The old house had stood at the end of the lane for decades, but tonight, for the first time, a light flickered in the attic window. Elias, who had walked this path every evening for twenty years, froze in his tracks. The structure was a skeletal remains of Victorian grandeur, its wood rotting and gardens long reclaimed by aggressive ivy. Local legend claimed the owner had vanished in the late fifties, leaving behind nothing but a locked door and a thousand rumors.
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