Kane Ambrose drove through the countryside, his hands gripping the wheel tightly, eyes locked on the road ahead. His lean frame tensed with anticipation, and his palms were damp with sweat. Brown hair fell across his forehead, and his green eyes, magnified slightly by the circular-rimmed glasses he wore, darted from side to side, scanning his surroundings. He hadn’t been back here in years, and the weight of returning was almost unbearable.

It had been over a decade since Kane and his family abruptly left Holun, the small town where he’d spent his childhood. His parents never explained why they moved so suddenly, uprooting their lives in a single day and relocating to the city. While Kane never questioned it much—he’d always felt confined by Holun’s rural isolation—there was a nagging sense of unfinished business about the place, as if he’d left behind more than just his childhood.

Kane was never the kind of kid who relished sunny days outdoors or got his hands dirty working on the family farm. While other children ran through fields and splashed in creeks, Kane preferred the quiet solitude of a book, where entire worlds unfolded in his hands. He wrote stories of his own, building fantastical places that felt far more real than Holun ever did. Though he had a few friendships, a couple of clumsy relationships, and his fair share of bullies, nothing in his real life ever held his attention for long. Books, after all, were safer and far more exciting.

The countryside stretched out around him as he drove deeper into familiar territory. Eventually, he spotted the weathered wooden sign by the road:

“Welcome to Holun. Population: 183.”

Kane frowned. Even after ten years, the population’s barely changed, he thought. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone left as soon as they turned eighteen. Probably earlier, since we never even had an official school. There’s not much left here for people.

The road wound into the heart of town, revealing the same humble, weather-beaten houses and local stores he remembered. They stood as though frozen in time, their rough-hewn construction a testament to their durability. A few townsfolk lingered outside, watching his car pass with thinly veiled suspicion. Their hand-stitched clothes and guarded expressions made it clear they weren’t accustomed to strangers—let alone someone like Kane, with his crisp, city-bought clothes and the electric car humming softly beneath him.

Do they still hate outsiders that much? Kane mused. Holun’s not even that remote anymore. There’s a city not far from here, new roads connecting everything… It can’t be that unusual to see someone pass through.

Unbeknown to Kane, his car was the most advanced piece of machinery this town had ever seen. While it wasn’t flashy by city standards, the sleek design and electric hum stood out starkly against the backdrop of worn dirt roads and several century old cars. To them, Kane might as well have been royalty—or trouble.

The cobbled-together streets rattled the car as he drove slowly through town. The moment he entered, he was already leaving, Holun’s small collection of buildings giving way to open fields again. His destination lay just beyond the town’s outskirts.

Not long after, Kane pulled through a large courtyard, dilapidated after years of a lack of care. His car rolled to a stop before an enormous, sprawling mansion. The structure loomed before him, dark and imposing, its gothic architecture casting sharp, eerie shadows because the fading daylight.

Kane took a deep breath, staring up at the house. His grandfather’s house.

The memories flooded back, vivid and strange. His grandfather had always been a peculiar man, full of wild tales and impossible stories. He’d spin yarns about convincing a bear into walking into a trap or striking deals with fairies to acquire a hundred pounds of silver. Kane had spent countless days here as a boy, wandering the halls of this mysterious house, listening to his grandfather’s ramblings, and losing himself in the endless nooks and crannies of the old mansion.

When the letter came announcing his grandfather’s death, Kane had been struck with an unexpected wave of grief. Despite his strange nature, his grandfather had been a constant in his life, a source of wonder and adventure. And now, the man was gone, apparently dead for years now. Whoever found him dead never reported it, just buried him in the community graveyard. Only recently had the information came to light.

The will had left nearly everything to Kane, though “everything” wasn’t much. His grandfather hadn’t owned wealth or land beyond this one property. But the house itself was another story entirely—huge, ancient, and shrouded in secrets that Kane was now responsible for unraveling. 

As he stepped out of the car and onto the cobbled pathways which stretch through the courtyard, the chill of the air settled over him. He glanced up again at the towering structure, his heart pounding. Holun had always been a place of unanswered questions, and now, standing before his grandfather’s house, Kane had the feeling that some of those answers were waiting for him inside.

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The monolithic house towered before Kane, its dark silhouette cutting sharply against the overcast sky. At five or six stories tall, it loomed with an eerie grandeur. As a child, he was never allowed beyond the first two floors. His grandfather had always laughed and said the upper levels housed his “secret gold stash.”

Even as a boy, Kane knew it was a joke, but he never pressed further. The first two floors had been more than enough to explore—in just those two alone, holding over a hundred rooms sprawling across the three sections. The house had an East and West Wing, flanking a massive central area designed for entertaining guests. It held almost any room you could imagine, and Kane loved every second of it as a kid. Though, thinking back, he can’t quite remember the exact layout, the memories too distant.

As he climbed the steps to the broad porch, the creak of wood underfoot sent memories flooding back. Long-dead flowers drooped in cracked pots, and dust-covered furniture sat forgotten—an old rocking chair among them. Kane could still picture his grandfather sitting there, his goofy grin lighting up his weathered face as he watched the kids play in the front courtyard.

His grandfather had been more than just a storyteller; he’d been Kane’s biggest inspiration. The tales he spun of impossible adventures and strange encounters were what fueled Kane’s passion for books—and later, his career as a librarian. Their bond had been strong, but over time, Kane had let that connection fade. Life in the city had a way of pushing the past into the background. Now, standing here, a twinge of guilt gnawed at him.

Shaking the thought away, Kane turned to face the massive double doors of the mansion. They were ostentatiously tall—nearly 20 feet—and adorned with intricate carvings that had faded with time. His grandfather used to joke that they were built that way to accommodate his “giant friends.” Kane had once asked his parents about it, only to be told it was purely cosmetic. Even so, as a kid, he loved imagining a massive, suited giant ducking through the doorway for tea.

He placed his hands on the door and pushed, but it didn’t budge. Despite inheriting the deed, he hadn’t been given a key—just a single, unremarkable notice. His gaze dropped to the small keyhole at waist level, oddly out of place against the massive frame of the door.

He searched the usual spots: under flowerpots, rugs, and even loose planks on the porch. Nothing. “You’d think Grandpa would’ve left a key somewhere,” Kane muttered. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief that the house hadn’t been vandalized or broken into. He half expected it to be looted, due to the fact that his death was reported so late.

Stepping back, Kane’s eyes fell on the overflowing mailbox near the gate. He sifted through the clutter of old, yellowing envelopes—unpaid bills, newsletters, and notices. One letter stood out. His name was scrawled across the front in messy handwriting he recognized immediately. Heart racing, Kane tore it open and began to read.

Dear Grandson,

If you’re reading this, I’ve likely died. I’m sorry I never reached out, but your parents made sure I couldn’t. I hope you’re doing well and that your imagination is as powerful as ever. It runs in our blood, you know.

Now, if you’re standing at the door, you’ve probably realized it’s locked. Don’t bother looking for the key—it’s not in the usual spots. I’ve hidden it inside the Guest House. Of course, I’m not about to tell you exactly where. That would ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?

There’s a path east of the courtyard that leads to the Guest House. Until you uncover the true nature of the Ambrose Estate, I suggest you stay there. The mansion needs care, and you’ll have your work cut out for you. I expect everything to be spick and span!

I’ll leave more letters behind—answers for the questions I know you’ll have. You were always the most curious of us. Your father was too serious, too content to fit the Ambrose legacy. But you? You’ve got ambition and imagination, and that’s what makes a true successor.

Good luck, Kane. And remember: the house isn’t just a house. It’s more than you can imagine.

Yours,

Grandpa

Kane lowered the letter, his mind racing. Successor? Questions swirled, but one thought stuck: Did Grandpa expect his death? The letters, the locked door, the cryptic instructions—it was as though the old man had planned everything.

Folding the letter carefully, Kane slipped it into his car for safekeeping. His eyes turned toward the dirt path his grandfather had mentioned, a faint trail leading east. It was too narrow for his car, so with a sigh, he grabbed his backpack and started walking.

The air grew cooler as the path wound through the trees. As he gets deeper, the now darkening day leaves the forest getting more and more oppressive. He grabs a flashlight off his backpack, pointing it out into the darkness as he walks. Kane’s thoughts drifted between the letter and the looming mansion behind him. He barely noticed the eerie silence of the woods—until it was broken by a sharp, piercing scream.

Kane froze, his blood running cold. The scream echoed again, shrill and desperate, cutting through the stillness like a knife.

He tightened his grip on his backpack and broke into a run, heading toward the sound.