First timer

Previously

…I closed the journal, my hands shaking violently. Eleanor Vance had not just been disturbed; she had been broken. And her fate, it seemed, was becoming my own. The malevolent presence she had described, the one that whispered and watched and moved the rocking chair, was still here. And it had found a new target. The realization settled over me with the crushing weight of a tombstone. I had walked into this house seeking a new beginning, but I had stumbled into an ancient, ongoing tragedy. The whispers in the walls were no longer just sounds; they were warnings. And I was beginning to understand that they were directed at me.