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Maggie agreed. She made herself a ledger and began to write everything—names, lullabies, dates of births and disappearances, the exact way the wallpaper peeled in a summer not yet lived. She inscribed each story into the margins of her manuscript. The novel she had come to write was no longer just a novel; it was a catalog of people who had been paused like old films in the house's projectors.
As I stepped inside, a chill ran down my spine. The air was thick with the scent of decay and rot. I fumbled for my flashlight and turned it on, casting a weak beam of light down the dark hallway. a haunted house isaidub
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