Mara couldn't stay in the house any longer. The scar on her arm throbbed beneath the towel, a steady pulse of pain that matched the questions hammering her skull, each one a relentless drumbeat she couldn't silence. The diaries, the knife, the photo—none of it made sense, jagged pieces of a puzzle that refused to fit, but the blood was real, warm and sticky against her skin, and the fear was real, a living thing coiled tight in her chest. She needed answers, something concrete to anchor her, something beyond the fractured voice of Ellie echoing through a dead phone line, pulling her deeper into a past that didn't feel like hers.
She grabbed her keys from the dining room table, the metal cold and sharp in her palm, and snatched her jacket from the chair, its fabric stiff with the damp chill that clung to the house. The flashlight came last, its beam now a faint flicker, a dying ember that barely pierced the gloom. She glanced at the windows, black with the weight of night, and knew the sun wouldn't rise for hours—hours she couldn't waste trapped inside, waiting for clarity that might never come. Waiting felt like surrendering, like handing herself over to whatever force was twisting this place around her, and she refused to give it that power.
She stepped outside, the cold biting at her face with a fierceness that made her eyes water, the fog thick and low, curling around the trees like smoke rising from unseen flames. The air smelled of wet earth and decay, heavy with the promise of rain that hadn't yet fallen. The yard was a gray blur, shapes softened into indistinct smudges, the shed a hunched shadow in the distance, its outline barely discernible through the haze. She locked the door behind her, twisting the key with a click that echoed too loudly in the stillness—not that it mattered, not if Ellie was right about locked doors failing, about something slipping through regardless. But the sound steadied her nerves, a small ritual of control in a night spiraling beyond her grasp.
Her car sat by the curb, a battered hatchback she hadn't touched since arriving, its paint chipped and dull under a film of dew. She didn't start it, didn't even reach for the handle. The idea of driving felt too final, too much like fleeing, and she wasn't ready to run—not yet. Instead, she turned down the dirt path toward the only neighbor she remembered: Mr. Harrow. He'd lived a quarter-mile up the road her whole childhood, an old man even then, always tinkering with junk in his yard, his hands stained with grease and time. She hadn't seen him in years, not since she'd left this place behind, but his porch light glowed through the haze, a beacon cutting through the dark, steady and unyielding.
The walk felt longer than it should, the crunch of gravel under her boots too loud, each step reverberating in the fog like a shout swallowed by silence. The mist pressed in, damp and clinging, muting sound and light until the world felt small, confined to the narrow strip of path beneath her feet. Her arm ached, the towel stiff with drying blood, the fabric chafing against the raw edges of the gash. She kept her eyes on the ground, watching the gravel shift under her weight, afraid to look too long at the trees that loomed on either side. Their branches stretched into the fog like skeletal fingers, twisted and bare, and she couldn't shake the sense that something moved among them, just out of sight, tracking her steps with a patience she didn't want to test.
Mr. Harrow's house emerged from the haze, a squat, weathered thing hunched against the night, its paint peeling in long, curling strips, exposing the gray wood beneath. The porch sagged under piles of rusted tools and cracked flowerpots, a testament to years of neglect and stubborn persistence. The light buzzed faintly overhead, a dull hum that drew moths to its glow, their wings battering the bulb in a frantic dance. Mara climbed the steps, the wood creaking under her boots, and knocked sharply against the silence, the sound ringing out like a gunshot in the stillness.
For a moment, nothing—then a shuffle inside, slow and deliberate, like whoever moved was testing each step, measuring the floor for weakness. The door creaked open, revealing a face carved with wrinkles so deep they seemed etched by time itself, eyes pale and watery behind thick glasses that magnified their cloudy stare. Mr. Harrow peered out, his flannel shirt hanging loose on a frame that seemed smaller than she remembered, shrunken by age or memory. His hair was thinner now, a sparse white fringe clinging to his scalp, and his hands trembled faintly as he gripped the doorframe.
"Who's that?" he rasped, squinting at her, his voice rough with disuse and the gravel of too many years.
"It's Mara," she said, her voice steadier than she felt, though it trembled at the edges. "Mara Kline. From down the road—Edith's granddaughter." She held his gaze, willing him to recognize her, to bridge the gap between then and now.
He blinked, long and slow, a deliberate motion that seemed to pull him back from wherever his thoughts had wandered, then nodded. "Edith's girl. Been a while. What you doing out here this time of night?" His tone wasn't accusing, just curious, tinged with the wariness of someone who'd lived alone too long.
"I need to talk to you," she said, shifting the flashlight to her good hand, its weak beam flickering against the porch floor. "About the house. About… things that happened." The words felt inadequate, too vague to capture the chaos swirling in her mind, but they were a start.
Mr. Harrow grunted, a low sound that might've been agreement or dismissal, and stepped back to let her in, the door groaning wider on its hinges. The living room smelled of stale tobacco and motor oil, a sharp, acrid mix that stung her nose, the air thick with the weight of years undisturbed. The space was cluttered—stacks of yellowed newspapers teetered against the walls, a sagging recliner dominated the center, its fabric worn to threads, and a coffee table groaned under the weight of engine parts and empty mugs. He waved her to a chair, its cushions flattened to near nothing, and lowered himself into the recliner with a groan that matched the creak of the springs.
"What's on your mind, then?" he asked, settling back, his hands resting on his knees, fingers knotted with arthritis.
Mara hesitated, the words tangling in her throat, a jumble of impossible questions she didn't know how to voice. How did you ask about a masked man who couldn't exist, a ghost phone that rang with a girl's pleas, a scar that appeared from nowhere to match a wound decades old? She swallowed, settling for something simpler, something she could grasp. "Do you remember 1999? When I lived here with Gran?"
"'99," he muttered, scratching his chin, his nails rasping against stubble. "Yeah, I reckon. You were a quiet thing back then. Kept to yourself after your mama passed. Edith worried about you, said you weren't right after that—always staring out windows, jumpy as a cat." His eyes drifted, unfocused, as if pulling the memory from somewhere deep.
"Did she ever mention anything strange?" Mara pressed, leaning forward, her voice sharpening with urgency. "Someone hanging around the house, maybe? A man?" She watched his face, searching for a flicker of recognition, anything to tie her fractured reality to something solid.
Mr. Harrow's eyes narrowed, his fingers pausing mid-scratch, hovering over his jaw. "Strange, you say? Well, there was that girl who went missing. Not you—another one. Lived in that house before Edith bought it, back in the '70s, I think. Folks said she just up and vanished one night. Left her shoes by the door, like she meant to come back, but never did." His voice was matter-of-fact, recounting a story worn smooth by time and retelling.
Mara's pulse quickened, a thudding rhythm that echoed in her ears. "Missing? Who was she?" The question spilled out, sharp and desperate, her fingers tightening around the flashlight.
"Dunno her name," he said, shrugging, the motion slow and stiff. "Story got around, though. People whispered about it when Edith moved in—said the place was off, cursed or some nonsense. Never put much stock in it myself. But you…" He leaned forward, his gaze sharpening, cutting through the haze of his glasses. "You look like her, now I think on it. Same eyes—big, dark, like they've seen too much. Spooky, ain't it?" A faint smile tugged at his lips, more curiosity than amusement.
Her mouth went dry, words sticking to her tongue like ash. "What about '99? Did anything happen then?" She forced the question out, her voice tight, clinging to the hope of a connection she could hold onto.
He frowned, staring past her at the wall, his brow furrowing as he sifted through memory. "Can't say I recall much. Quiet summer, far as I knew. But you were jumpy, I remember that. Saw you once, running across the yard like somethin' was after you—barefoot, hair all wild. Figured it was kid stuff—imagination run wild after losin' your mama." His eyes flicked back to her, searching her face. "Was it more'n that?"
Mara's stomach twisted, the diary's scrawl flashing in her mind: He's closer. The image of herself running, breathless and terrified, flickered at the edges of her memory, too vague to grasp fully. "Did you ever see anyone else? Someone who didn't belong?" She leaned closer, her voice low, urgent, as if the answer might slip away if she didn't pin it down.
Mr. Harrow tilted his head, studying her with a scrutiny that made her skin prickle. "Not that I saw. But that house… it's got a way of holdin' onto things. Secrets, maybe. Shadows that don't move right. You feelin' it too, huh?" His tone was quiet, almost gentle, but it carried a weight that settled heavy on her shoulders.
She didn't answer, her eyes dropping to the towel on her arm, the bloodstains dark and spreading. He followed her gaze, his brow furrowing deeper, lines creasing his weathered face. "You hurt?"
"It's nothing," she lied, pulling her sleeve down with a quick tug, hiding the gash from view. "Just a scratch." The words felt flimsy, a shield too thin to hold, but she couldn't let him see—couldn't explain what she didn't understand herself.
He didn't push, but his look lingered, heavy with something unspoken—concern, maybe, or recognition he wouldn't voice. "Careful, girl," he said finally, his voice low and rough. "Places like that don't let go easy. They keep what they take."
Mara stood, the chair creaking beneath her as she rose, the sound sharp in the cluttered room. "Thanks, Mr. Harrow. I'll… I'll figure it out." Her voice wavered, but she forced a nod, clinging to the pretense of certainty.
He nodded back, slow and solemn, his eyes tracking her as she let herself out. The porch light buzzed behind her, a steady drone that faded into the fog as she stepped back into the night. The walk home was colder, the path narrower, the trees leaning closer, their branches brushing the edges of her vision like whispers she couldn't quite hear. Mr. Harrow's words gnawed at her—a girl who vanished, same eyes—but they didn't fit, didn't settle the chaos in her mind. She wasn't missing. She was here, bleeding, breathing, her boots crunching gravel with every step, her flashlight casting a feeble glow that barely reached beyond her feet.
Back at the house, the door was still locked, the windows dark and unyielding, reflecting nothing but the fog that pressed against them. She slipped inside, the air inside colder than outside, heavy with the scent of dust and something faintly metallic. Her flashlight swept across the dining room table—and she froze. The photo album was gone, its absence a void where it had sprawled open just hours before. In its place, open to a blank page, was the 1999 diary, its warped cover stark against the wood. A single word was scratched across the page in her own jagged hand—Mara—the letters uneven, dug deep into the paper as if written in haste or fury.
Upstairs, the phone rang, its shrill cry slicing through the silence, pulling her gaze to the ceiling. The sound was insistent, a summons she couldn't ignore, and it echoed in her bones, matching the throb of the scar on her arm. She stood there, rooted, the flashlight trembling in her grip, its light flickering once before steadying on the diary. The word stared back, her name a question, a claim, a threat—and she knew, with a certainty that chilled her more than the night, that whatever had written it wasn't done with her yet.