Edith was in an absolute panic; she bolted upright and threw the book into the far corner of her room. She had barely gotten through the first bit, but she apparently wasn't supposed to know about the gardener. Still too stunned to scream, she nervously glanced around and decided to dash to Mary's room.

Skittishly, she jolted Mary's door open and slammed it behind her as she was trembling. To Edith's amazement, Mary did not wake up, which startled her even more than she already was. She climbed onto Mary's bed and began to shake her shoulders, whispering urgently, "Mary, Mary! You must wake up!"

Mary rolled over, annoyed, and said, "What, what is it? What on earth's the matter?!" Then, seeing Edith's solemn face, she slowly slid up against her pillow and brought her covers almost up to her collarbone.

"...What is it?" Mary repeated, this time with much more concern.

"I saw a little boy," Edith said quietly, gasping for air as she felt her chest closing in.

"What, where?"

"At the foot of my bed; he was staring at me while I was sleeping, and when I woke up, he gave me this terrifying look, God, Mary... his face... and... and he..." Edith paused.

"And then... he what?" Mary said, reaching out for Edith's hands."

He told me I wasn't supposed to have it," Edith replied.

"Have what?"

"Well, that's just it... I was holding the diary... the one you and Tom found today." Both sisters went cold and quiet.

Mary's eyes met Edith's in a gaze filled with fear and realization, the weight of their discovery pressing down upon them. Edith's trembling voice broke the silence. "It's like the Abbey itself doesn't want us to uncover what's been hidden... what's been done." She clutched the bedsheet, her eyes darting around the dark room.

The two sisters spent the rest of the night poring over the old journal with a fine-tooth comb, deciphering the faded ink and piecing together the fragmented stories of past injustices and hidden scandals.

As dawn broke, a new resolve had solidified between them; they had to confront the past. The following day, strange occurrences began to manifest throughout the Abbey.

Objects moved on their own, cold spots appeared randomly, leaving the servants tense and whispering throughout the halls. The house seemed to be reacting.

Tom, now deeply involved in the investigation, suggested they seek out the origin of Mr. Pamuk's spirit's unrest. "There's more to his story, I'm sure of it," Tom said as he and Mary drove back from one of their outings visiting a tenant farmer.

With a heavy heart, Mary recounted a dream she'd had the previous night, where Mr. Pamuk's ghost visited her. This time, she saw him. She had thought about it all day. In fact, she thought she might have been a little short with the farmer because of her nerves and felt sorry for it.

Pamuk's character was tormented, filled with a malevolent glee as he confessed to Mary his delight in the chaos he was causing. "He thrives in the shadows," Mary whispered, "feeding off the turmoil of the living and the dead alike." Tom glanced over at Mary from the driver's seat and felt sympathy for her being at the heart of this swirling cloud of darkness, while he had the privilege of only having seen his one true love, not these demons.

The following day, Tom, Mary, and Edith decided to head to London to unearth a bit more about the "living" Mr. Pamuk. What they uncovered was that Mr. Pamuk had been a manipulative force even in life, his dealings shadowy and his ambitions vast, and not in a good way. In death, his spirit aimed to dominate Downton, using the hidden grief and buried secrets of the family as conduits to strengthen his presence.

Exhausted after a day and a half of questioning old acquaintances, walking all over the city, visiting the library and embassy, the trio took a late train back to Downton. Stark picked the three weary travelers up from the station, and they all turned in for the night, praying for a restful sleep.

Mary, unable to sleep, heard a baby crying, which was a sound that seemed quite unusual as the children were now older than infants. Concerned, knowing she was likely to stumble upon something she didn't want to see, she knew she had to make her way to the nursery to ensure the children were safe. Her candle cast long shadows against the oak-paneled corridors; she walked swiftly, almost jogging, and then suddenly, the crying stopped just as she neared the nursery.

Looking both ways down the hall to ensure that the coast was clear, she slowly peered into the nursery to find all three children, and the nanny, fast asleep. Mary tried to feel relieved, but she knew that noise had come from somewhere, and that somewhere was sinister.

The next day, Mary mentioned the incident at luncheon. This was the first time Mary or any of the three "investigators" had mentioned any strange happenings in front of Robert, knowing he would call them mad... and so he did.

Carson got an uneasy look on his face, which Robert noticed, and said, "Carson, please tell them... this is absurd." Carson sauntered over from the corner of the dining room, holding white wine decanter, and as he poured, he said with a steady voice, "There have been stories among the servants, M'Lord, I admit reluctantly, but I do admit it...dating back generations, of a baby's cry heard within these walls whenever a great change is looming."

"Don't be ridiculous, Carson, it's an old house, it makes noises and so on."

But Mary, Tom, and Edith all looked at each other and knew they now had a new potential lead.