The old house on the edge of town had always been a subject of hushed conversations. It stood alone, its windows blackened with age, and the wooden porch creaked like a sigh in the wind. No one knew who had built it, or when, but those who passed by swore they heard faint whispers from within, as if the walls themselves were alive. Elias, a young man with a fascination for the unexplained, had heard about the house for years. He was an amateur historian, drawn to stories that others dismissed as folklore. One rainy afternoon, he found himself standing before the iron gate, the rain soaking his coat. The air around the house felt different—thicker, as if time itself had slowed down. He pushed the gate open with a groan and stepped inside. The yard was overgrown, weeds creeping up the foundation. A rusted swing swayed gently despite the lack of wind. Elias walked up the front steps, his boots echoing against the wood. The door was slightly ajar, as if someone had left in a hurry. He hesitated, then pushed it open. Inside, the air was cold, though the sun had not yet set. Dust motes danced in the slivers of light that managed to pierce through the grimy windows. The floorboards groaned under his weight. The living room was filled with furniture covered in white sheets, their edges frayed and yellowed. A grandfather clock stood in the corner, its hands frozen at 3:17. As he moved deeper into the house, Elias noticed strange patterns etched into the walls—symbols, some resembling constellations, others more alien in form. They seemed to shimmer faintly, as if reacting to his presence. He reached out to touch one, but the moment his fingers brushed the surface, a low hum filled the room, vibrating through his bones. He continued onward, finding a study filled with books that smelled of damp paper and time. Some of them had no titles, just strange symbols on the spines. A desk sat in the center, cluttered with papers that appeared to be written in a language he couldn’t recognize. But what caught his eye was a journal, its leather cover cracked and worn. He opened it, and the pages were filled with entries dated decades apart, all in the same hand. The entries spoke of something called “the Veil,” a thin boundary between worlds that could be seen, but not touched. The writer described strange occurrences—shadows that moved without light, voices that echoed from nowhere, and dreams that felt more real than waking life. One entry read: *“It watches us, not from the dark, but from the silence between thoughts.”* As Elias turned the pages, a sudden chill ran down his spine. The room grew darker, the shadows stretching unnaturally. The clock’s hands began to move again, slowly ticking forward. He closed the journal and stood, only to find the door now locked. The handle was cold, and when he tried to pull it, it resisted, as if something on the other side was holding it shut. A soft voice whispered in his ear, not in any language he knew, but in a feeling—a memory of home, of laughter, of warmth. He spun around, but there was no one there. The air thickened, and the walls seemed to pulse, as if breathing. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the pressure lifted. The door swung open, revealing the darkening sky outside. Elias stumbled back, heart pounding. He ran from the house, not looking back, even as the wind carried the sound of laughter from the trees. Days later, Elias found himself unable to shake the feeling that something had changed. His dreams became vivid and disjointed, filled with images of the house and the symbols on the walls. He would wake up with a strange sense of familiarity, as if he had lived in that place before. The journal had vanished from his bag, leaving only a single page behind, blank except for a single line: *“You are not the first. You will not be the last.”* And every night, he heard the whisper again, softer this time, almost like a lullaby.