The house had always felt like a relic of another time. Elias Carter stood at the base of the grand staircase, staring up at the darkened hallway that led to the attic. The old house, nestled deep in the countryside, had belonged to his late grandfather, Arthur Carter, an eccentric historian and adventurer. With his grandfather gone, the house had fallen silent, a shell of its former self. The dust settled over the antique furniture, and the air carried the faint scent of aged books and weathered wood.

Elias had never been particularly close to his grandfather. As a child, he had listened to Arthur's stories—tales of lost civilizations, hidden artifacts, and secret societies—but as he grew older, he dismissed them as nothing more than the ramblings of an aging man who had spent too much time buried in history books. His parents rarely spoke of Arthur’s expeditions, brushing them off as exaggerated myths.

Yet, something about this house—how it seemed to hold its breath, waiting—filled Elias with an inexplicable curiosity. Maybe, just maybe, there was some truth buried within those tales.

With a sigh, he took the first step up the creaking staircase, gripping the rusted railing as he climbed. The attic door loomed at the end of the hallway; its frame warped with age. He hesitated for only a moment before pushing it open.