As Carson shut the thick, large wooden double doors behind them, Tom removed his coat and draped it over Mary's shoulders. She clutched it around herself.

They hadn't spoken since leaving the dining room, yet their silence was thick with unspoken words.

"Let's go to the bench," Tom suggested. Mary nodded, and they made their way there.

They sat down, slightly facing each other. Mary, in a slouched position, still clutched the coat around her as though it were a cold winter day, despite it being mid-summer.

"What did you see..." Mary finally whispered, "because if you saw what I saw, what I heard..." She trailed off, starting to descend into hysterics.

Tom put his arm around her, embracing her comfortingly. "Hey, hey, shh. I know, trust me, I know. I was nearly like this when I returned to my room after seeing Sybil."

Mary stopped crying and slowly sat up. "You saw... Sybil?" she asked, her voice shaking. Tom gave a light smile for a moment, then said, "I did, well, me and Edith both did. She was watching over Sybbie when we went to check on the children and... er... what did you see, if not Sybil?"

Mary wiped her face and began to inquire, "In the nursery? What did she say? When did this happen?"

Tom paused, looking up at Downton's marvelous exterior and the nursery window, and said, "I first saw her a few days after she died, but I wasn't scared. I longed to touch her and hold her in my arms, but when I tried... well... you know how ghosts work."

"When you first saw her?" Mary asked, very inquisitively.

"Well... I thought it was my grief at the time making me see things... but then, the other night with Edith... I saw her again and realized... she's been here all along, and that's when it got very painful and confusing."

Mary, stunned, looked out at the rolling green pastures and felt a sense of relief that not every spirit within Downton's walls was malicious, if there were any at all. She felt a warmth, knowing her darling Sybil had been so near.

She then remarked, "You never told me what she said."

"What do you mean?" asked Tom.

"What did Sybil's spirit say to you and Edith?" She was starting to get a bit irritated.

"...She didn't say anything. She just stood there, looked at us for a second, and then disappeared."

"Well, I did not see Sybil, so I suppose others have been here all along as well, and for far longer than she has," Mary said in a big exhale.

"Are you going to tell me?" Tom asked.

Over an hour passed before Mary was done recounting her two encounters, one with the famous Turkish gentleman, and now Greta, the old housemaid. Tom nodded, his face etched with concern. The memory of Greta's tale, so tragic and unsettling, lingered heavily between them.

"I... I..." he started to say. They both realized the Abbey was not just a home but a vessel for untold stories, tragedies, and dark secrets. "We need to understand, Tom. We cannot let this... darkness consume Downton or us," Mary asserted.

Together, they agreed to delve deeper into Downton's past to uncover its mysteries. They decided to start in the library, where the morning sun cast long shadows across the floor, the room a stark contrast to the shadowed realm of the night before.

They approached the many shelves, carefully pulling down volumes as not to upset or let on to Papa, searching for anything that could shed light on the history of Downton and its spectral inhabitants.

Hours passed, dust mites dancing in the rays of sunlight as the pages turned. Then, Tom discovered a series of mismatched volumes that, when removed, revealed a hidden recess in the bookcase.

Within this secret compartment was not just a collection of letters and diaries, but rather old estate ledgers and maps, some dating back centuries. As they sifted through the documents, a particular map caught their eye, one detailing the original layout of the Abbey and its grounds, including several structures and dirt pathways that no longer existed.

One path, marked with an old oak tree, seemed to lead to a part of the estate long forgotten. Intrigued and hopeful, Mary and Tom decided to follow the map's directions along this unfamiliar footway.

"Well, shouldn't we tell Edith?" Tom said. Mary rolled her eyes, "She's too busy with that Michael Gregson business; she can't be bothered. Now, we must fly."

Their journey took them beyond the manicured lawns and gardens, into the wilder, untouched parts of the estate. The path they were following, overgrown and barely discernible, wound its way through thickets and underbrush until they came upon the old oak tree, gnarled and majestic, marking the entrance to a neglected garden.

Hidden among the overgrowth, they found the ruins of what appeared to be an old gardener's cottage, its stone walls crumbling, with only two left and overtaken by ivy. Inside, there was a cupboard under the most well-preserved roofed- in area of the cottage, with a bird's nest tucked in one of the top open compartments; the paint had stripped off, and mold was covering the legs.

Mary walked over to it, prompting Tom to ask, "What are you doing? Nothing's in there but bugs, Mary."

"Oh really?" she slyly remarked with a smirk as she opened the cupboard door below, which fell off in the process. Inside lay a small, leather- bound journal, its pages once white, now yellow and brittle with age. The water damage was also severe, but you could still make out a few entries.

The journal belonged to the gardener who had worked at Downton in Greta's time, and within its pages, he chronicled not only the daily life at the estate but also the stories and gossip that pervaded the inside servants' quarters. Greta was mentioned by name, her kindness and tragic end noted:

"On this day of spring's soft whisper, my soul yearns for where I find myself bereft of joy for missing the secret pleasure of bestowing favorite blossoms upon Greta, gentle and coy. Her absence unfurled, as if the very sunlight weeps for the loss of its cherished child."

With the journal safely in hand, they decided to take it back to Downton and bring Edith into the loop, after all, since three heads are better than two.

After post-dinner coffee and drinks, Edith, Tom, and Mary convened in Mary's bedroom where she once again delved into her frightful experiences to Edith and asked if she had had any of her own.

"Golly..." Edith whispered. "Aside from seeing Sybil, no, I haven't." Edith glanced away, thinking of another loved one whom she wouldn't mind seeing again, even for a moment.

"Edith," Mary said sharply, snapping her out of her trance. "You're in publishing, you read letters and chicken scratch all the time. Can you take a look at this diary and let us know if you find anything?"

"Of course," she replied as she softly picked up the weathered book and said goodnight. Edith got changed and comfortable in her bed, the fire going out but still lit, and started to work on deciphering the pages of the old journal.

After a short while, she drifted off into sleep with the journal open, lying on her chest.

Suddenly, the air in the room turned icy cold, which jolted Edith awake, her heart pounding in her chest, at the ghastly sight of a shadowy, childlike figure looming at the foot of her bed. Frantically, she rubbed her eyes, hoping it was a trick of the mind. But when her vision cleared, the figure remained, its presence more menacing than before, engulfed in an eerie darkness that seemed to swallow the light around it.

She clung the book to her chest, too shaken to move, scream, or look away. Through a sliver of moonlight slicing through the blinds, all Edith could discern was the child's face. Her heart froze as the child's lips twisted into a malevolent grin and whispered in a chilling voice, "You know... you're not supposed to have that."

With those haunting words still echoing in the unnerving silence, the figure dissolved into the darkness, leaving Edith engulfed in a suffocating fear.