Mara stood rooted in the dining room, the diary's single word—Mara—burning into her vision, a stark accusation scratched across the blank page in her own jagged hand. It glowed under the faltering beam of her flashlight, the letters uneven and deep, as if carved by a force beyond her control, a mark that felt less like a signature and more like a claim—or a warning whispered from somewhere she couldn't see. The photo album's absence gnawed at her, a hollow space where it had sprawled open just hours before; she hadn't touched it, hadn't heard it shift, yet here was the diary, open and waiting, like the house itself had rearranged its pieces, shuffling the relics of her past to draw her deeper into its game.
The phone's ring clawed through the house, shrill and relentless, a sound that seemed to vibrate in her bones, but she couldn't move. Her legs felt anchored to the floorboards, heavy with a dread she couldn't name, her fingers tightening around the flashlight until her knuckles ached. The ringing stopped abruptly, the silence heavier than before, a thick shroud that pressed against her ears and smothered the air. The flashlight flickered, casting jagged shadows across the walls—sharp, fleeting shapes that danced at the edges of her vision—and she forced her legs to carry her to the stairs, each step a battle against the weight of the night pressing down on her.
She wouldn't answer this time—not yet. She needed space, a moment to think, to untangle the threads of fear and memory knotting in her mind, but the air felt thick, viscous, clinging to her lungs and slowing her breath. Her arm ached under the towel, the scar a dull throb she couldn't ignore, a constant reminder of the gash that shouldn't be there, tying her to Ellie's panicked cries across a divide she couldn't cross. She climbed to the second floor, aiming for the bedroom she'd claimed, its door ajar at the end of the hall, a sliver of darkness beckoning her forward. The stairs creaked under her weight, louder than they should've, each groan echoing back like a second set of feet shadowing her own.
She paused halfway up, flashlight sweeping the hallway—empty, just peeling wallpaper curling away from the plaster in brittle strips, and a cracked mirror reflecting her pale face, her eyes wide and haunted. Her breath fogged in the dim light, curling in faint wisps before dissipating, the cold sharper up here, biting into her skin through her jacket. She hurried the rest of the way, her boots thudding against the floorboards, and slipped into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her with a quick, decisive motion. It didn't lock, the mechanism long since rusted into uselessness, but the click felt final, a thin barrier against the night that loomed beyond the wood.
The bedroom was sparse, a relic of a house left to time: a narrow bed with a faded quilt patched in muted blues and grays, a dresser coated in a thick layer of dust, its surface marred with scratches, and a window overlooking the fog-choked yard, the glass streaked with grime that blurred the world outside. Mara dropped onto the mattress, the springs groaning beneath her, a low, mournful sound that matched the ache in her bones. She set the flashlight beside her, its beam angled upward, casting a weak glow across the ceiling, and unwrapped the towel from her arm, wincing as the fabric peeled away from her skin, tugging at the dried blood. The gash was clotted now, an angry red slash crusted with dark flakes, but it looked older than it should—days, not hours—its edges puckered and pale, as if it had been healing for longer than she'd been bleeding.
She traced it with a trembling finger, the skin tender and raw, the memory of Ellie's scream ringing in her ears—high and sharp, a sound that had pierced her through the phone and left a mark she could feel. Sleep pulled at her, heavy and insistent, dragging at her eyelids and softening the edges of her thoughts, but she fought it, digging her nails into her palm to stay awake. She couldn't close her eyes here, not with the phone's relentless calls, the diaries spilling secrets she didn't remember, the knife that had appeared like a ghost of violence she hadn't summoned. She leaned back against the headboard, the wood cool and unyielding against her spine, and stared at the window, watching the fog swirl outside, slow and deliberate, a living thing that pressed against the glass.
For a moment, she thought she saw a shape—tall, still, its edges blurred but unmistakable—standing just beyond the window, a silhouette swallowed by the haze before she could focus. She blinked, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand, and it was gone, leaving only the fog's endless dance. Her heart thudded, a single heavy beat, and she told herself it was nothing—just exhaustion, just the night playing tricks—but the unease lingered, a cold thread winding through her veins. A thud jolted her upright, sudden and harsh, coming from downstairs—heavy and blunt, like something falling—or being dropped with intent. The sound reverberated through the house, a dull echo that settled into the walls.
She grabbed the flashlight, its beam stuttering as she swung it toward the door, and crept forward, her boots silent on the worn rug. She pressed her ear against the wood, holding her breath, straining for any hint of what lay beyond—nothing, just the faint hum of the wind outside. Then another thud, closer this time, from the hall, sharper and more deliberate, like a weight shifting with purpose. Her throat tightened, her hand hovering over the knob, fingers trembling as she debated whether to stay hidden or face whatever was out there. She cracked the door open, just an inch, peering into the hallway with one eye, the flashlight raised like a shield.
The hallway was dark, the mirror at the far end reflecting only shadow, its fractured surface swallowing the light she tried to cast. She stepped out, the floorboards creaking beneath her, and froze. There, on the wood, were footprints—muddy, smeared, leading from the stairs toward her room. They were fresh, the edges wet and glistening in the flashlight's beam, too big to be hers, too deliberate to be random, each print a heavy mark of intrusion. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that drowned out the silence, and she followed them with the light, tracing their path down the hall. They stopped at her door, the final print pressed deep into the wood, as if whatever had left it had paused there, waiting.
Mara's breath caught, a sharp hiss that broke the stillness, and she swung the light behind her, into the bedroom—empty. The bed sat undisturbed, its quilt flat and still, the dresser unchanged, the window closed tight against the fog. She turned back to the hall, her pulse roaring in her ears, and the footprints were gone. The floor was clean, dry, the boards smooth and unmarked, as if they'd never been there at all. She blinked, hard, the flashlight trembling in her grip, its beam shaking across the walls. A trick of the dark, she told herself, exhaustion and fear weaving illusions—but her skin prickled, the air too still, too heavy with a presence she couldn't name.
The phone rang again, its chime slicing through the quiet from the attic, a sound that jolted her like a shock. Mara's resolve snapped, the fragile thread of restraint breaking under the weight of it all. She bolted down the hall, her boots pounding the floorboards, down the stairs in a rush of adrenaline, bypassing the dining room where the diary waited with her name scrawled across its page. She needed Ellie—needed to know what was happening, what was chasing them across time, what had left those footprints and then erased them. The ladder groaned as she climbed, the attic colder than ever, the air biting at her face and hands, the phone still ringing when she reached it, its receiver trembling with each shrill note.
She snatched it up, her voice cracking as she answered. "Mara!" Ellie's voice burst through, high and frantic, a flood of terror that hit her like a wave. "He's here—he got in! I locked the hatch, but he's breaking it, I can hear the wood splintering!" Her words tumbled over each other, breathless and jagged, laced with a panic that mirrored Mara's own.
"Ellie, slow down," Mara said, her own fear rising, tightening her grip on the receiver until her fingers ached. "Where are you now?" She tried to steady her voice, to be the anchor Ellie needed, but it trembled at the edges.
"Still in the attic," Ellie sobbed, her breath hitching with every word. "He's pounding on the hatch—oh God, it's cracking! He's got that knife, Mara, the rusty one. I tried to fight, but he's too strong!" Her voice broke, dissolving into a whimper, and Mara could almost see her—curled behind the trunk, clutching her bleeding arm, eyes wide with terror.
Mara's eyes darted to the hatch below her, bolted tight, its metal latch glinting in the flashlight's weakening beam. "I'm here, Ellie. It's locked—I don't hear anything. You're safe, just—" She stopped, words faltering as she strained to listen, to bridge the gap between them.
A crash cut her off, loud and jagged through the receiver, the sound of wood giving way under force, followed by Ellie's scream—raw, piercing, a cry that clawed at Mara's chest. "He's through! He's—" The line went dead, static roaring in its place, a chaotic hum that filled the silence and left her ears ringing.
Mara dropped the phone, her hands shaking, the receiver clattering against the attic floor with a hollow thud. She stumbled to the hatch, pressing her ear to the cold wood—silence, no splintering, no heavy boots climbing toward her. The bolts held firm, the surface unmarked, but as she pulled back, something caught her eye. On the attic floor, near the trunk, were more footprints—muddy, smeared, identical to the ones downstairs, their wet edges catching the last flickers of her light. They trailed from the hatch to where she stood, stopping inches from her boots, a path that ended too close, too real.
She didn't scream. She couldn't. Her voice was gone, swallowed by the cold that seeped into her bones, as the flashlight flickered out, plunging her into darkness. The blackness was absolute, pressing against her eyes, her skin, her lungs, a void that erased the attic's edges and left her stranded. Her breath came in shallow gasps, fogging the air she couldn't see, and she fumbled blindly for the ladder, her hands brushing the rough wood of the trunk, the smooth metal of the phone. The footprints lingered in her mind, a map she couldn't unsee, and the silence grew louder, thrumming with a presence she felt but couldn't name.
She sank to her knees, the floorboards creaking beneath her, and pressed her hands to her face, trying to block out the dark, the fear, the impossible reality closing in. Ellie's scream echoed in her skull, the crash of the hatch replaying in a loop she couldn't stop, and her arm throbbed—sharp now, a fresh sting slicing through the dulled ache of the scar. She yanked up her sleeve, fingers brushing the gash, and felt warm blood welling anew, slick and wet against her skin, as if Ellie's wound had reopened hers across the years. The house held its breath around her, waiting, and in the dark, she knew—whatever had broken through Ellie's hatch wasn't confined to 1999. It was here, with her, and the footprints were just the beginning.