The house, located in a remote area of Canada, smelled of mildew and forgotten years, a damp weight that clung to Mara Kline's skin as she stepped through the sagging front door. The air was thick, almost tangible, a cloying mix of rot and abandonment that seemed to settle into her pores the moment she crossed the threshold. She stood there for a beat, her silhouette framed by the weak daylight spilling in behind her, her senses adjusting to the gloom that enveloped the interior. The place felt less like a house and more like a tomb—a monument to neglect, its walls steeped in the slow decay of time. She wrinkled her nose, the musty stench sharp against the crispness of the February afternoon she'd left outside.
She flicked the light switch by the entryway, her fingers grazing the rough, peeling paint of the wall, but the bulb overhead stayed dark, its filament long burned out. A faint sigh slipped from her lips, a sound born of resignation rather than shock. She hadn't expected the lights to work—not in a house that had sat empty for years, its utilities cut off after her grandmother Edith's death. The silence that followed was heavy, unbroken except for the soft shuffle of her own movements. She squinted into the shadows, her eyes tracing the vague shapes of furniture shrouded in dust, the outlines blurred by the dimness that seemed to swallow everything.
Her boots scuffed against the warped floorboards, kicking up dust that danced in the slivers of gray light filtering through the blinds. The particles swirled lazily, caught in the thin beams that pierced the room, glowing briefly before drifting back into the murk. Each step she took echoed faintly, the sound of her soles grinding against the grit a small defiance against the stillness that reigned here. The blinds themselves were a mess—some slats bent, others missing entirely—allowing jagged streaks of the pale winter sun to stripe the floor. It wasn't enough to chase away the chill or brighten the space; it only accentuated the desolation, casting long, skeletal shadows that stretched across the room like grasping hands.
She'd promised herself she'd be quick—sort through her grandmother's things, pack what mattered, and leave this place behind. It wasn't home anymore. It hadn't been since she was a kid, when the house had been alive with warmth and noise, its walls ringing with the clatter of pots and the murmur of her grandmother's voice. Now, it was a stranger's territory, a relic of a past she'd outgrown, tied to her only by duty and a faint thread of guilt. She'd made the three-hour drive from the city that morning, the hum of the highway still lingering in her ears, convincing herself this was closure—a clean break from a chapter she'd left behind years ago. But standing here now, surrounded by the weight of it all, she felt less certain, as though the house itself were challenging her resolve.
Mara dropped her duffel bag by the stairs, the thud of it hitting the floor reverberating through the empty space, a dull boom that seemed to ripple outward before fading into silence. She pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, the worn denim creaking as she moved, though the chill wasn't just from the February air seeping through the cracked walls. The cold seemed to emanate from the house itself, rising from the floorboards, threading through the air, wrapping around her like a shroud. She shivered, her breath visible in faint, fleeting clouds, and rubbed her hands together, the friction doing little to warm her numb fingers. The jacket, a faded thing she'd worn since her college days, felt thin and inadequate against the pervasive dampness that saturated everything.
The house felt alive in a way she couldn't pin down—creaking settling noises, a faint hum she swore came from the pipes. The sounds were erratic, unpredictable, like the structure was whispering to itself in a tongue she couldn't decipher. A groan from the rafters, a sigh from the walls, the occasional sharp pop of wood contracting in the cold—it was as though the house were restless, stirring despite its long years of abandonment. She tilted her head, straining to catch the hum again, half-convinced it was her imagination, but it persisted, a low, steady vibration that pulsed beneath the surface of her hearing. It set her teeth on edge, a subtle unease she couldn't shake, though she told herself it was nothing—just the quirks of an old building.
Memories flickered at the edges of her mind: chasing fireflies in the yard, her grandmother's voice calling her in for supper. Those summer nights had been golden once, drenched in the hum of crickets and the glow of a porch light cutting through the dusk. She could still picture herself, small and barefoot, racing through the grass with a jar in hand, the air warm against her skin. Her grandmother's laughter had followed her then, a sound rich and grounding, a tether to a world that felt endless and safe. The old woman's voice had carried a strength to it, firm yet tender, a constant in Mara's chaotic childhood. But those were soft echoes now, drowned out by the silence that owned the place—a silence so dense it pressed against her eardrums, heavy with the weight of loss and time.
She started in the living room, sifting through stacks of yellowed newspapers and porcelain knickknacks coated in grime. The papers were fragile, their edges curling inward like dried leaves, the ink faded into smudges that hinted at stories long forgotten. She lifted one, its date marking a year she barely remembered, and let it fall back into place, a puff of dust rising in its wake to tickle her nose. The knickknacks were worse—figurines of shepherds and lambs, a teacup with a chipped rose pattern, all dulled by a thick layer of filth that clung to her fingertips. Her grandmother had been a hoarder of the quiet kind—nothing ostentatious, just decades of odds and ends piled into corners, a slow buildup of a life lived alone. Mara worked with purpose, sorting what could be kept into a cardboard box she'd brought, her movements precise but detached, as though she were handling someone else's belongings.
Her fingers brushed a faded photo of herself at sixteen, all awkward limbs and a crooked smile, tucked between a stack of coasters and a cracked vase. The image halted her, her breath catching as she held it up to the dim light filtering through the blinds. She'd been standing in the yard, the sun dipping low behind her, casting a halo around her wild, tangled hair. Her grandmother had taken the picture, she recalled now—had teased her about that lopsided grin, saying it could charm the birds right out of the trees. Mara tucked it into her pocket, a small ache blooming in her chest, sharp and unexpected. That girl felt like a stranger now, a ghost from a time when this house had been a sanctuary, not a burden she was desperate to shed.
The attic was the last stop. She'd been putting it off, dreading the cramped space and the cobwebs she knew waited up there, their delicate threads likely strung across every corner. The pull-down ladder groaned as she tugged it free, the hinges shrieking in protest, each rung creaking ominously under her weight as she climbed. The air grew thicker with every step, heavy with the scent of old wood and something sharper, like rust—a metallic bite that stung her nostrils and made her grimace. She paused halfway up, gripping the ladder tightly as it swayed beneath her, the attic looming above like a dark, gaping mouth. For a moment, she considered retreating, abandoning the task altogether, but she steeled herself and pressed on—she'd come too far to turn back now.
She clicked on her phone's flashlight, sweeping the beam across a sea of junk: a busted rocking horse with a missing eye, a trunk spilling moth-eaten quilts, a cracked mirror reflecting her shadowed face in fractured pieces. The light trembled in her hand, casting erratic shadows that danced across the cluttered space, revealing a chaotic sprawl of neglect pressed against the slanted walls. She stepped onto the attic floor, her boots thudding dully against the planks, and moved deeper in, her beam slicing through the darkness like a knife. The air was stifling here, thick and oppressive, pressing against her lungs until she coughed, the sound swallowed by the weight of the space.
And then she saw it.
Tucked against the far wall, half-buried under a tarp, was an old rotary phone. Its black casing gleamed faintly, untouched by the dust that blanketed everything else, a stark anomaly in the sea of decay. Mara frowned, stepping closer, her flashlight trained on its surface as she tilted her head in confusion. The phone stood out sharply, its polished exterior almost glowing in the dimness, an oddity in a place so thoroughly claimed by time. She didn't remember her grandmother ever owning one like this—sleek, vintage, with a coiled cord and a dial etched with symbols she couldn't quite decipher. Runes, maybe, or just decorative scratches worn smooth by age—she couldn't tell in the faint light. She crouched, brushing her fingers over its surface, and flinched at the coldness of it, a chill deeper than the attic's draft warranted, sinking into her bones.
The phone rang.
Mara jolted, nearly toppling backward, her flashlight clattering to the floor and rolling away, its beam spinning wildly. The sound was shrill, piercing, cutting through the stillness like a scream, bouncing off the low ceiling in a relentless echo. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest, a frantic rhythm against her ribs, as she stared at it, the bell rattling inside its frame with a life of its own. It wasn't plugged in—there was no cord trailing to an outlet, no way it could ring. She scrambled to her feet, her gaze darting around the attic, half-expecting someone to emerge from the shadows, but the space was empty. Just her and the noise, insistent and alive, clawing at her fraying nerves.
Her hand hovered over the receiver, trembling, her breath shallow and ragged. She should leave it. Walk away, call it a fluke, get out of this damn house before it consumed her entirely. But curiosity—or something deeper, something primal and reckless—pulled her fingers to the cool plastic. She lifted it to her ear, her breath catching in her throat, the weight of the unknown pressing down on her like a physical force.
"Hello?" Her voice rasped, barely a whisper, lost in the vastness of the attic's silence.
Static crackled through the line, sharp and jagged, a storm of noise that grated against her eardrums. Then a voice broke through—high-pitched, trembling, unmistakably young. "They're coming for me…" it said, each word dripping with panic, raw and unfiltered, a plea that sliced through the static. "Please, you have to stop him!"
Mara's grip tightened, the receiver digging into her palm until it hurt. The voice sounded wrong, familiar in a way that twisted her stomach into knots, sending a shiver racing down her spine. It was like hearing herself, but younger, rawer, stripped bare by terror—a version of her she'd buried deep beneath years of adulthood. "Who is this?" she demanded, her voice rising, sharp and urgent, cutting through the fog of her shock. "What's happening?"
The static surged, a roaring tide that swallowed the reply, drowning it in a chaos of sound. A faint thud echoed through the receiver, then a gasp—short, desperate, the sound of someone teetering on the edge of collapse. "He's here—" The line went dead, leaving only a hollow hum in its wake, a void that stretched endlessly, cold and empty.
Mara dropped the phone, the receiver clattering against the floor with a hollow, jarring clack that echoed in the stillness. Her breath came fast, fogging in the dim light of her retrieved flashlight, her chest heaving as she stumbled back, her legs unsteady beneath her. She stared at the thing, its silence now heavier than its ringing, a presence that loomed in the corner of her vision, dark and unyielding. Her mind raced—prank call, crossed signal, some old recording trapped in the wires—but the phone wasn't connected. It couldn't be anything rational, anything tethered to the world she knew.
She stood, backing toward the ladder, her flashlight beam jittering across the attic walls, throwing wild shadows that flickered like specters in her peripheral vision. The house felt smaller now, the air pressing in tighter, suffocating her with its weight. She'd deal with it tomorrow, she told herself, her voice a shaky whisper in her own mind, barely audible over the pounding of her pulse. Get some sleep, clear her head, figure out what the hell she'd just heard—rationalize it somehow. But as she descended, the echo of that voice lingered, curling into her thoughts like smoke, inescapable and insidious, threading itself into the fabric of her unease.
And somewhere above, in the dark, she swore she heard the faintest click—like the dial resetting itself, poised to ring again, waiting in the shadows for her return.