Phil Lester slid out of the driver's seat and stepped out of the car, the autumn wind whipping around him, blowing his hair and his scarf around. He gazed over at his new house.

It was a small house, about two stories if you don't count the basement and attic.

Phil exhaled and turned around, walking to the passenger side of the car. He opened the door and stepped aside, holding out a hand that his grandma took so she could climb out of the car.

"This is it, Grandma," Phil said after his grandma was on her feet.

Grandma Lester smiled softly at their new house. "It's lovely, Philip," she commented, turning to look at her grandson.

"I'm glad you think so," Phil replied, handing her the cane she carried for walking. Grandma walked to the house as Phil went and grabbed their luggage.

They had just purchased the furniture they needed and made sure everything was in the right places, so all they had to do was unpack clothes, personal belongings and such.

Phil and his grandma lived together so he could take care of her. She couldn't do everything by herself anymore and Phil was happy to help; he loved his grandma.

And his grandma seemed to be the only one who didn't think he was weird: Phil believed in life after death.

Phil believed in ghosts and spirits, etc. Phil believed in an afterlife, and Phil believed that some souls never left this world, especially temporarily, due to 'unfinished business' of sorts. He believed that those souls really couldn't leave this world, and were doomed to roam the earth for all eternity until they finish what they need to finish in this world.

Phil was passionate about ghosts; he loved them, and all he wanted was to talk to them, maybe try to figure out why they couldn't leave this world, and help them solve those problems.

Almost everyone thought Phil was stupid or crazy or weird for believing in ghosts. Phil knew they existed though: he'd seen his beloved Aunt Lauren after she'd died in an awful car wreck, and ever since, he wanted to help them.

Phil and his grandma walked to the front door and he unlocked it, letting his grandma step inside before he did.

As she took in the house, Phil went upstairs and placed their belongings where they went. After, he went downstairs and sat in the living room with his grandma, the room only illuminated by candlelight.

His grandma was busy reading her book and Phil still needed to make dinner. So, he went off to the kitchen to begin cooking.

-

After he and his grandma ate dinner, Phil went back to the living room and sat down.

"Philip," Grandma began, smiling gently as his gaze was on her, and closing her book. "It's so awfully quiet in here. Would you be a doll and go in the attic and bring the record player down here?"

He nodded, smiling. "I sure will, Grandma."

Phil went upstairs and went to the other stairs that went up to the attic.

Phil climbed up the stairs and lit a candle, as there was no lights in the attic yet. Phil used the candlelight to find the record player, finding it quickly and exhaling softly.

He set the candle down beside it, picking up the record player and carrying it downstairs and hooking it up, putting a record in.

"Thank you, Philly," Grandma said softly as the music filled her ears delightfully. Phil nodded and quickly went upstairs to get the candle.

As Phil bent down to grab the candle, he noticed a small opening between the wall and the floor, sort of like a mouse hole, but bigger, as if the wood was broken.

Phil shined the candlelight into the hole and saw a small book in it. Phil reached into it, grabbing the cobweb-covered book and pulling it out.

"Huh," Phil mumbled to himself, shining the light over it as he opened the small, used book and flipped it to the first page.

'September 7th, 2008;
Dear diary,
My name is Dan Howell, I'm seventeen years old.
I know putting personal information in here like this, where someone can find this is pretty fucking stupid, but it's whatever. I don't care.
Wanna know a bit about me, whoever might be reading this?
Well.
I'm that depressed little gay boy that everybody picks on. Constantly bullied.
The only reason I'm writing in this book is because I got it for my 17th birthday back in June and my friend Connor said that "I should write out my feelings instead of hurting myself", but honestly I don't think it's going to work.
But whatever, I'm trying it.
Well, I dunno what else to write in here so until next time, or something.

-Dan.'

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Hey nEw fIc!!!1!1!!1! I really like this idea and I'm going to tag ppl who I think might like this

LeexMcClain danisnotnnfire lostboydan ahstwdbabe babysucculent PhilLester--

C:
Hope you enjoy! !!