,” he said, though his tone suggested he wasn’t finished with the subject. “For now.”

A moment passed before he continued.

“We’re moving to Whipstaff. It’s a quiet community of hardworking people, quite a bit larger than ours. Several residents have written to me asking for help with the dead. I secured our new home at a significant discount in exchange for exorcising an entity.”

“What? You mean we’re moving to one of your haunted houses? And if they’re selling it, why do they need you to remove anything?”

“They want access to the basement. Apparently, the entity lingers there and prevents them from entering.”

I made a silent note to myself: never go near the basement.

I imagined our new house, a medium-sized place covered in vines and moss. Inside, the floorboards creaked beneath every step, while spiderwebs blocked the halls. My heart raced as my mind formed a sinister picture of the basement door. I did not believe in ghosts. I never had. Still, my imagination created the entity that supposedly lingered there—a tall, black, shapeless figure standing beside a dreadful door, as though some darker force were trying to break through it.

Doom swept through me as though I were already there.

A large part of me no longer wished to go.

Was it too late to turn back?

Five hours into our journey, we reached a sign intended to welcome visitors.

It failed miserably.

The name had been painted across a thin, weather-beaten plank suspended from rusted chains.

WHIPSTAFF.

My heart slammed against my ribs. The trees ahead seemed to close around the road, their branches twisting into one another beneath a sky darker than it had any right to be. Shadows swallowed the path, and the entire village appeared to exhale something cold and hostile.

I glanced at my father.

He was staring through the carriage window, his eyes widened as he took in the surroundings.

The moment we passed the sign, the wind rose.

The carriage rocked violently from side to side. Rain began striking the windows, though the sky had been clear only moments earlier. Gray clouds gathered overhead, thick and unnatural. When I leaned toward the window for a better look, icy droplets blew inside and soaked my freshly braided hair.

I recoiled into my seat.

“Are we nearly there?” I asked. “I’m freezing.”

Water seeped inside the carriage, running along the floorboards. My father reached up and forced the shutters closed.

“I believe we are,” he said. “Though this weather is peculiar. It appeared without warning. I hope the coachman is managing well.”

Another thirty minutes passed before the carriage began to slow. The rain weakened to a drizzle.

I opened the shutter.

My eyes widened.

“This is the house?”

“It is.”

“It’s enormous.”

My father offered a thin, enigmatic smile. “Our new home.”

The three-story mansion was at least four times the size of our previous residence. My father had truly outdone himself.

At last, I understood why he had agreed to move into a supposedly haunted house.

A broad lawn stretched before the property, the grass wild and uncut. A grand staircase led to a balcony framed by marble columns. Vines wound around the pillars and crept along the stone railing, just as I had imagined—though the reality was far more beautiful than the version in my mind.

The neglected garden did little to diminish the mansion’s elegance. Tall windows lined the front of the house, each concealed behind silk curtains. Candlelight glowed behind the glass, giving the place a warm, almost welcoming appearance.

I wanted to see the inside.

Before I could step down from the carriage, the front door opened.

A woman emerged.

She was tall and slender, her pale skin contrasting with icy blonde hair, while her sharp, refined features carried a haughty elegance that belied her late forties. Draped in a fitted gown and a luxurious fur coat, she descended the stairs with a poised, snobby stride toward my father, who had already climbed out to greet her.

Even after he closed the carriage door, I could hear them.

“You’re late,” the woman said in a clipped, unimpressed voice.

“By thirty minutes,” Father replied, glancing at his watch. “Hardly enough to justify looking as though you’ve been abandoned.”

“I’ve been waiting inside this house with ghosts.” She shuddered. “I don’t enjoy waiting around for men who claim they can remove them.”

“You knew I wouldn’t arrive until tonight.”

“I knew you were coming tonight. I did not know you would keep me waiting.”

Pierre reached into his coat and removed a small leather pouch.

“Here is the first payment,” he said. “Half of the discounted price, as we agreed.”

Madam Jillian snatched the pouch from his hand and weighed it in her palm.

She looked him over. “Pierre Turner, is it?”

“Pierre Turner the Third.”

“A strange name.”

“It has served me well.”

“I hope your courage serves you just as well.”

His expression became guarded. “What exactly is in the basement?”

“Something important to my family.”

“Perhaps I could retrieve the items for you.”

“No.” Her voice sharpened. “You are forbidden from entering the basement until we remove our belongings. That restriction is written into the agreement. Anyway, I am the only one who has a key to it.”

Pierre glanced toward the mansion. “Very well. We’ll respect the terms.”

“You would be wise to do so.”

She turned toward the front door.

“Come along,” she said. “You may inspect the rest of your new home.”

I pushed open the carriage door and stepped down, making a formal introduction to the woman I had already decided could not be trusted.

There was something wrong with the way she spoke about the basement. The secrecy surrounding it settled over me like a warning.

My father and I followed her up the staircase and through the front doors.

The entrance opened into a vast foyer, grand enough to rival a ballroom. The ceiling soared above us, and the polished floor reflected the light of several burning candles. A wide staircase rose at the far end of the room, leading to the upper floors.

Because of the late hour, Madam Jillian continued up the stairs without offering us a tour. She stopped at the top of the second floor and gestured toward the corridor.

“This is where I leave you,” she said. “The bedrooms are along this hall. Choose whichever rooms you prefer.”

She folded her hands over her stomach.

“Sleep well, if you can. And may God protect you during your stay.”

My father blinked. “Thank you?”

Madam Jillian hurried away, disappearing into the darkness beyond the balcony.

I followed my father down the corridor. He opened one of the doors and revealed a room containing a single king-sized bed.

“I’ll take this one,” he said.

“Of course you will.”

He gave me a tired look, but I had already wandered away in search of my own room.

I was exhausted. My body ached, my hair was still damp, and the long journey had left every muscle in my body tense.

A few doors down, I found one that resisted when I turned the knob. For a moment, it felt as though someone on the other side was holding it shut.

I froze.

Then reason returned.

The room was locked. That was all.

The next door opened without protest.

Inside, I found a charming bedroom with a floral comforter, soft pillows, and a thick rug scattered with blue flowers. It was simple compared with the grandness of this place, but after traveling all day, it looked like paradise.

“Father,” I called. “I found my room.”

I closed the door before he could answer and collapsed onto the bed.

For the first time since we left, I smiled.

A mansion.

I was living in a mansion.

I shut my eyes, still grinning, and began to relax.

Then I heard a man’s voice.

My eyes flew open.

I sat upright and searched the room, trying to determine where the sound had come from. The words were too faint to understand, but the voice was unmistakably male.

“H-hello?”

“Hello.”

The answer was gentle.

That was what frightened me most.

There was no one in the room.

I screamed and sprang to my feet. I rushed toward the door, seized the handle, and pulled.

Nothing happened.

Panic surged through me. I looked over my shoulder.

“Don’t be afraid,” the voice said.

Don’t be afraid?

A ghost was speaking to me.

Ghosts were real.