The darkness swallowed Mara whole, an oppressive void that seemed to press in from all sides, suffocating her senses. The flashlight was dead, its last feeble flicker snuffed out by the attic's biting chill, leaving her utterly blind in the black expanse that stretched endlessly before her. She blinked hard, willing her eyes to adjust, but there was nothing—no shapes, no outlines, just an abyss that felt alive, watching her, waiting.
The footprints—those muddy, impossible marks—lingered in her mind, their edges sharp and vivid even in the absence of light. They had been there when she'd climbed up, smeared across the dusty floorboards like a careless signature, too large and too deliberate to belong to anyone she knew. She couldn't shake the image: the way the mud had glistened, wet and fresh, as though someone had stood there moments before her arrival. Her stomach churned at the thought, a cold knot tightening beneath her ribs.
She fumbled for the ladder, her hands slick with sweat, fingers trembling as they brushed against the rough wood. The phone's static still buzzed in her ears, a faint, maddening hum that refused to fade even after she'd dropped it somewhere in the dark. It had been Ellie's voice on the other end—Ellie, who shouldn't exist, who couldn't exist—and the scream that had followed still echoed in Mara's skull, sharp and piercing, cutting off too fast, too final. The silence that replaced it was worse, a heavy, suffocating weight that pressed her down, pinning her to the spot.
She climbed down, each rung a gamble in the dark, her boots slipping once on the worn edge before finding solid ground with a jolt that rattled her bones. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, the air thick with dust and something sour she couldn't place. The hallway stretched before her, endless and narrow, a faint gray seeping from the bedroom window at its far end—the first hint of dawn, weak and distant, barely enough to cast shadows. It was a lifeline, that sliver of light, and she clung to it as she stumbled forward, her legs unsteady beneath her.
She reached the bedroom and collapsed onto the bed, the mattress creaking under her weight, her breath still ragged and uneven. Her arm burned under the towel she'd wrapped around it, the scar pulsing like a second heartbeat, insistent and alive. She didn't dare look at it, didn't want to peel back the damp fabric and see if it had changed again—if the jagged lines had deepened, twisted into something new and unrecognizable. She'd noticed it that morning, faint at first, a thin red mark she'd dismissed as a scratch, but it had grown throughout the day, spreading like ink across her skin. Now it throbbed, a constant reminder of something she couldn't—or wouldn't—face.
The house was quiet now, but it was a liar's quiet—hollow, deceptive, hiding something just beneath the surface. She could feel it in the walls, in the way the floorboards groaned under invisible weight, in the faint drafts that brushed her skin like cold fingers. Mara pressed her palms to her eyes, hard enough to see sparks, trying to piece it all together. The footprints, the knife she'd found earlier that night—its blade chipped and stained, tucked beneath the attic hatch like a forgotten relic—the diaries she'd unearthed from the trunk, their pages yellowed and filled with handwriting she didn't recognize. It all tied to Ellie, to 1999, to a terror she couldn't place, a puzzle with missing pieces that refused to fit.
She'd lived that year, walked these very floors as a teenager, her life a blur of school and solitude after her mother's death. But her memories were a fog, a blank wall she couldn't breach, as though someone had scrubbed them clean and left her with nothing but echoes. And Ellie—Ellie knew her, needed her, but who was she? Mara had no sister, no sibling to share this crumbling house with, just her grandmother's stern presence and her father's fading silhouette. Yet Ellie's voice had been so real, so desperate, cutting through the static like a blade.
The phone rang again.
Mara's head snapped up, her body tensing as the sound sliced through the silence. It was softer this time, muffled, like it was straining to reach her from a great distance, each ring a faint plea. She dragged herself back to the attic, her muscles aching with every step, the ladder creaking ominously under her weight as she climbed. Her limbs felt heavy, exhaustion seeping into her bones, but she pushed on, driven by a need she couldn't name.
The phone sat in its spot near the trunk, dimly lit by a sliver of dawn creeping through a crack in the roof, casting a pale glow across the dusty floor. She lifted the receiver with shaking hands, her voice a rasp as she pressed it to her ear. "Ellie?"
"Mara," Ellie whispered, her tone fragile, like glass teetering on the edge of shattering. "I'm okay. Barely. He's gone—for now. I got away, hid in the crawlspace under the stairs. He didn't find me."
Mara exhaled, relief warring with a creeping dread that gnawed at her insides. "Good. Stay there. Don't move until you're sure."
"I can't stay long," Ellie said, her voice trembling, barely holding together. "He'll come back. Mara, I saw him closer this time. His mask—it's burlap, stitched with red thread, like a smile. And his eyes… they're empty, but I know them."
"Know them how?" Mara pressed, clutching the phone tighter, her knuckles whitening.
Ellie hesitated, a shaky breath crackling through the line like static. "It's Dad. It's our father. I didn't want to believe it, but it's him. The way he stands, the way he breathes—it's him, Mara."
The words hit like a punch, stealing the air from Mara's lungs, leaving her gasping in the dim light. "What? No, that's—my dad's dead. He died in 2000. Car accident, same as Mom. He can't—"
"He's not dead here," Ellie cut in, her voice fierce and desperate, rising above the static. "It's 1999, Mara. He's alive, but he's… different. After Mom died, he changed. He started talking to himself, locking himself in the shed for hours. I thought he was just sad, grieving, but then he started watching me—following me. Now he's got that mask, that knife. He's not right anymore."
Mara's mind reeled, memories flickering like static on an old television screen, disjointed and incomplete. Her father—tall, quiet, always smelling of sawdust from the shed where he'd tinkered with tools and half-finished projects. He'd been a shadow after her mother's death, a husk of the man he'd once been, his eyes dull behind a forced smile that never reached them. She remembered him sitting in the dark, staring at nothing, his hands idle in his lap, but never violent, never a threat. He'd been broken, not dangerous—or so she'd thought.
"Ellie, this doesn't make sense," she said, her voice cracking. "He wasn't like that. I'd remember if he—"
"You don't!" Ellie snapped, her voice breaking into a sob that echoed through the line. "You don't remember because you left me here! You forgot, Mara, but I didn't—I can't. He's coming for me, and you're the only one who can stop him!"
The line went dead, the dial tone a low, relentless drone that filled the attic. Mara dropped the phone, her hands trembling uncontrollably, the receiver clattering against the floorboards. Left her? Forgot her? Ellie's words didn't fit—there'd been no sister, no one else in that house but her, her grandmother, and the ghost of her father's grief haunting the corners. She'd grown up alone, rattling around in this too-big house, her mother's absence a wound that never healed, her father's silence a wall she couldn't climb. But her chest ached now, a hollow pang she couldn't name, like a piece of her had been carved out and hidden away.
She stumbled to the trunk, her knees weak, and yanked it open with a force that sent dust swirling into the air. She needed proof, something tangible to anchor her spiraling thoughts. Beneath the quilts—musty and threadbare—was a small box, wooden, its lid carved with initials: M.K.—hers, Mara Katherine. She pried it free with trembling fingers, the hinges groaning, and spilled its contents across the floor: trinkets, a tarnished locket, a folded photo creased with age. She unfolded it carefully, her breath catching in her throat.
It was her father, standing by the shed in the backyard, his face gaunt, eyes shadowed beneath brows furrowed with something darker than grief. In his hand was a burlap sack, half-sewn, red thread dangling from the stitches like veins. The image blurred as her vision swam, a memory surging to the surface—sharp, jagged, unwanted. Her father in the kitchen, late at night, his voice low and broken: "You took her from me, Mara. You did this." She'd been half-asleep, curled under a blanket on the couch, and dismissed it as a dream, a fragment of her own guilt over her mother's death. But his hands had been shaking, clutching something she couldn't see—a needle, a scrap of fabric, she couldn't tell—and the next day, he'd been gone again, locked in the shed, distant and unreachable. She'd buried it, let it fade into the fog of her teenage years, but now it clawed back, raw and real, tearing at the edges of her sanity.
The attic floor creaked behind her, a slow, deliberate sound that sent a shiver racing down her spine. She spun, the photo fluttering to the ground like a fallen leaf, but the space was empty—except for the footprints, muddy and fresh, circling the trunk in a jagged ring. They hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it, her mind grasping for logic where there was none. Her gaze darted to the hatch, still bolted from the inside, then back to the prints, her pulse hammering in her ears.
In the center of the muddy circle, smudged into the wet earth, was a single red stitch, bright as blood, glinting faintly in the dawn's weak light. It stood out like a wound, a mark left just for her, and the realization sank in like ice water: someone—or something—had been here, watching her, leaving this behind. Mara's scream lodged in her throat, silent and choking, as the gray light bled through the crack in the roof, illuminating nothing but her own trembling shadow stretching across the floor.
She staggered back, her boots scuffing against the wood, her hands grasping for the ladder as the attic seemed to close in around her. The air grew colder, heavier, thick with the scent of damp earth and something metallic—blood, maybe, or rust. Her scar pulsed harder, a searing heat beneath the towel, and she pressed her hand against it, wincing as the pain sharpened. She couldn't stay here, couldn't face whatever was lurking in the shadows, but where could she go? Ellie's words echoed in her skull—you're the only one who can stop him—and they dragged her forward, down the ladder, back into the house that felt less like a home and more like a trap with every passing second.
The hallway was dim, the dawn's light still too weak to banish the gloom, and she moved through it like a ghost, her footsteps muffled by the threadbare rug. She passed the kitchen, the living room, the stairs—each room a snapshot of a life she thought she'd known, now twisted into something unrecognizable. The crawlspace Ellie had mentioned was there, beneath the staircase, a small hatch she'd never noticed before, its edges caked with dust and neglect. She knelt, her fingers brushing the latch, and hesitated. What if Ellie was still inside, waiting? What if he was?
She pulled the hatch open, the hinges squeaking faintly, and peered into the dark. It was narrow, barely wide enough for a person, the air inside stale and damp. "Ellie?" she whispered, her voice barely audible, swallowed by the shadows. There was no answer, just the faint drip of water somewhere deep within, a steady rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart. She leaned closer, squinting, and caught a glimpse of something—fabric, maybe, or hair—before a sound behind her made her freeze.
It was a breath, low and ragged, too close. She turned slowly, her body coiled with tension, but the hallway was empty, the gray light casting long, distorted shadows across the walls. The scar on her arm flared again, a white-hot pain that made her gasp, and she stumbled to her feet, backing away from the crawlspace. The house was playing tricks on her, or she was losing her mind—maybe both. But the footprints, the stitch, Ellie's voice—they were real, weren't they?
She retreated to the bedroom, locking the door behind her, though she knew it wouldn't stop whatever was coming. The diaries were still in the attic, the knife too, but she couldn't bring herself to go back up there, not yet. She sank onto the bed, pulling her knees to her chest, and tried to steady her breathing. The photo of her father burned in her mind, his hollow eyes staring through her, accusing her. You took her from me. Who? Her mother? Ellie? Someone else she'd forgotten?
The phone rang again, faint and distant, muffled by the attic's walls. She didn't move, didn't answer, just listened as it rang and rang, each note a hammer against her fraying nerves. When it stopped, the silence was worse, a void that pressed against her eardrums. She closed her eyes, willing it all to stop—the pain, the fear, the questions—but the darkness behind her lids offered no escape. It was alive with images: her father's mask, Ellie's scream, the red stitch gleaming like a beacon.
The floor creaked outside the door, soft and deliberate, and Mara's eyes snapped open. She held her breath, straining to hear, but there was nothing—no footsteps, no breathing, just the liar's quiet she'd come to dread. She waited, her body rigid, until exhaustion pulled her under, her mind slipping into a restless half-sleep where the past and present blurred into a nightmare she couldn't wake from. The dawn crept closer, gray turning to gold, but it brought no comfort—only the promise of a day she wasn't sure she'd survive.