Mara didn't pick up the photo. It lay abandoned on the attic floor, a thin layer of dust already settling around its edges, her father's hollow eyes staring up through the gray dawn light filtering through the cracked windowpane. The burlap sack clutched in his hand seemed almost alive, its coarse texture a stark contrast to the faded sepia tones of the image, as though it held a promise—or a threat—frozen in time. She couldn't bring herself to touch it, not with those eyes boring into her, not with the weight of what it might mean pressing down on her chest like a stone.
The red stitch in the muddy footprints gleamed wetly under the dim light, a vivid thread of color that stood out against the dull, worn planks of the attic floor. It didn't belong there, that scarlet slash cutting through the muted browns and grays, and the sight of it sent a shiver racing down her spine. She backed away instinctively, her worn boots scuffing against the rough wood, the sound harsh and grating in the stillness. Her heart thudded in her ears, a relentless rhythm that drowned out the faint creaks and groans of the old house settling around her.
Ellie's words—our father, he's coming for me—looped in her head, a haunting refrain she couldn't silence no matter how hard she tried. They echoed over and over, each repetition tightening the knot of dread in her stomach. She could still hear the tremor in her sister's voice, the raw edge of panic that had crackled through the phone line earlier that morning. Mara squeezed her eyes shut, willing the memory away, but it clung to her like damp fog, persistent and suffocating.
Her father, alive in 1999, twisted into something monstrous. The idea was absurd, a nightmare conjured from grief and exhaustion. He'd died that year—she'd been there, hadn't she? The hospital room, the antiseptic smell, the flatline's piercing wail—it was etched into her memory. And yet, the evidence was piling up, heavy and undeniable, like stones stacked one by one until they formed a wall she couldn't see past. The photo, the footprints, Ellie's frantic calls—it all pointed to something she couldn't rationalize, something that defied the neat boundaries of her reality.
She grabbed the ladder with trembling hands, descending fast, the cold metal rungs biting into her palms. Each step jolted her arm, sending a dull throb radiating from the scar hidden beneath her sleeve. It felt alive, that jagged line of raised flesh, pulsing with a heat that matched the frantic beat of her heart. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps, fogging briefly in the chilly air as she reached the bottom, her boots hitting the hallway floor with a muted thud.
The hallway greeted her with its peeling walls, strips of faded wallpaper curling away from the plaster like dead skin, and the cracked mirror hanging crookedly by the stairs. Its surface was marred with spiderweb fractures, reflecting her fragmented image back at her—pale face, wild eyes, dark hair tangled from restless sleep. But it felt different now, the space narrower, the shadows deeper and more oppressive, as if the house had exhaled a long-held breath and drawn itself tighter around her. The air was thick, heavy with dust and something else she couldn't name, something that prickled at the back of her neck.
She stumbled down the hall toward the bedroom, her legs unsteady beneath her, and slammed the door shut with more force than necessary. The sound reverberated through the quiet, a sharp crack that made her flinch. She sank onto the bed, the quilt rough and unyielding against her skin, its coarse fibers catching on her calloused fingers. She sat there, hunched over, elbows digging into her thighs, trying to steady her breathing, to anchor herself in the familiar weight of the mattress beneath her.
The phone rang again, its shrill tone faint and distant, drifting up from somewhere downstairs. She didn't move. She couldn't face Ellie—not now, not with her father's gaunt face burned into her mind, those hollow eyes following her even here. The ringing persisted, each note stabbing at her resolve, but she stayed rooted to the bed, her body locked in place by an exhaustion that went beyond the physical.
She pressed her hands to her ears, fingers digging into her scalp, trying to block it out. The sound seeped through anyway, insistent and unrelenting, worming its way past her defenses until it finally stopped on its own, leaving a hollow silence in its wake. The quiet was worse, thick with anticipation, a void that seemed to hum with unspoken threats. She lowered her hands slowly, trembling, her palms damp with sweat despite the chill in the room.
Her eyes caught on the dresser across the room, and a jolt of unease shot through her. It was wrong—older, its wood a deep, rich mahogany instead of the scratched pine she'd seen yesterday, the handles tarnished brass instead of the chipped plastic she'd grown used to. She stood, slow and cautious, her legs protesting the movement, and crossed the room to it. Her fingers brushed its surface, tentative at first, then more firmly. The dust was gone, replaced by a faint sheen, as though someone had polished it recently—someone who cared about its upkeep in a way she never had.
A memory flickered at the edges of her mind—her grandmother's dresser, the one that had stood in this very room back in '99, heavy and ornate, a relic of a time when the house had been alive with family. She could almost smell the beeswax polish her grandmother used, hear the soft clink of the brass handles as she'd rummaged through its drawers as a child. But that dresser was gone, sold off years ago after Gran's death to pay for repairs the house had desperately needed. This shouldn't be here, couldn't be here, and yet there it stood, solid and real beneath her touch.
The window rattled suddenly, the wind picking up outside with a low, mournful howl that set the glass trembling in its frame. Mara turned to it, her reflection faint and ghostly in the streaked panes, distorted by the grime that clung to them. Beyond the glass, the yard came into sharper focus, the fog that had blanketed it earlier thinning out to reveal the shed in stark detail. Its door hung ajar, swaying slightly with each gust, a dark maw that seemed to beckon her closer. She hadn't noticed that before, hadn't registered the way it gaped open like a wound in the landscape.
Her gaze dropped to the bed, and her stomach lurched violently. The quilt was different—faded blue patchwork, its squares stitched together with uneven threads, not the plain gray cover she'd slept under the night before. It was hers, the one from '99, the one she'd hated for its scratchy seams that left red marks on her skin. She could feel those seams now, phantom irritations prickling against her palms as she stared at it, her mind reeling.
She backed away, her heel catching on something soft and yielding beneath her boot. She looked down, her breath catching in her throat—a rug, woven with red and yellow flowers, sprawled across the floor where bare wood had been an hour ago. It was garish, the colors too bright against the muted tones of the room, and utterly familiar. Her bedroom in '99 had that rug, a thrift store find her grandmother had adored despite its ugliness, insisting it brought warmth to the space. Mara had hated it then, too, had tripped over its frayed edges more times than she could count.
Her chest tightened, her breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. The house was changing, sliding backward, pulling pieces of her past into the present with a deliberate, almost malicious intent. The dresser, the quilt, the rug—they weren't random. They were fragments of a time she'd buried, a year she'd tried to forget, and now they were here, surrounding her, closing in.
The phone rang again, louder this time, its jarring trill cutting through the haze that clouded her thoughts. She bolted from the room, her boots pounding against the floorboards as she raced down the stairs, needing to stop it—to stop her. The dining room flashed by in a blur, the diary still lying open on the table where she'd left it, her name scrawled in its pages in Ellie's looping handwriting. She ignored it, her focus narrowing to the attic ladder ahead, her hands shaking as she climbed back up and snatched the receiver mid-ring.
"Ellie, what's happening?" Mara demanded, her voice raw and ragged, scraping against her throat. "The house—it's different. Things are moving, changing—"
"Mara, listen!" Ellie's tone was urgent, brittle, teetering on the edge of hysteria. "He's outside again, by the shed. I can see him from the crawlspace window—he's just standing there, staring at the house. I need you to warn Mom, tell her to leave before he—"
"Mom's dead," Mara snapped, cutting her off, her grip tightening on the phone until her knuckles whitened. "She died in '98, Ellie. A car accident. You can't—"
"No!" Ellie shouted, desperation cracking her voice like glass. "She's alive here, Mara! It's June '99—she's in the kitchen, making dinner. He's going to hurt her, I know it. You have to tell her to get out!"
Mara's head spun, the words crashing against the foundation of her reality, splintering it into jagged pieces. "That's impossible. She's been gone for years. I was alone here with Gran—"
"You're wrong!" Ellie sobbed, her voice breaking into jagged fragments. "You're forgetting, or you're lying, but she's here. Please, Mara, go back, warn her—I can't lose her!"
The line went dead, static hissing in its wake like a swarm of angry insects. Mara dropped the phone, her knees buckling beneath her, and she sank to the attic floor, the rough wood biting into her shins. The space spun around her, a dizzying whirl of shadows and dusty beams, and she pressed her palms to her temples, trying to hold herself together.
Go back? Warn her mother? It didn't make sense—her mom was a gravestone in the cemetery two miles down the road, a memory etched in cold granite, not a living woman in this house. She'd stood at that grave, felt the rain soak through her coat as they lowered the casket, heard Gran's quiet sobs beside her. That was real. That had happened. But Ellie's plea clawed at her, raw and visceral, and the shifting furniture, the rug, the dresser—they whispered a truth she couldn't face, a possibility that gnawed at the edges of her sanity.
She stumbled downstairs, clutching the banister for support, her boots slipping on the worn steps. She froze in the kitchen doorway, her breath catching in her chest. The sink was different—white porcelain, gleaming faintly under the overhead light, not the chipped stainless steel she'd scrubbed dishes in yesterday. A radio hummed on the counter, its static-laced voices fading in and out, a relic from her childhood she hadn't seen in years. The sound was faint, ghostly, like whispers from a past she couldn't quite grasp.
And there, on the table, was a letter—yellowed, creased, its edges curling inward, addressed to her in her mother's neat cursive. She hadn't seen it before, hadn't noticed it among the clutter of bills and junk mail that usually littered the surface. Her hands shook as she reached for it, the paper brittle and fragile under her fingers, threatening to crumble at her touch. She unfolded it carefully, her eyes scanning the date at the top: June 20, 1999. The words blurred briefly before sharpening into focus: Mara, I'm worried about your father. He's not himself lately—stays in the shed all night, won't talk to me. I think he blames us for something. Stay close, okay? Love, Mom.
Mara's vision blurred again, tears burning her eyes and spilling over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. The house groaned around her, a low, mournful sound that seemed to rise from its very bones, and the lights flickered, casting the letter in shifting shadows. She clutched it to her chest, the paper crinkling against her shirt, her mind a tempest of confusion and fear.
Outside, the shed door banged shut with a sound sharp and final, cutting through the storm of her thoughts like a blade. She jolted upright, the letter slipping from her grasp and fluttering to the floor, landing beside her boots. Her gaze darted to the window, the yard beyond now fully visible, the fog dissipated entirely. The shed stood silent and still, its door closed tight, but the air thrummed with a tension she couldn't shake—a certainty that whatever was happening, whatever Ellie had seen, it wasn't over yet.