Emery's hands trembled as she flipped through the worn pages of the diary, her heart pounding in her chest. The musty scent of the yellowed pages filled her nostrils, a stark contrast to the fresh paint and new furniture that adorned their dream home. The little girl's handwriting started with cheerful recounts of hide-and-seek and birthday parties, but the tone darkened as the entries progressed.

"**Dallas, come look at this,**" Emery called out, her voice a mix of curiosity and unease. Dallas, who was arranging boxes in the corner, walked over with a comforting smile that faltered as he saw the concern etched on his wife's face.

"What's wrong, Em?" he asked, kneeling beside her.

Emery pointed to a drawing, her finger hovering over the page as if afraid to touch it. "**These drawings... they're disturbing.**" The image showed stick figures dangling from a large tree, their faces void of expression. Dallas squinted at the drawing, then at the subsequent pages filled with morbid sketches of lifeless animals. His rational mind searched for explanations, but the chill that crept up his spine was undeniable.

"**Maybe it's just a child's way of processing the world... you know, through art,**" Dallas suggested, though his voice lacked conviction.

Emery nodded, wanting to believe him, but the diary's next revelation—a series of pages splattered with dried blood—sent a shiver down her spine. "**This... this is real blood, Dallas.**" Her whisper barely reached him, but the horror in her eyes conveyed the gravity of the situation.

Dallas took the diary from her, examining the crimson stains. "** What the fuck? Somebody’s fucking with us babe. It’s not real… It can’t be,,**" he said, though the doubt in his voice mirrored Emery's fear.

—————

As the days passed, Emery and Dallas experienced a series of inexplicable events that turned their dream home into a waking nightmare. Every night at **3 AM**, the radio would burst to life, blaring static and snippets of old-timey music at an ear-splitting volume, even though they had unplugged it and removed the batteries. The first time it happened, they jolted awake, hearts racing as they searched for the source of the noise. By the third night, they lay in bed, wide-eyed, waiting for the inevitable.

The walls of their home, once adorned with smiling photos of their wedding and family, became a gallery of destruction. Without warning, the pictures would crash to the ground, their glass frames shattering into a mosaic of shards, as if an invisible force swept through the halls with malevolent intent.

But it was the laughter that unsettled them the most—the sinister giggle of a little girl that echoed through the empty corridors, a sound that seemed to mock their fear and seep into the very marrow of their bones. They searched the house, top to bottom, but found nothing—no source, no explanation, just the lingering chill of a presence that wasn't their own.

Each night, Emery‘s dreams were haunted by the little girl from the diary. Her innocence smile twisted into a malice grin. Sick of living in fear, and

Desperate for answers, they delved into the history of the house and uncovered a horrifying truth. In the late 1960s, the home had been the scene of a gruesome crime—an entire family murdered in cold blood, Each one of them savagely beaten to death with a hammer as they slept. And the perpetrator? The ten-year-old daughter, whose spirit, it seemed, had never left.