The winding road ahead was swallowed by a thick, oppressive mist. My foot, heavy on the accelerator, pushed the car forward until the silhouette of the 'haunted house' loomed into view. I parked, staring at the rickety structure that would be my home for the summer. Grandad's cheerful words echoed in my mind – 'so much fun in this old place.' I had faith in him, even if the house gave me an instant chill.

The next morning, I woke at six, found Grandad sipping coffee and reading his newspaper. 'Good morning, Luna,' he said, his voice warm and familiar. After making myself toast, I ventured, 'Grandad, why do people call this house haunted?' He casually dismissed it, 'Oh, those are all lies. Wouldn't I know if my own house was haunted?'

Just as he spoke, a tremor shook the house. Grandad hunched behind his newspaper, his shoulders tight. When it stopped, he was back to normal, asking, 'So, Luna, what do you want to do today?' I told him I'd do homework and then explore. 'All right,' he warned, 'but don't go too far. Children aren't allowed alone.' 'Why not?' I asked. 'You'll find out when you make some friends,' he replied, a strange glint in his eye. My summer in the countryside, in this so-called haunted house, had officially begun.