The old house stood on a hill overlooking the town. It had been empty for years, ever since old Mr. Abernathy disappeared. Everyone said he'd just wandered off, got lost in the woods, maybe. But I never believed that. There was something... off about it. I was twelve that summer, bored and restless. My best friend, Leo, was just as stir-crazy. "We should check out the Abernathy place," I suggested one afternoon, the idea popping into my head like a stray firework. Leo's eyes widened. "You're kidding, right? That place is supposed to be haunted!" "Come on," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt. "Don't be a chicken. Besides, maybe we'll find something." So, armed with flashlights and a healthy dose of trepidation, we set off. The house was even creepier up close. Overgrown vines snaked across the porch, and the windows were dark, empty eyes. The front door was unlocked, which was weird. I half expected it to be sealed shut. Inside, dust lay thick on everything. Cobwebs hung like ghostly curtains. We explored the downstairs rooms first – a dusty parlor, a decaying dining room, a kitchen with rusty appliances. Nothing. Just a lot of old, forgotten things. Then we found the stairs. They creaked ominously as we climbed, the only sound in the oppressive silence. At the top of the stairs, a long hallway stretched before us, lined with closed doors. "This is getting seriously spooky," Leo whispered, his voice barely audible. I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest. We started opening doors, one by one. Empty bedrooms, a dusty study... and then, the last door. It was slightly ajar. I pushed it open, my hand trembling. The room was small, almost a closet. And in the corner, on the floor, was a wooden box. It was locked. "What do you think is inside?" Leo breathed, his eyes wide with excitement. "I don't know," I said, my mind racing. "But I have a feeling it's something important." We searched the room, finding nothing that could open the box. Finally, I spotted something glinting under the edge of a loose floorboard. A small, tarnished key. My hands shook as I fit the key into the lock. It clicked open. Inside the box, nestled in faded velvet, was a single, leather-bound journal. I opened it carefully. The first page was dated years ago, and written in a spidery, old-fashioned hand. It was Mr. Abernathy's diary. The entries started out normal enough – daily life, observations about the town, the weather. But as I read on, the entries became more... strange. He wrote about feeling watched, about strange noises at night, about a growing sense of unease. And then, the last entry. It was dated the day he disappeared. It read: "I know they're coming for me. I have to hide the truth." Hide the truth? What truth? And who were "they"? We looked at each other, our faces pale in the dim light. We had stumbled onto something much bigger than we'd ever imagined. Something dark, and dangerous. We left the house quickly, the journal clutched tightly in my hand. We didn't talk much on the way home, both of us lost in our thoughts. What were we going to do with what we'd found? And what had really happened to Mr. Abernathy? The mystery of the Abernathy house, it turned out, was just beginning.
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