First timer

Previously

…The journal lay open on my bedside table, a silent testament to the horrors that lay within these walls. Eleanor Vance’s story was no longer just a historical curiosity; it was a warning. And I was beginning to understand that this house didn't just hold memories; it held a hunger. And it had found its next meal. The subtle, almost playful nature of its early manifestations had been a cruel deception, a gentle tug before the final, crushing pull. Eleanor had documented her descent, and now, it felt as if I was walking the same path, the journal a chilling roadmap to my own potential demise. The house was awake, and it had taken notice of me.