Original subtitles

I remember the day I first saw it.

The manor.

It loomed over the landscape like a relic from another time.

Silent.

Waiting.

I never plan on being here.

It all started with an ad for a caretaker job at an old manor.

The interview was simple enough.

They needed someone to care for the place.

Someone who wouldn't ask too many questions.

And I... I needed the quiet.

It must be him.

The lord of the manor.

The plaque says his name was Edward Ashcroft.

The original owner of this house.

They say he built it in the 1800s as a love letter to his wife, Eleanor.

She was the light of his life.

Until the fire.

Started in the east wing, no one knows how.

By the time Edward reached her, the flames had consumed everything.

He swore he heard her calling his name, even after the fire went out.

Edward was never the same after that.

He locked himself away in this house, refusing to leave.

They say he became obsessed with the fire, convinced it wasn't an accident.

Night after night, he claimed to hear Eleanor's voice calling to him, blaming

him.

Over time, the staff began to disappear.

Villagers spoke of screams echoing from the house, of Edward wandering the halls

with the wild eyes, clutching a fire poker.

He began talking to someone who wasn't there, shouting at empty rooms.

When the townsfolk finally broke down the door, they found him in the great

hall.

Granting about how the fire wasn't done with him.

He lunged at them with a knife.

And they had no choice.

They put him down.

Right here.

In this very room.

Before coming here, I couldn't shake the feeling that this place has a story to

tell.

So I started digging.

Old newspaper clippings, social blogs, even local forums.

The deeper I went, the darker the tales became.

Stories about the fire, the screams, the disappearances.

It was all there.

Buried in fragments.

Waiting to be beat together.

People ask why I took this job.

Why someone would willingly live alone in a place like this.

But for me.

It's not just a job.

It's a promise.

The last caretaker here, she was my aunt.

I came here to find answers.

To see what she saw.

To understand what happened to her.

Six months ago, she just vanished.

No goodbye, no trace, nothing.

The police said she probably left on her own.

But I know her.

She wouldn't have just disappeared.

I came here to find her.

To figure out what happened.

I promised her I wouldn't give up.

I didn't notice them at first.

They were just sitting there, perfectly still.

A whole collection of dolls, tucked neatly on the shelf opposite the bed.

Their both wing faces, so pale.

Strange, they look almost new.

Like time hasn't touched them.

But I know they have been here for years.

I remember reading about Eleanor.

She loved her dolls.

Collected them from all over the world.

They say she treated them like children.

But after the fire, after she died, the staff refused to touch them.

I thought it was just a toy.

But now, now I feel like they're watching me.

Like they're waiting for me to turn off the lights.

It felt so real.

In the dream, someone was holding my arm.

The nails staying into my skin.

I could feel this thing, the burn.

And then I woke up.

It's been four days now.

Four days in this house.

And I feel like I'm no closer to finding answers about my aunt.

But I can't stop trying.

Every corner of this place feels like it's hiding something.

The dolls.

They're always watching.

I wonder if she saw them the same way.

Did they make her uneasy too?

Her journal entries, they are scattered, fragmented.

Like she was too scared to write the whole truth.

And Eleanor, her painting.

She's everywhere in the South.

And she's still here.

Still waiting.

The piano.

It belonged to Eleanor, our favorite they say.

She used to play it every evening, filling the house with music.

But now it feels different.

Nights here feel endless.

I tell myself, the glow of the laptop, the hum of the phone,

they'll keep me company.

Keep the silence at bay.

But it's not enough.

Not here.

I try to distract myself, scrolling, typing, anything to keep my mind busy.

But the quiet, it always creeps back in.

Daylight makes everything feel different, doesn't it?

Softer.

Safer.

The shadows aren't as sharp.

The air not as heavy.

It almost feels like a normal house.

This place, it has so much history.

Generations have lived here, each leaving their mark.

This place, the Ashcroft built it.

Eleanor loved it.

And my aunt, she took care of it.

At least until she didn't.

She always talked about how peaceful it was here, how the house felt alive.

At the time, I thought she just meant it had character.

But now, now I'm starting to wonder if she meant something else.

It's strange, walking through these rooms.

I feel like I know this house.

Like I've been here before.

Even though I haven't.

Or have I?

Sometimes I wonder if my memories are playing tricks on me.

Or maybe it's just the stress.

Grief does that, doesn't it?

What things make you question what's real?

Sometimes I think about that.

How easy it will be to get lost in your own head in a place like this.

To take your own thoughts for something.

Outside yourself.

And I wonder,

If that's what happened to her, could it happen to me?

It feels good to be outside again.

To laugh.

To breathe.

Without looking over my shoulder.

For the first time since I came here, I feel normal.

Maybe it's time to stop searching for something that isn't there.

Maybe I should let this house be what it is.

Just a house.

And maybe I should let myself move on too.

I've spent so much time looking for answers.

So sure there was something dark waiting for me.

But maybe, just maybe, I've been drawing this whole thing.

Thank you.

Oh, my God.

take a holiday where the

crowds are gone

See ya.

you ready

I'm not crazy.

Why don't you believe me? I'm not crazy.

Who's there?

Starlight.

S-A-R-E-N-E-C

I see this, what I believe to be a shadow figure in the closet.

It was built in 1871.

I just saw a ram's head.

He's stabbing it.

He was stabbing it. Oh, my God.

I will die when you go into a location like this.

The village of Amityville, where the house is located, is actually much

smaller than the greater town of Amityville, which is the bigger Hamlet,

right? So when you're talking about where the house is, and it, you know, at

first you think maybe it's a bug.

Well, dude, something just flew in front of the camera.

And I think that's pretty good.

I believe it's a portal of the past.

I believe things move in and out at certain times of the day.

We're out here in the extensive huge property.

We know that there's a bunch of tragedies that took place out here, a

lot of emotional events.

They've witnessed so many strange things out here.

Thank you.