The interior of the house didn’t help. It was filled with odd, unsettling objects that only deepened Henry’s unease. Shelves lined with old, dusty books in a language he couldn’t read, their pages yellowed and brittle with age.
Peculiar trinkets—strange carvings, faded photographs of people long forgotten, and bizarre objects that looked like they belonged in a museum—were scattered throughout the rooms. It felt as though something—or someone—was watching him from the darkened corners of the house, hidden just out of sight.