That night we ordered pizza. Lucas ate quietly, then retreated to his room. I lingered outside his door, wanting to say something profound, but all that came out was, “Good job today, honey.” He gave me a small smile before closing the door.

By morning, I figured life would slide back to normal. I was wrong. When I opened the front door to get the paper, a small cream-colored envelope lay on the mat. My name—“Mrs. Bennett”—was written in an elegant, old-fashioned script. No stamp, no return address.

Inside was a single sheet of heavy stationery embossed with an ornate crest at the top—an intertwined “W” framed by ivy. The message was brief:

Please bring your son to Waverly House at three o’clock today.
There is something he deserves to know.

It was signed simply “H. Whitmore.”

I stood there on the porch, stunned. Waverly House was the sprawling mansion on the edge of town, hidden behind iron gates and towering pines. Children whispered it was haunted. As far as I knew, it had been empty for decades.

Lucas shuffled into the kitchen, hair mussed from sleep. “What’s that?” he asked.