She was walking through the dimly lit corridor, her shoes making a steady rythm on the cold, unforgiving concrete floors. Her eyes darted nervously, left to right and back to the center again. The only light she had to go on was from the cone torches on the sides of the walls. The only signs of civilization; the black cat named Guardian. Oh, and the paintings of her long dead ancestors on the walls.

Why did I agree to come to Grandma Catherine’s castle this summer? she asked herself. I should have known better. All the old castles in Scotland are infamously haunted, she chided herself.
And, as if reassuring that fact, the last door at the end of the hallway opened; the door to the abandoned storeroom.