Mara didn't touch the photo album again. She left it on the floor, pages splayed open, her younger self staring blankly into the void, frozen in time. The image seemed to mock her, a relic of innocence she couldn't reconcile with the woman she'd become. Dust motes floated lazily in the dim light, settling onto the faded photographs as if claiming them for the shadows. She couldn't bring herself to close the cover, to trap that version of herself back in the dark—it felt too final, too much like surrender.
The thudding from the attic had stopped, but its echo lingered in her bones, a rhythm she couldn't shake. It pulsed faintly, a heartbeat she couldn't locate, threading through her nerves like a thread pulled too tight. She tried to dismiss it as the house settling, an old structure groaning under its own weight, but the silence that followed was worse—thick and oppressive, pressing against her ears until she could hear her own shallow breathing. She rubbed her arms, the chill seeping deeper despite the layers she wore, and wondered if the sound would return, or if its absence was the real threat.
She paced the dining room, her boots scuffing the worn hardwood, the flashlight beam jittering across the walls in erratic arcs. Shadows danced at the edges of her vision, fleeting shapes that vanished when she turned to face them. Her mind circled Ellie's words, replaying them like a scratched record. A masked man. 1999. The house. The fragments refused to align, jagged pieces of a puzzle she didn't want to solve. Ellie's voice had been so vivid over the phone—cracked, yes, but alive with a desperation that felt too close, too real. And yet, it didn't make sense. The timelines didn't match, the details didn't fit, and Mara's own memories of this place—hazy summers spent chasing fireflies, the hum of her mother's laughter—clashed violently with the picture Ellie painted.
It didn't add up—none of it did—but the mud on the window, the shape in the photo, the voice that sounded too much like her own… they clawed at her doubt, tearing holes she couldn't patch. The muddy smear had been there, undeniable, a handprint pressed against the glass like a silent plea—or a warning. She'd wiped it away herself, her fingers trembling as she scrubbed, but its ghost lingered in her mind. And that figure in the photo album, half-hidden behind her younger self, blurred but unmistakable—a silhouette that didn't belong. She'd stared at it too long, trying to convince herself it was a trick of light, a smudge on the film, but the unease had rooted itself too deep to uproot. Then there was Ellie's voice, echoing with a timbre that mirrored her own, as if the house itself were playing a cruel trick, amplifying her fears through the static of that ancient phone.
Dawn was still hours away, the windows black with night, reflecting nothing but her own fractured image. The darkness outside pressed against the panes, a living thing that seemed to watch her as much as she watched it. She needed answers, something solid to hold onto, a tether to pull her back from the edge of whatever this was. But the house offered nothing—just dust and shadows, an indifferent witness to her unraveling. The walls seemed to lean in, the air growing heavier with every breath she took, and she felt the weight of its silence like a judgment. She couldn't sit still, couldn't let the stillness swallow her whole.
She grabbed her jacket from the chair where she'd tossed it, the fabric rough against her fingers, and headed to the kitchen, figuring coffee might steady her nerves. The familiar ritual of brewing it—measuring the grounds, filling the pot with water—felt like a lifeline, a small act of control in a night spiraling beyond her grasp. The pot hissed as it brewed, steam rising in thin wisps, filling the air with a bitter scent that cut through the mildew clinging to the corners of the room. She inhaled deeply, letting the sharpness ground her, if only for a moment. The kitchen was dim, lit only by the weak glow of the flashlight she'd propped on the counter, its beam casting long, distorted shadows across the peeling linoleum.
She leaned against the counter, the edge digging into her hip, and stared at the window she'd locked earlier. The latch was still in place, the bolt secure, but her eyes lingered on the glass. It was clean now, no trace of the muddy smear that had marked it hours before, as if the night had erased it—or swallowed it. Her reflection stared back, pale and hollow-eyed, like the girl in the photos, a stranger wearing her face. The resemblance unnerved her, the way her features seemed to shift in the uneven light, her expression caught between exhaustion and something darker—fear, maybe, or recognition. She turned away, unwilling to meet her own gaze any longer.
The phone rang upstairs.
Mara's shoulders tensed, the sound piercing the quiet like a needle through fabric. It was sharp, insistent, cutting through the fragile calm she'd built around herself. She set her mug down, untouched, the coffee cooling rapidly in the chipped ceramic. The ringing didn't stop, each trill drilling into her skull, and she climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last. The wood creaked beneath her weight, a low groan that matched the unease coiling in her gut. She told herself it was just Ellie again, needing to talk, needing reassurance, but the timing felt wrong—too deliberate, too perfectly timed to her fraying nerves.
The attic hatch was still bolted, the metal cold under her fingers, but the ringing seeped through, insistent, pulling her back like a hook in her chest. She slid the bolt free with a scrape that echoed in the narrow hall, the sound too loud in the stillness. The ladder unfolded with a reluctant creak, and she ascended, the cold biting deeper this time, sinking into her skin like damp earth. The attic smelled of mold and forgotten things, the air thick with the weight of years. The phone sat in its spot, an ancient rotary model coated in dust, the receiver resting on the hook, trembling with each ring as if alive.
She answered before she could talk herself out of it, snatching the receiver mid-ring. "Mara?" Ellie's voice came through, steadier now, but tight, like she was holding herself together by threads that might snap at any moment. "You're there. Good."
"Yeah, I'm here," Mara said, her tone clipped, irritation bleeding through her exhaustion. "What's happening? Are you okay?"
"He's gone," Ellie said, the words clipped and rushed. "I think. I haven't heard him in a while—just the wind now, rattling the boards. But I can't stay up here forever. He'll come back. I know he will."
Mara glanced at the trunk in the corner, still unmoved, its surface dulled by a film of grime. "Ellie, I need you to tell me more. Who is he? Why's he after you?" She kept her voice firm, trying to anchor them both, but her grip on the receiver tightened.
"I don't know his name," Ellie said, frustration leaking through, sharp and brittle. "He's just… there. Outside, always watching. Tonight was the first time he tried to get in. I saw his knife—old, rusty, like something from the shed. Mara, he's not normal. The way he moves, it's wrong." Her words tumbled out, jagged and breathless, painting a picture Mara couldn't unsee.
"Wrong how?" Mara pressed, though part of her didn't want the answer, didn't want to give the image more shape than it already had.
"Too quiet," Ellie whispered, her voice dropping so low Mara strained to hear it. "Like he's not all there. But he's real—I felt the glass break under his hand, the shards hitting the floor. It wasn't my imagination." A pause stretched between them, heavy with unspoken dread, then, "Mara, I need you to do something for me."
Mara's stomach twisted, a knot of apprehension tightening. "What?"
"Hide a knife," Ellie said, her voice dropping lower still, urgent and conspiratorial. "Under the kitchen sink, behind the pipes. I might need it later. Please, just do it."
"Ellie, I—" Mara started, her protest rising, but the girl cut her off.
"Please. I don't know how much time I have."
The line went silent, the dial tone humming softly in her ear, a monotone requiem for the conversation. Mara lowered the receiver, her breath fogging in the dim light of the attic, curling in faint wisps before dissipating. Her hand lingered on the phone, the plastic cold against her palm, as she wrestled with what she'd just heard. This was crazy. She wasn't some errand runner for a voice on a ghost phone, a puppet jerked around by someone else's panic. She didn't even know if Ellie was real—really real—or just a figment of this house's warped history, reaching out to drag her under.
But Ellie's fear—it was raw, infectious, sinking into her like damp rot through old wood. It clung to her, sticky and pervasive, stirring memories she'd buried deep: nights spent listening to the wind howl through this place, convincing herself the creaks were just the house, not something more. She sighed, rubbing her face with both hands, the heels of her palms pressing into her eyes until spots danced in the dark. She couldn't ignore it, couldn't shake the feeling that turning away now would leave her defenseless later. Resigned, she headed downstairs, the flashlight beam wobbling with each step.
The kitchen felt smaller now, the shadows sharper, carving the space into angles that didn't quite fit. The air was colder here, too, though she couldn't pinpoint why—maybe the draft from the window, or maybe something less tangible. She knelt by the sink, opening the cabinet with a creak that reverberated in the stillness. The space behind the pipes was cramped, littered with old sponges stiffened by time and a rusted can of cleaner, its label peeling away in flakes. The smell of mildew hit her harder here, mingling with the faint chemical tang of whatever had once been in that can. She wrinkled her nose, shifting aside a cobweb that brushed her fingers like a whisper.
She didn't have a knife handy—not one she'd trust to hide, not one that felt right for whatever Ellie thought was coming. The idea of stashing anything sharp felt absurd, a step too far into this madness, but she'd humor it, prove it was nothing, prove she could still draw a line. She grabbed a butter knife from the drawer, its edge dull and harmless, the blade barely reflecting the flashlight's glow. It was laughable, really—a child's tool, not a weapon—but it would do. She wedged it into the gap behind the pipes, the metal scraping faintly against the wood, and dusted her hands off as she stood.
"There," she muttered, her voice flat in the empty room. "Happy now?" She didn't expect an answer, didn't want one, but the words hung there, unanswered, as she turned away, reaching for her coffee. The mug was lukewarm now, the bitterness dulled, but she barely registered it. A chill crawled up her spine, slow and deliberate, raising the hairs on her neck.
Something felt off—too still, too heavy, like the air itself had thickened. She glanced back at the cabinet, her pulse quickening, a steady thump she could feel in her throat. She hadn't heard anything, hadn't seen anything move, but the atmosphere had shifted, as if the house were holding its breath, waiting for her to notice. Her fingers tightened around the mug, the ceramic grounding her as she knelt again, shining her flashlight into the cabinet. The butter knife was gone.
In its place was something else—a long, rusty blade, its handle wrapped in fraying cloth, stained dark with age. It wasn't hers. She hadn't put it there. Her hand hovered over it, trembling, the beam of light shaking in her grip, before she pulled it free. The metal was cold, pitted with corrosion, and the edge gleamed faintly, sharp enough to cut through bone, to slice through flesh without resistance. Her breath caught, a ragged gasp, and she dropped it, the clatter loud against the tiles, a gunshot in the silence. Her chest heaved as she stared, the flashlight beam catching the blade's curve, illuminating the nicks and scratches etched into its surface.
Ellie's words echoed, unbidden: old, rusty, like something from the shed. Mara scrambled to her feet, backing toward the wall, her shoulder brushing the counter hard enough to jolt her. This wasn't possible. She'd hidden a useless kitchen tool, a blunt relic of normalcy, not this—this thing, this artifact of violence that didn't belong in her hands or her house. Her mind raced, grasping for explanations—a prank, a hallucination, anything—but each one slipped away, too flimsy to hold.
Her reflection flickered in the window, and for a split second, it wasn't her face. Younger, wider-eyed, lips parted in a silent scream—a girl trapped in terror, staring out from the glass. She blinked, hard, and it was gone, just her own pale features staring back, shadowed and drawn. Her heart hammered, a wild rhythm she couldn't slow, and she tore her gaze from the window, back to the knife.
It lay on the floor, unmoving, but she swore she heard a faint scrape—like it had shifted when she wasn't looking, like it had a will of its own. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the thought, but it stuck, burrowing deeper. Upstairs, the phone stayed silent, its earlier clamor replaced by a void that pressed against her ears. But the house didn't stay quiet. A low creak sounded from the hall, slow and deliberate, like a foot testing the boards, searching for weakness.
Mara grabbed the flashlight, her knuckles white around its grip, the beam slicing through the dark as she swung it toward the doorway. Her voice trembled in her throat, but she swallowed it down, telling herself it was nothing—just the wind, just the house, just her imagination running wild. She almost believed it, clinging to the lie like a shield, but the creak came again, closer this time, and the shadows in the hall seemed to stretch, reaching for her with fingers she couldn't see.