Brooke Beretta 〈PREMIUM × 2026〉

Brooke knew she should leave it alone. The will had been explicit: no research, no digging into the house's history. But the book was right there, and she had never been good at following rules she didn't understand.

Brooke did not panic. She was not the panicking type. Instead, she went back to the basement, opened Evelyn Ashworth's book again, and read the missing pages.

But here was the thing about Brooke Beretta that the house did not yet understand: she was not the kind of woman who stayed eaten. brooke beretta

She backed toward the front door. The door was gone. In its place was a wall of smooth, warm obsidian, pulsing with that slow, terrible heartbeat.

Brooke took a photo. The next morning, the faces were back to their original expressions. She checked the photo on her tablet. In the image, they were smiling. Brooke knew she should leave it alone

"Miss Beretta?" The voice on the other end was polished, masculine, with the kind of accent that suggested old money and older secrets. "My name is Julian Cross. I represent the estate of the late Evelyn Ashworth. I understand you specialize in difficult restorations."

My name is Evelyn Ashworth. If you are reading this, I am either dead or gone. I have written this account in the hope that someone will understand what happened here, and perhaps find a way to undo it. Brooke did not panic

Brooke closed the book. The house behind her groaned, settled, and was finally, mercifully silent.