April 6, 2025

Whispers In The Dark Part 2 - "Visitation" A Supernatural Love Story

Whispers In The Dark Part 2 - "Visitation" A Supernatural Love Story

As Elise's connection with Alexander deepens through increasingly passionate dream encounters, physical evidence—bruises, marks, lingering sensations—confirms their supernatural relationship is more than imagination. By day, her research reveals...

As Elise's connection with Alexander deepens through increasingly passionate dream encounters, physical evidence—bruises, marks, lingering sensations—confirms their supernatural relationship is more than imagination. By day, her research reveals Alexander's reputation as a war hero with mysterious interests in ancient texts and occult knowledge before his unexplained death in 1920. When a cryptic elderly woman breaks into Blackwood Estate warning Elise of danger and urging her to find Alexander's hidden journal, the threat becomes real. That night, Alexander's ghost protects Elise from an armed intruder, leaving her with two conflicting missions: uncover the truth about Alexander's death, and determine if her spectral lover can be trusted.

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Calarogu Shark Media.

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Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly. This episode is titled

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Whispers in the Dark, Part two, The Visitation.

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I should have left Blackwood Estate that first day, any

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rational person would have. But there's something about this house,

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about him that keeps me here, like a moth drawn

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to a flame, knowing the danger but unable to resist

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the light. It's been a week since I discovered Alexander's

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portrait and saw his ghost in that hidden room, a

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week of restless days and extraordinary nights. That first night

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in his bed changed everything. I'd fallen asleep, half expecting,

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half hoping to dream of him again. What happened was

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so much more. In the dream, I found myself in

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the same bedroom, but transformed as it had been before,

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warm lived in with firelight dancing on the walls. I

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was wearing that same silk nightgown, my hair loose around

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my shoulders. Alexander was waiting. He stood by the fireplace,

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one hand resting on the mantle, watching me with those

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intense eyes that seemed to shift between gray and blue.

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You came back, he said, his voice both pleased and surprised.

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I'm curious, I admitted about you about this house, About

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why I'm dreaming of a man who died a hundred

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years ago. He moved toward me with that fluid grace.

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I was beginning to recognize. Are you certain this as

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a dream? Elise? Before I could answer, he reached for

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my hand. When our skin touched, it was like electricity

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arking between us. His fingers were cool at first, then

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warmed rapidly against mine. I gasped at the sensation. Does

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that feel like a dream, he murmured, his thumb tracing

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circles on my palm. I couldn't speak. Every nerve ending

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in my body seemed to be focused on that single

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point of contact. He stepped closer, his free hand coming

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up to brush my hair back from my face. I've

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been alone in this house for so long, he said, quietly,

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watching people come and go, caretakers, the occasional relative checking

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on their inheritance. No one stayed, No one could see

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me until you Why me? I managed to ask. His

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smile was both tender and predatory. I don't know yet,

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but I intend to find out. He leaned down, and

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when his lips met mine, it was like being consumed

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by fire. I felt it everywhere a rush of heat

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that made me dizzy. His arms encircled me, pulling me

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against him until I could feel every hard plane of

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his body. I wound my arms around his neck, surrendering

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to the kiss, to the impossible reality of it. When

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he finally pulled away, we were both breathing hard. Tell

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me this isn't real, he challenged, his voice rough. I couldn't.

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Everything in me recognized the truth that whatever was happening

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transcended ordinary dreams, that Alexander Blackwood was more than a ghost,

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more than a figment of my imagination. He led me

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to the bed, and what followed was the most intense

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experience of my life. His touch was everywhere, alternating between

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gentle and demanding. He knew exactly how to make me gasp,

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how to make me plead, and when finally we joined,

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it was as if some circuit had been completed between us,

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past and present, life and death, reality and dream, all

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fusing into one overwhelming sensation. Afterward, as I lay in

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his arms, watching the firelight play across the ceiling, he

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told me about the house, how it had been in

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his family for generations, how he had modernized it after

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returning from the war, He spoke of his time in Europe,

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the horrors he'd witnessed, the relief of coming home to

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this quiet place by the sea. I had plans, he said,

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his fingers tracing patterns on my bare shoulder. I was

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going to transform this property, make it a place of

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beauty and peace after all that ugliness. What happened? I asked,

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His expression darkened. I'm not entirely sure. My memories of

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my final days are fragmented. I know there was danger.

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I know I tried to protect something important, and then nothing,

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just darkness until I became aware again, trapped in this house,

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watching the world move on without me. I wanted to

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ask more, but dawn was approaching. I could feel it

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tugging at the edges of our shared reality. You're leaving,

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he said, not a question, but a statement of fact.

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I'll come back, I promised, and as the dream faded

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around me, the last thing I saw was his face,

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hopeful and haunted in equal measure. I woke that morning

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to find the sheets tangled around my body, my skin hypersensitive,

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my muscles pleasantly saw as if as if what had

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happened in the dream had physically affected me, And there

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on my shoulder was a mark, a small bruise where

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Alexander's fingers had gripped me in the height of passion.

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Physical evidence of an encounter that should have been impossible.

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That was a week ago. Every night since I've returned

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to Alexander's bed, to his arms, each encounter more intense

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than the last, each morning bringing more evidence that what's

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happening transcends normal dreams. A pattern of fingerprints on my hip,

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the taste of him lingering on my lips once, a

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streak of coal dust on my back from where he'd

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pressed me against the fireplace in our urgency. During the

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days I've thrown myself into researching Alexander and the history

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of Blackwood Estate, I found the local Historical Society, a

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small operation run out of what used to be the

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town hall. The curator there, a woman named Martha Hodges

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in her seventies, was initially delighted to help until I

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mentioned the name Blackwood. What's your interest in that family?

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She asked, her, earlier warmth evaporating. I gave her a

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simplified version of the truth that I'd inherited the estate

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and was curious about its history. She studied me for

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a long moment before sighing, well, I suppose you have

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a right to know, Being the new owner and all.

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She disappeared into a back room and returned with a

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box of files. These are newspaper clippings, correspondents, and other

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documents related to the Blackwoods, not much from recent decades.

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The family died out, as I'm sure you know, I

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spent hours going through those files, piecing together the history

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of the family. The Blackwoods had indeed been shipbuilders, originally

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becoming wealthy during the Hayden Day of Maine's maritime industry.

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Alexander's grandfather had expanded into lumber and real estate. His

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father had been something of a black sheep, spending more

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time in Europe than at home, depleting much of the

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family fortune. Alexander himself appeared to have been well respected,

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a war hero who returned home to restore the family

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name and businesses. There were several articles about his philanthropic efforts,

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his plans to develop parts of his land into public gardens.

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He was described as private but generous, a true gentleman

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of refined taste, and in one Society column, one of

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the most eligible bachelors on the coast, despite his mysterious air,

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and then abruptly his obituary from November nineteen twenty, just

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as I'd seen before, It stated only that he had

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passed unexpectedly at his home. No details, no cause of death.

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I asked Martha about it directly. The newspaper doesn't say

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how he died. Was there an accident? She glanced around,

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as if checking whether anyone could overhear, though we were

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alone in the small museum. There's always been talk, she said, quietly,

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nothing official, mind you, But stories get passed down. What

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kind of stories? I pressed? Some say it was suicide,

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that the war affected him more than people knew. Others

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whisper about foul play. He'd made enemies in business, apparently.

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And then there are the other stories, other stories, Martha

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looked uncomfortable, local legends, superstitions. Some folks claimed he dabbled

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in things he shouldn't have, old knowledge, the kind seafaring

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men sometimes brought back from distant ports. You mean like

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a cult practices, I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

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I wouldn't know about such things, she said, primly, But

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there were rumors, strange lights at the estate, Visitors who

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arrived after dark and left before dawn. Items ordered from

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foreign countries, artifacts, books in languages no one recognized. She

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leaned closer, and after he died, people reported seeing him

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or someone who looked like him, walking the grounds of

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the estate. The property stood empty for years because no

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one would buy it. My heart was racing. Do you

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believe those stories? Martha straightened up. It doesn't matter what

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I believe, but I will say this. That house has

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never been good for anyone who lived in it, not

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since Alexander Blackwood's time. She began packing away the files

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with trembling hands. If I were you, my dear, I'd

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sell it, take the money, and go somewhere sunny, somewhere new.

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I thanked her for her help and left my mind

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whirling outside. The day had turned gray and threatening, heavy

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clouds hanging low over the harbor. It matched my mood perfectly.

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I drove back to the estate, slowly processing what I'd learned.

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By the time I turned onto the private road leading

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to the house, rain was falling in sheets. The mansion

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loomed ahead, dark against the stormy sky. For the first

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time since arriving, I felt a flicker of fear, not

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of Alexander. Never of him, but of what might have

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happened in this house, of what might still be here,

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lingering in the shadows. I parked and made a dash

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for the front door, fumbling with my keys as rain

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soaked through my jacket. Once inside, I stood dripping in

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the foyer, listening to the silence of the house. It

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felt different, now, watchful, almost as if the walls themselves

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were aware of my new knowledge. Alexander, I called out,

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my voice, echoing in the empty space, Are you here?

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No answer came. I'd never been able to summon him

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during waking hours. Our encounters remained confined to that dream

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world we shared at night, But sometimes I felt his presence,

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a subtle shift in the air that told me I

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wasn't alone. Not today, the house felt empty, abandoned even

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by its ghost. I spent the afternoon in the library,

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going through more of the books and papers there, searching

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for any clue about Alexander's dabbling in the occult. I

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found nothing explicit, though several volumes on ancient mythology and

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esoteric philosophy suggested his interests may have extended beyond the conventional.

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As evening approached, I built a fire in the library fireplace,

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and sat watching the flames, a glass of wine in hand.

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The storm had intensified, wind howling around the eaves of

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the house, rain lashing against the windows. It was the

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kind of night where the barrier between worlds felt thin, permeable.

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I must have dozed off, because I jerked awake to

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find the fire burned down to embers and my wineglass empty.

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The storm had passed, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

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Something had awakened me, a sound, a presence. I turned

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toward the library door and saw a woman standing there, elderly,

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dressed in clothing that might have been fashionable fifty years ago.

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Her face was lined, but still handsome, her white hair

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pulled back in a severe bun. You need to leave

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this house, she said, without preamble, before it's too late.

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I stood, my heart pounding. Who are you? How did

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you get in here? She ignored my questions. He'll destroy you,

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just as he was destroyed. It's what it wants, what

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it's always wanted. What who wants? Are you talking about, Alexander?

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A look of pity crossed her face. Alexander was a victim,

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just as you'll be if you stay. He doesn't mean

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to harm you, he never did, but he's bound to

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this place, to its hunger. I don't understand, I said,

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taking a step toward her. Please explain what you mean,

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but she backed away. I've said too much already. It

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knows I'm here. She glanced around, fearfully. Find his journal,

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the hidden one that will tell you what you need

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to know. Before I could stop her, she turned and

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hurried down the hallway toward the front door. I ran

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after her, calling for her to wait, But by the

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time I reached the foyer, the front door was standing open,

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cold night air rushing in, and the woman was gone.

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I stepped onto the porch, looking out into the darkness.

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The driveway was empty, no car, no footprints in the

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mud that might indicate which way she'd gone. It was

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as if she'd vanished into thin air. I closed and

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locked the door, then leaned against it, trying to calm

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my racing heart. Who was she, how had she gotten

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into the house, and what did she mean about Alexander

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being bound to this place? Find his journal, she'd said,

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the hidden one. I spent the next few hours searching

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the house, focusing on the master bedroom and the library,

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places where Alexander might have kept personal papers, I found

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nothing that resembled a journal. Exhausted and frustrated, I finally

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returned to the master bedroom well after midnight. Despite the

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strange warning, I couldn't bring myself to sleep anywhere else,

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not when sleeping in his bed was my only way

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to connect with Alexander to ask him about the woman's

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cryptic words. I changed into my nightgown and slipped between

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the sheets, hoping that tonight, like every night since my arrival,

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I would find myself in that transformed version of this room,

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with Alexander waiting for me. But sleep was elusive. I

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tossed and turned, my racing with questions. Who was that woman?

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What did she know about Alexander's death? What was the

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it she claimed wanted to destroy me? Just as I

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was finally drifting off, a loud crash from downstairs jerked

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me back to full wakefulness. I sat up, listening intently.

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It had sounded like breaking glass. Alexander, I called softly,

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though I knew he couldn't manifest physically in the real world.

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Silence answered me. Then another crash, this one closer, perhaps

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on the stairs. Someone was in the house. I slipped

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out of bed and grabbed the fireplace poker I'd brought

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upstairs earlier. My phone was on the nightstand. I could

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call for help, but the nearest police station was twenty

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minutes away. I would be on my own until they arrived.

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The floorboards in the hallway creaked slow, deliberate footsteps approaching

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the bedroom door. I raised the poker, my hands shaking.

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The doorknob turned slowly. The door began to open, and

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then suddenly the temperature in the room plummeted. My breath

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clouded in front of me. The door slammed shut with

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tremendous force, followed by a sound like a body being

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thrown against a wall and a cry of pain or surprise.

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Alexander I whispered, knowing somehow that he was there, that

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he was trying to protect me. The commotion in the

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hallway continued, thuds, crashes, the sound of something heavy falling

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down the stairs, then silence. I stood frozen for several

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minutes before gathering the courage to approach the door. My

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hand trembled as I turned the knob and peered out

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into the dark hallway. It was empty, but the hall

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table was overturned. A vase shattered on the floor, and

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on the wall a smear of something dark that looked

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horribly like blood. I followed the trail of destruction to

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the stairs, then down to the foyer. The front door

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stood open again, the night beyond black, and still on

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the threshold lay a single object, a knife, its blade

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gleaming in the moonlight. When I picked it up, my

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fingers came away red. I closed and locked the door,

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then leaned against it, my legs suddenly too weak to

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support me, I slid down to sit on the floor,

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the knife beside me, the poker still clutched in one hand.

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Thank you, I said to the empty air, knowing Alexander

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could hear me. You saved me. No response came, but

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the air around me seemed to warm, slightly, wrapping me

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in what felt almost like an embrace. I didn't go

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back upstairs that night. Instead, I curled up on the

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sofa in the library. The fire rekindled, the poker and

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knife within reach. Despite the lingering fear, exhaustion eventually pulled

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me under, and there he was waiting for me. In

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that space between sleeping and waking, Alexander looked different, tonight,

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more substantial somehow, but also agitated. He paced the length

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of the bedroom, his form occasionally flickering like a candle

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in a draft. Are you hurt? I asked immediately. There

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was blood, not mine, he said, grimly, not yours either.

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Thank God you protected me. He came to me, then,

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his hands cupping my face with exquisite tenderness. Always protect you, Elise.

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As long as I exist in any form, nothing in

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this world will harm you. I leaned into his touch.

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Who was it who broke in? I don't know. A man,

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a stranger. His expression darkened, but I don't think his

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presence was random. He came directly to your room, as

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if he knew exactly where you'd be. There was a

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woman earlier, I told him. She appeared in the library,

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warned me that I was in danger. She said I

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should leave the house. Alexander's form flickered more violently. What woman?

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What did she look like? I described her as best

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I could. He showed no sign of recognition, but his

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agitation increased. She told me to find your journal, I continued.

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She said it would explain everything about how you died,

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about some danger connected to this house. He went very

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still my journal. Do you remember it where you kept it?

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He turned away, moving to the window to stare out

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at the darkness. I remember writing in it, documenting my research,

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my discoveries about the occult, I asked. The local historian

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mentioned rumors. Alexander laughed, without humor. Not the Occult as

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most would understand. It. Something older, something I found during

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the war, a text hidden in the ruins of a

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bombed monastery in France. It contained knowledge that had been

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suppressed for centuries. He turned back to me, his eyes

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burning with an intensity that made me shiver. I brought

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it home, studied it, began to understand the true nature

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of reality, the thinness of the veil between this world

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and others? Is that why you can reach me in dreams?

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I asked, Because of what you learned? Perhaps? He moved

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toward me again, took my hands in his elise. I

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need you to trust me. Whatever that woman told you,

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whatever you might find in my journal, if it still exists,

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promise me you won't leave, not yet, not until we

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understand what's happening. I should have hesitated, should have questioned

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why he wouldn't want me to find his journal if

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it contained answers. But when Alexander looked at me that way,

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I couldn't deny him anything. I promise, I whispered. Relief

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washed over his face. He pulled me into his arms,

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his mouth finding mine with urgent need, and just like that,

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all my questions evaporated in the heat of his touch. Later,

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as I lay in his arms, I noticed something I

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hadn't before. A scar on his chest, just over his heart,

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long and jagged. It looked like a knife wound. Is

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this how you died? I asked, tracing it gently. His

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hand caught mine, stilling it. I don't know, I told you.

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My memories of those final days are fragmented. But there

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was something in his eyes, a flicker of what fear guilt.

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Before I could press further, he kissed me again, and

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soon I was lost in sensation, all questions forgotten. It

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wasn't until I was drifting toward wakefulness, the dream room

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fading around me, that I heard his whispered words. Find

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the journal, eleise, but be careful who you trust with

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what you learn. Some secrets are dangerous, not because they're hidden,

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but because others would kill to possess them. I woke

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with the dawn, still on the library sofa, the house

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was quiet, peaceful, even No sign remained of the night's intruder,

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except the overturned hall table and the knife, now lying

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on the coffee table where I'd placed it. I picked

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it up, examining it in the morning light. It was old,

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the handle carved from some dark wood, symbols etched into

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the blade. Not a modern weapon. It looked more like

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a ceremonial object. Alexander's words echoed in my mind. Find

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the journal, be careful who you trust. I stood a

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new determination filling me. I would find that journal, uncover

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the truth about Alexander's death, about the danger that seemed

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to surround this house, because now I had evidence that

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the danger wasn't just supernatural, It was all too human.

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Someone had tried to kill me last night, someone connected

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to whatever secret Alexander had discovered a century ago. And

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I was beginning to suspect that the handsome ghost who

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visited my dreams wasn't telling me everything he knew.

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Romance Weekly is a production of Calaroga Shark Media executive

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producers Mark Francis and John McDermott. Portions of this podcast

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00:26:30.920 --> 00:26:33.240
may have been created with the assistance of AI

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00:26:40.359 --> 00:26:41.680
Caloroga Shark Media