They arrived on a crisp Friday evening, five long-time friends escaping the bustle of Melbourne for their first reunion in years. As their cars crunched onto the gravel drive, Sunday House revealed itself—a grand, converted church aglow with warm light, music drifting from within. Jamie, the host, greeted them with a grin and keys in hand. “It’s all yours. Welcome to Sunday House.”

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Inside, the air carried a faint scent of woodsmoke and eucalyptus. The friends wandered in awe—vaulted ceilings, vintage art, sun-drenched verandas, and a kitchen equipped for feasts. Laughter echoed as they divvied up bedrooms and debated who’d win at pool that night.

 

After unpacking, they gathered by the fire, glasses of red wine in hand. There was Eleanor, the meticulous planner; Seb, a chef turned artist; Lena, always barefoot, even in winter; Maya, a quiet observer with a camera never far; and Jules, the skeptic who didn’t believe in ghosts—or so he said.

 

That night, they feasted on wild mushroom risotto and wood-fired pizzas, danced under fairy lights in the backyard, and watched stars blink into being above the towering Elms.

 

But it was Saturday the adventure began.

 

Maya, wandering alone early the next morning, found something curious: an old brass key tucked under a loose veranda floorboard. “A secret?” she teased as she showed the others. Intrigued, they searched the house. In the library, behind a shelf of old books, Seb found it—a narrow trapdoor with a worn iron handle. It creaked open to reveal a spiral staircase, descending into shadows.

 

“Should we?” Lena asked, already descending. Eleanor groaned but followed. The air grew cooler as they stepped into what could only be described as a time capsule. Beneath the house lay the original Sunday School basement—untouched since the 1890s. Wooden benches. Old hymnals. And a leather-bound journal left on a desk, dust coating its cover.

 

Inside, they found a story of a young teacher, Clara, who taught children in the very room they now stood in. She wrote of dreams of adventure, of a mysterious locket she found buried in the garden, and of a tunnel leading under the town—rumoured to have been used during the gold rush.

 

Naturally, the friends searched the garden next, giddy as children. And they found it—a narrow, bricked-over entrance beneath the wisteria vine. With effort, they pried it open and crawled through.

 

The tunnel led beneath Maldon’s main street, emerging in the cellar of a forgotten apothecary, now a dusty antique store. There, among cobwebs and relics, they uncovered the locket—a silver heart etched with the initials C.M.

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That night, they returned to Sunday House triumphant, the locket resting on the mantel as if it had always belonged there. They sat together, exhausted and elated, warmed by fire and mystery, bound tighter than they had been in years.

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And Sunday House, as if pleased, seemed to hum a little softer around them.​​