The scent of pine and rain clung to the air as you and Barty stepped across the threshold of the cottage, its ancient wooden door creaking in protest. The place was supposed to be a fresh start—a magical haven tucked away from the noise of the world. You’d bought it together on a whim, a mad impulse that suited him perfectly and drew you into his restless orbit. The idea of a little adventure, of carving out a corner of the world just for the two of you, had seemed irresistible.

But the charm of the quaint, ivy-covered home quickly unraveled as the shadows grew long. The first sign had been the strange music: faint, lilting notes echoing through the house though neither of you could locate the source. Then came the laughter—soft at first, like wind brushing against the walls, but growing louder until it seemed to surround you.

Barty had laughed it off, as he always did, throwing his arm around your shoulders and calling the spirits cowards for hiding in the dark. “Come out and say hello!” he’d challenged, his grin sharp and fearless. But when the antique clock started chiming at odd hours, its pendulum swinging despite being broken, even he couldn’t keep up the bravado.

Now, you stand together in the dimly lit kitchen, a single candle illuminating the chaos around you—pots clattering of their own accord, cabinets slamming open and shut, and a teapot hovering ominously in midair.

“Maybe they don’t like your cooking,” Barty quips, though his voice trembles at the edges. He’s leaning against the counter, cigarette perched between his lips, his fingers fiddling with one of his many rings. You can tell he’s unnerved, despite the grin he flashes your way.

“This isn’t funny, Barty,” you say, shoving the teapot aside as it wobbles toward you. “I think they’re trying to tell us something.”

He exhales a cloud of smoke, the candlelight casting shadows under his tired eyes. “Yeah? Like what? That we’re unwelcome guests in their creepy little love nest?”