The Sandringham House

Mr Thorn or Hampton, or whatever his name was, greeted her again. “Welcome! As a buyer’s agent located in Sandringham, I can assure you we’ll find the perfect home!”

This is wrong. Something is very wrong.

Elara’s instincts pulled her towards the Victorian house. As she raced through the streets, townspeople’s heads turned in unison, following her every move.

Why are they watching me? What do they want?

As Elara entered the house, memories rushed back. She saw herself walking through the rooms, felt her fingers brush the walls, and heard her own voice whispering. The memories grew so strong she could barely distinguish the past from the present.

This house is the key. I need to remember!

In the drawing room, the old grandfather clock ticked in an erratic pattern, and Elara felt as if the room was breathing with her. She pulled out her notebook and began writing herself a letter, a message for the Elara of tomorrow.

This town is not what it seems. You are trapped. Remember the house. Break the cycle.

She hid the letter inside the grandfather clock, praying she’d find it tomorrow.

As she left the house, the townspeople had gathered outside, still as statues, staring. The sun began to set, casting long shadows that danced as if alive. Their eyes followed her as she retreated to the inn.

I’m being watched by the town. But I have a plan.

She tried to fall asleep, her thoughts caught between hope and terror. The property advocates close to Melbourne and the townspeople with their frozen smiles swirled through her dreams as Sandringham faded into the night.

Something was very, very wrong. Elara just hoped that she would remember that fact in the morning.