(This novel was translated from Thai.)

Rin Fah House, a two-story timber edifice of striking white Colonial architecture, stood resiliently amidst the profound silence. Though decades had carved their passage upon its facade, its classic beauty remained arresting. The structure was adorned with meticulously cut wooden fretwork, delicate as white lace, subtly concealing its secrets beneath the fine, intricate patterns. Doors and windows, set in perfect symmetry—a hallmark of architecture from a bygone era—looked out upon vast grounds enveloped by a canopy of ancient, shady trees.

The scent of aged timber, mingled with the earthy dampness of passing time, hung heavy around the house, evoking unspoken narratives lost to history. Everything here seemed frozen in amber. The antique wooden walls, once painted a pristine white, were now faded and muted by the relentless march of years. Inside, the furnishings were a collection of forgotten treasures: a wind-up mantel clock, long silenced, and faded, vintage wooden chairs that carried a mysterious aura of grandeur despite their decay. The whole estate was a testament to a magnificent past, silently waiting for its story to be told.

Ploysuay, a woman of exquisitely fair skin and an oval face, lay rigid upon the antique wooden bed. Her long, perfectly straight hair, the color of polished black obsidian, fanned out gracefully over the soft, quilted pillow. Her clear, round eyes and her small, sweetly curved lips were tightly pressed together as she took in the black expanse before her, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm.

The bedroom window was open, inviting the night breeze to sweep through. White sheer curtains billowed and danced, allowing the moonlight to cast shifting patterns of light and shadow—patterns that seemed to move with a sinister intent, as if something was silently watching from the darkness outside. The rustling friction of leaves in the wind created a desolate, suffocating stillness that stole her breath away.

Her mind was a whirl of anxious thoughts, fixating on the house’s local legends—the very tales that held her in a state of paralyzing wakefulness, refusing to let her close her eyes.

The first night as the new tenant was fiercely unfamiliar. She bit down hard on her lip, desperately willing her eyes to close, yet her ears strained for every sound, her heart pounding a breathless tattoo against her ribs.

Her hands clutched the blanket tightly around her body as the rhythmic, slow sound of footsteps began to circle the front lawn. Paranoia, a primal instinct of self-preservation, began to coil slowly within her. The fear became too consuming, too overwhelming to ignore.

She sprang swiftly from the antique bed. Carefully, her eyes tracked toward the large window, peering through the slow, fluttering white curtain. The moonlight slicing through revealed nothing but the shadows of large tree branches swaying, dancing a silent jig in the night wind.

But it wasn’t the shadows of the trees that sent a spike of dread down her spine; it was a sound that broke the rustle of the leaves—a heavy, measured sound, like slow footsteps pacing from within the house itself.

She glanced at the bedside clock: midnight. And then, the chilling whisper came again.

“So... cold...”

Ploysuay squeezed her eyes shut, then snapped them open, turning back to the window one last time. Could the terrifying legends of this house truly be real?