Emma's chest felt tight, her heartbeat hammering in her ears. Every laugh echoing through the mansion, every clatter of dishes, every squeal of children playing in the hall, only sharpened the unease that had been gnawing at her since arriving. She could not take it anymore. The sense of being watched, the shadows moving just out of sight, the strange occurrences—it was all too much.
She rose from the window seat, her fingers trembling slightly as she clutched the diary against her chest. The warmth and cheer around her, the festive decorations, the smell of pine and cinnamon, it all felt like a mask over something far more sinister.
Emma stormed down the hall and found her father in the study. He was pacing slightly, phone pressed to his ear, speaking rapidly. The moment she stepped in, she tried to gather herself, willing the words to come out coherently.
"Dad! We have to leave the house! We can't spend Christmas here—something's wrong!" she exclaimed, her voice urgent.
Her father, still on the call, waved one hand dismissively. "Not now, Emma," he said, without looking at her. "I'm on the phone. Can this wait?"
Emma's jaw clenched. "It cannot wait! You don't understand—things are happening, weird things! Objects disappearing, whispers, shadows moving on their own. I can feel it, Dad! I'm not imagining it!"
He lifted his hand again, a silent barrier, signaling her to stop talking. Emma's chest tightened further. She could feel the cold tendrils of fear creeping along her spine as the house seemed to hum quietly around her, alive with anticipation.
Finally, the call ended. Her father lowered the phone and rubbed his temple, looking slightly frustrated but attempting a smile. "Emma… what is it now?"
She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. "I'm telling you, Dad, we can't stay here. Something is in this house, something—unseen—it's dangerous. We should leave. Move somewhere else for Christmas. Anywhere! Just… get out of here before it—"
Her father held up a hand, cutting her off gently but firmly. "Emma… it's too late."
Emma froze, the words hitting her like ice. "Too late? What do you mean?"
Her father's expression softened, though the weight of the news he was about to deliver made Emma's stomach turn. "Your mother… she's coming for Christmas."
Emma's eyes widened, shock rooting her to the spot. "Mother? But… I thought you two were divorced! Why—why would you call her over after everything she made you go through?"
Her father's voice was calm, almost gentle, but carried a firmness that left no room for argument. "She is still your mother, Emma. You may not like her, you may not understand her, but she is still your mother. Be polite when she visits. That's all I ask."
Emma's mind raced. Memories of arguments, of bitter fights, of the times she had felt abandoned, of the chaos left behind—how could he ask her to be polite now? The walls of the mansion seemed to close in, the shadows twisting just slightly at the corners of her vision.
"I… I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Everything she's done, everything she put us through—why now? Why bring her here?"
Her father stepped closer, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. The touch was grounding, though it did little to calm the storm of fear inside her. "Emma… you don't have to understand. Just… remember, she is your mother. Treat her with respect. That's all I ask. Nothing more, nothing less."
Emma swallowed hard, nodding slowly. The knot of anxiety in her chest didn't loosen, and the sense of impending dread only grew heavier. She felt trapped between the cheer around her and the unseen presence that had haunted the house since their arrival.
Her father gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning and leaving the study, closing the door behind him. Emma sank into the chair by the window, the diary resting on her lap, her fingers gripping it tightly.
Outside, the snow continued to fall in lazy spirals, the soft glow of moonlight reflecting off the white blanket. Yet inside, the mansion felt suffocating, every shadow and creak amplified in her mind. The cheerful laughter from the living room, the clinking of glasses, and the faint music from the kitchen were like echoes from another world, completely disconnected from the reality she felt pressing in on her.
Emma pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to block out the warmth and comfort around her. Her heart still raced, her thoughts spiraling. If her father thought this was normal, if everyone else remained blissfully unaware… who would protect them? Who would see the signs when the real danger arrived?
The diary called to her subtly from where it lay across her lap, its leather cover almost warm to the touch. A warning, a reminder that the Christmas surprise—the unseen force waiting in the mansion—was still patient, still watching, still planning.
Emma's fingers traced the cracked leather cover. She whispered to herself, almost afraid to speak too loudly: "I have to prepare. I have to see it coming before anyone else does… before it's too late."
A faint creak echoed from the hallway behind her. Emma froze, listening. The shadows seemed to twitch, the corners of the room stretching slightly as though testing her reaction. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She wasn't imagining it. She wasn't wrong.
Tomorrow, she realized, would be the real test. And the thought of facing it—especially with her mother's arrival, the festive chaos around them, and the growing tension inside the mansion—made her stomach churn.
Emma's gaze drifted to the diary once more, the spidery handwriting inside whispering of curses, family secrets, and the first strike of a long-forgotten surprise. The mansion, so full of life and laughter moments ago, now felt alive in a different way—watching, waiting, anticipating the storm to come.
And Emma knew one truth clearly: she might be the only one ready to face it.