The rain hit harder now, louder than before, like it had something to prove. It slapped the windshield over and over, fast and angry, turning everything outside into gray shapes and moving shadows. Mia blinked through it, shoulders tight, her fingers squeezing the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding her together. Her knuckles had gone pale. Her foot slipped off the gas just a little, not enough to stop, just enough to slow down and breathe. The wipers dragged across the glass with a slow, tired groan. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like even they were done trying. Daniel sat stiff beside her. He hadn't shifted once since they left the motel. Arms crossed. Face locked forward. His eyes didn't blink much, just stared hard at the passing trees, wet and bare, sliding by like ghosts. His fingers tapped on his jeans—soft, steady, endless. Tap, tap, tap. Like a clock ticking. Like he was keeping time in his head, counting down to something. Mia glanced at him once. That look on his face—tight jaw, shoulders set, silence screaming louder than words—it meant one thing. He was either angry. Or scared. Maybe both. In the backseat, Leah hadn't moved at all. She was curled up tight, like she was trying to disappear. Hoodie pulled over her head, arms around her knees, headphones jammed so deep in her ears Mia wasn't sure how she could breathe. She hadn't spoken. Not even when they stopped for gas. Not even when Daniel cursed under his breath at the highway detour. She hadn't looked up. Not once. Mia glanced in the mirror, just to check. Leah's face was hidden in the shadow of her hood. The silence inside the car was louder than the storm outside. And with every mile they drove closer to the house, it felt like something unseen was tightening around them. No one wanted to go back. But they were already too close to turn around. Not since they passed the old gas station. The one with the faded awning and the broken vending machine. The same place they used to stop after school—slushies, candy, sticky fingers, loud laughter. A lifetime ago. None of them said anything when they drove by. No one needed to. The silence tightened in the car like a held breath, stretched too long. Mia's heart didn't race. It didn't slow either. It just… thudded. Heavy. Dull. Like each beat had to drag itself forward. The road curved. The trees broke open. And there it was. The house. It hadn't changed. Not even a little. Still sitting there like it had been waiting for them. The paint peeled in long strips, curling like dead leaves. The porch light flickered faintly, almost like it was warning them off. And the mailbox—tilted, sad, flag missing—still leaned to one side, exactly as it had the last time she saw it.bMia stopped the car at the edge of the driveway. No one moved. No one spoke. The rain softened, just for a second, as if even the storm didn't want to go any closer. She turned her head slowly toward Daniel. His jaw was tight, teeth pressed together. He wasn't looking at the house. He was staring straight ahead, refusing to meet its gaze. He didn't want to be here. Neither did she.bBehind them, Leah shifted. One earbud came out, just enough for her voice to slip through.b"Do we have to go into It was barely more than a breath. Mia didn't answer. Couldn't. This wasn't about choice. Not anymore. They hadn't come back because they missed him. They hadn't come back because they wanted to forgive. They came because death doesn't ask. It demands. And the house— the house knew that. Mia swallowed. Now that they were this close, the house looked different. Bigger. Darker. Heavier somehow. Like it had soaked up every year they were gone. The mist curled around its base, thick and low, and the sky above looked sick—gray smeared with purple, like an old bruise. The kind that never really fades. It sat at the end of the road like a secret too tired to hide. And it waited. The shape of the house pressed against the mist and sky like it didn't belong there. Like it had been dropped in from some other place and forced itself to stay. The roof sagged. The windows were dark. And yet, it felt like the house was breathing. Not alive in a warm, lived-in way—but in the way something old and angry might breathe if it was tired of being forgotten. It looked at them. Not with eyes, but with presence. Mia felt it in her gut. Cold, low, twisting. Like something was off before anything had even happened. Daniel didn't move. His eyes were locked on the front door, like he was waiting for it to swing open by itself. Like he half-expected something to step out. "We can't stay here long," he said. His voice was quiet, clipped. No room for argument. "We go in, clear Dad's stuff, and we're gone. Fast." Mia stayed still behind the wheel. Both hands gripping the leather like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. She didn't answer. She wanted to believe him. That they could go in, pack up a few boxes, close the chapter, and leave. But deep down, she knew. It wouldn't be that simple. The house wouldn't let it be. They got out. Rain misted their jackets, wet their shoes, clung to their hair. The porch steps groaned under their weight like the house was waking up. And when they stepped inside— The smell hit. It stopped Mia cold. The air was thick, heavy, like it had been locked inside for years. Damp wood. Mold creeping behind the walls. And something else, just beneath it—sweet, soft, wrong. Like flowers that had started to rot but were trying to pretend they hadn't. Daniel coughed once. Leah pulled her hoodie tighter. Dust floated through the air, slow and heavy, like ash after a fire. It clung to the couch, piled on the corners of old cabinets, settled into the picture frames on the wall. Every surface was gray. Every color had faded. The house wasn't just full of silence. It was full of everything they had tried to leave behind. Their footsteps echoed weirdly. Not soft, not warm. Not like home used to sound. It was thinner now. Hollow. Every creak on the floorboards felt too loud. Like the house was listening. Mia moved slowly, her boots brushing the dust as she walked. Her fingertips trailed along the wall, and the wallpaper felt colder than it should have. Like touching the inside of a freezer. A small draft slipped down the hallway, curling around her arms, under her sleeves. She stopped. One picture caught her eye. Hung crooked. Covered in a film of dust, but still visible beneath the glass. It was a photo of them. Their family. Dad, standing like a statue in the middle. His smile didn't reach his eyes—tight lips, square shoulders, the usual stiffness like he didn't want to be there but made himself pose anyway. Mom stood next to him, hand on his arm, face soft but tired. And the three kids. Mia. Daniel. Leah. So small back then. Still wearing those matching school sweaters with the little patch over the heart. Still. Silent. But then— Something flickered in her mind. A gut reaction. Something didn't sit right. Her eyes moved back across the photo. Slowly this time. And that's when she saw it. Her breath caught in her chest. There was someone else. Another child. A boy. He stood between her and Daniel, same sweater, same pose, same strange smile. Not a blur. Not some faded trick of the light. He was just… there. Like he'd always been part of the picture. Like he'd always been part of them. Mia leaned closer. Her heart pounded louder now, not in fear, but confusion. Pressure. She studied the boy's face. It was almost familiar. Like someone she passed in a dream once. Or a name she'd forgotten after childhood. But nothing came. No memory. No explanation. Just a face that shouldn't have been there. No memory at all. Mia searched every corner of her mind, every birthday, every holiday photo, every school pickup, every fight over the TV remote. Nothing. She didn't remember him. Not his face. Not his name. Not the feeling of having another brother. Her throat dried up. "Daniel," she said, her voice thin and tight. "Come look at this." She didn't take her eyes off the photo. Daniel's steps were soft, uneven. The wood creaked under his weight as he came closer. When he reached her side, he stopped, went still. His brow pulled in the way it did when something didn't make sense. He stared. Long and hard. Leah's footsteps followed a beat later. She pulled one earbud from her ear, letting it dangle against her hoodie. "What's going on?" Her voice was light, but shaky. Mia pointed at the frame. "That boy. Right there." Leah leaned in. Her face scrunched like she thought maybe Mia was messing with her. She looked. Blinked. Then stopped breathing. Silence swallowed the hallway. Daniel's head shook slowly, barely moving. "I... I don't know who that is." Mia turned to him. "You're sure?" He didn't answer right away. Just stared harder, like he thought maybe the face would explain itself if he looked long enough. Finally, he said, "I've never seen him before." But his voice wavered. He wasn't sure. Not really. Leah took a step back. Her face went pale. Paler than Mia had ever seen it. "That's not funny," she whispered. "Why would Dad put another kid in our family photo? That doesn't make sense." She looked at both of them now, searching their faces like she needed one of them to laugh, to tell her it was a joke. No one did. Because no one had an answer. The air around them shifted. Heavier now. It wrapped around their skin like wet cloth, too close, too thick. Like the house had been listening. Like it was holding its breath. Waiting. For the next question. Or for them to finally remember something they were never meant to forget. The house creaked. Not just a casual groan from tired beams or shifting floorboards. This one dragged itself through the walls, deep and long, like something ancient waking up after years in the dark. It sounded... aware. Like the house was stretching its limbs. Like it was listening. Then— The sound. From upstairs. A slow, dragging thud. One. Then silence. Then another. Not a quick shuffle. Not something light. This was different. Heavy. Solid. They all felt it in their stomachs. That awful kind of sound you don't hear with your ears as much as you feel through your feet and spine. It didn't sound like the wind. It didn't sound like an animal.bAnd it sure as hell didn't sound like the house settling. It was something being moved. Or something trying to move. And failing. They froze. All three of them.bLeah stopped breathing. Daniel's shoulders stiffened, head slowly turning toward the ceiling, even though it looked like every part of him didn't want to look at all. Mia's chest lifted once. Then nothing. Her throat clenched like it didn't trust the air anymore. "You heard that, right?" Daniel said. His voice had dropped—low, careful, like he was afraid the house might hear him say it. Mia didn't look at him. Just nodded. Slow. "We're not alone here." Her voice came out dry, soft, nearly swallowed by the stillness that followed. Leah gripped her arm. Hard. Fingernails digging into the sleeve of Mia's sweater, clinging like she might float away if she let go. No one moved. The air had changed again. It was thick now. Like trying to breathe through water. The walls didn't creak anymore. They waited. Leah's eyes were wide, darting from corner to corner, like she expected something to crawl out of the walls and wrap around her ankles. Her grip on Mia's arm tightened. "We need to leave," she whispered. "Right now." Her voice barely made it past her lips, but it cut through the silence like glass. No one argued. Not this time.bThere was no back-and-forth. No second-guessing. Just one shared thought between them—Get out. They all turned at once, feet moving faster than their minds. But the door got there first. BAM. The sound exploded through the hallway. The front door slammed shut like someone on the other side had kicked it with everything they had. The frame rattled. Dust dropped from the ceiling. Then— Click. The lock slid into place. Sharp. Clean. Final. Mia reached it first. She didn't waste time. She grabbed the handle, yanked hard—once, twice, again. Nothing. It didn't even rattle. No give. No looseness. The door wasn't just shut. It was sealed. Like it had never been open in the first place. She turned slowly, her face pale, hands still gripping the doorknob like she didn't want to let go. "It locked," she said, her voice shaking now. Not panicked. Not yet. Just stunned. "I didn't touch it. It just… closed." Daniel was already moving. His hand ran along the wall near the doorframe, fingers searching for something—an old latch, a loose board, anything. His face was tight, focused, but Mia could see the fear sitting just behind his eyes. Leah didn't move. She stood a few steps back, arms wrapped around herself like she was trying to hold her body in place. The silence fell again. But it didn't feel empty. It felt full. Like something was pressing in from all sides. Watching. Breathing. And whatever had locked the door wasn't done with them. Daniel's hands moved faster now, patting the wall, pushing against the molding, fingertips searching for a panel, a latch—anything that might open the door or lead them out. But the wall gave him nothing. Just old paint and wood that pulsed with cold. Leah slowly backed away. Her face had drained of color. The headphones she always wore were still around her neck, but she didn't even seem to notice them. Her lips parted like she was going to scream—but nothing came out. Not even a breath. She just stared at the door. Then at Mia. Then at the hall behind them. Like she didn't know which way was worse. Then everything went quiet again. But not the kind of quiet that comes with peace. This one was heavy. Thick. It pressed on their ears, their shoulders, their lungs. Like the house had lungs of its own. Like it had just taken a breath. A long, slow inhale. Hold. Then— Exhale. The air shifted. Cold wrapped around Mia's neck, down her arms, like fingers brushing her skin. Her stomach twisted. Her skin prickled. It wasn't just fear. It was knowing. Knowing the house was alive in a way that had nothing to do with creaking wood or bad wiring. Something was upstairs. It hadn't moved again. Not yet. But it remembered. Some debts don't die. Some weights don't leave. And no matter how far they'd run— the house had always been waiting for them to come back.
