Click. The sound of the lock snapping into place was sharp. Final. Too loud for something so small. It echoed down the hallway like a warning. Mia turned slowly away from the door, every part of her stiff, her breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat. Daniel hadn't moved. His hand still gripped the doorknob, knuckles pale, like maybe if he held on tight enough, the lock would undo itself. His eyes were wide—staring ahead, but not really seeing anymore. That calm, quiet control he always carried was slipping. Not panic. Not yet. But fear was close. Leah hadn't spoken. She hadn't even shifted her weight.Her fingers were tight on the strap of her bag, holding it against her chest like a shield. Her eyes bounced between Mia and Daniel, over their shoulders, down the hallway, back to the door. Over and over. Like she was waiting for something to move. Like she expected it to. The air was too still. The silence too sharp. And the feeling that crept into the room was no longer just fear. It was recognition. Something had noticed them. And now, they couldn't leave."This has to be a mistake," Daniel said, but his voice wavered too much to sound convincing. He forced a laugh—light, nervous, and thin as paper. "Old houses creak. Doors shift. It's probably just… warped wood or something. Draft, maybe." Mia didn't answer right away. She kept her eyes on the front door, still shut like it had never been touched. Like it had always been closed. "Wood doesn't click like that," she said, softly. The words felt heavier than they should have. That sound hadn't been natural. It was too clean. Too deliberate. And the feeling growing in her gut… She hadn't felt that in years. Not since she was little. Back when she still believed the shadows in this house could whisper. "And it doesn't trap you," she added, barely above a whisper now. Leah shifted beside her. Her bag still clutched tight against her chest. She looked smaller than usual, like she was trying to take up less space. "Let's just try another door," she said. Her voice was quiet, but it cracked at the edges. "Maybe the back one's open." No one argued. Because none of them wanted to admit what they were really thinking. That whatever had locked the front door… had already decided they weren't leaving. Daniel nodded fast, almost too fast. Grateful for something to do, something that made sense. Something that felt normal. "Right. Yeah. I'll check." He turned, already heading for the hallway, and the other two followed without needing to be told. They didn't separate. They moved together, tight and close, sticking to each other's heels like shadows at dusk. Like if one of them turned the wrong corner alone, they might not come back. The house didn't feel the same anymore. It was colder. Not in temperature, exactly—but in weight. The kind of cold that settles in your chest and doesn't go away. Every room they passed through was darker than it should've been, like the light from the outside didn't want to follow them in. The wallpaper seemed to lean in. The floor creaked even when no one was stepping on it. And the air... It pressed in close. Like they were walking through a space that didn't want them there. Like it knew they were trespassing. Mia glanced over her shoulder, more than once. Leah stayed quiet, her bag still hugged close, fingers white around the strap. They didn't talk. Didn't whisper. But each of them felt it. That something in the house was awake now. And it was watching. The kitchen hadn't changed much since they were kids. Same faded tile underfoot, chipped along the edges where their bikes used to scrape when they were too lazy to leave them outside. Same wooden cabinets—still crooked, still stubborn, never quite shutting no matter how hard you slammed them. The smell of old coffee and dust still hung in the air, buried under years of silence. Daniel didn't waste time. He marched straight to the back door and grabbed the handle. Yanked it. Nothing. The door didn't even budge. He jiggled the knob harder, rattling it like maybe it had just gotten stuck, like it would give if he shook it the right way. Still nothing. His jaw clenched. He stepped back and slammed his shoulder into it, hard. The whole frame shook, but the door didn't open. Didn't even crack. Just stood there, stubborn and locked. Like it wanted to stay that way. "Okay," he muttered, out of breath, stepping back again. "This is getting ridiculous." He turned to the others, shaking his head. "Who locks every door and doesn't leave a key?" No one answered. Because deep down, they were all starting to understand— Someone had locked the doors. But it hadn't been to keep people out. It was to keep them in. "Dad didn't do this," Mia said flatly. Her voice had no edge, no question. Just truth, cold and solid. "This house is… different." Not just old. Not just creaky. Different. Leah stood near the window, arms crossed tight over her chest, tugging her hoodie closer like it could protect her from whatever was crawling under her skin. She kept glancing outside, like maybe someone might show up. Or maybe she just needed to see the world still existed beyond this place. She backed away slowly. "Can we just… not split up, please?" she asked. Her voice was small. Frayed at the edges. Mia didn't hesitate. "No one's going anywhere alone." The words hung in the air. Final. The kind of promise that doesn't need to be argued. Then silence again. That same thick, pressing silence. Like the house approved. Then Mia remembered. The photograph. The one with the boy who wasn't supposed to be there. The way he stood so perfectly between them. That almost-familiar face. That school sweater. That smile that didn't feel right. Something about it still tugged at her. Wouldn't let go. "I need to check something," she said, her voice low but steady. She turned toward the hallway. Her footsteps were slow, careful, like the floor might shift beneath her. "Come with me." She didn't have to look back. They followed. Because none of them wanted to be alone. Not in this house. Not anymore. They followed her, slow and hesitant. Reluctant. Every step felt louder than it should've. The kind of quiet where even breathing sounded like noise. Back down the hallway. Back to the wall of family portraits. The light from the window was dimmer now, the air colder somehow. Or maybe it was just them, carrying the weight of everything the house had already shown. Mia stopped in front of the frame. The same one. Same faces. Same forced smiles. And there he was. The boy. Still standing between her and Daniel. Still wearing the same school sweater, same tilt of the head. That quiet smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. Eyes that seemed too dark. Too old. Like they'd seen things none of them were supposed to. Mia stared at him. He looked close to her age in the photo. Maybe a little older. He looked like he belonged. But he didn't. She pointed again, her finger hovering just above the glass "Do either of you remember him?" she asked, eyes still locked on the boy. Her voice barely cut through the silence. But it was loud enough to wake something else. Daniel stepped closer, his eyes narrowing, brows pulling tight as he stared at the photo like maybe this time it would make sense if he just looked long enough. "No," he said quietly. "I don't remember him." A pause. "But I remember taking this photo." His voice dropped, softer now, more certain. "We were in those itchy Sunday clothes Mom used to make us wear. I remember the grass sticking to my shoes. I remember Leah complaining the whole time. I even remember Dad yelling at us to smile." Mia didn't look away. "Then why is he there?" she asked, sharper now. Not accusing. Not yet. But close. Daniel shook his head once, slowly. "I don't know." And in the silence that followed, even the floor seemed to stop creaking. Leah's voice wavered. "Maybe it's… photoshopped?" she said, almost like she was asking permission to believe it. "Maybe someone messed with the photo?" She looked between them, eyes wide, searching for agreement—anything that would make this normal. Mia didn't move at first. Just stood there, staring at the frame like it might shift if she blinked too long. Then she reached out and brushed her thumb over the glass. "No," she said quietly. "It's real." She pulled the frame off the wall with both hands and turned it gently. "Feel the paper," she added, running her fingers along the edges. "It's old. It's not digital. This isn't a print from someone's phone. This has been here for years." Daniel leaned in, frowning deeper. His fingertips skimmed the edge, and for a second, he looked like he might say something—anything—to explain it. But instead, he asked, "Then how do you explain it?" Mia didn't answer. She couldn't. Because no answer made sense. And deep down, she already knew— This wasn't a mistake. They stood in silence again. No one moved. The photo hung heavy in Mia's hands. Dust floated in the still air, slow and weightless, like the house had paused—waiting. Then it came. Creak. Not soft. Not accidental. It was sharp. Slow. Heavy. Another step. Then another. Each one dragged across the ceiling above them with the weight of something real. Something walking. Not settling. Not shifting. Footsteps. All three of them looked up at the same time. Eyes wide. Breath held. Hearts racing in perfect sync. Leah's voice came out like a thread, barely a whisper. "Is there someone upstairs?" Daniel reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen. Nothing. He held the button. Still nothing. Then he muttered under his breath, "It's dead. Fully dead." He stared at the screen like it had betrayed him. "I charged it before we left. I swear." Mia pulled hers out next. Pressed the power button. Nothing. Not even a flicker. Her stomach dropped. Leah's hands were already moving, shaky and fast, pulling her phone from her bag. She held it up to her face, thumb on the side. No light. No sound. Not even a battery icon. Just black. All three phones. Dead. Like something had drained them the second they stepped inside. Mia's throat was dry, but her voice stayed firm. She took one breath. "Okay," she said, steady but quiet. "We go upstairs." A pause. She turned to look at them. Her eyes calm, even if everything inside her wasn't. "Together." No one argued. They didn't want to go. But they didn't want to stay down here either. Not with the footsteps still echoing above them. "Upstairs?" Daniel said, his voice sharp, almost a whisper but laced with disbelief. "You want to go toward the sound?" His eyes were wide, like he couldn't decide if Mia was being brave or insane. Mia didn't flinch. "Whatever's happening here…" she started, her voice low and even, "it started the second we stepped inside." She held up the photo in her hand, the boy's smile still pressed behind the glass, still watching. "That boy in the photo—he's the key." Her grip tightened around the frame. "And something upstairs is waiting." The words hung in the air like dust. Leah shifted beside her, hugging herself tighter. Daniel looked like he had a dozen reasons ready to argue. His mouth opened once, then closed. In the end, he just nodded. Once. Tight. Resolved. No one wanted to go. But some part of all three of them already knew— they were never getting out until they did. They moved toward the staircase like it might bite. No one spoke. The only sound was their footsteps—slow, unsure—and the low groan of each stair beneath their weight. Old wood complained with every step. Long, drawn-out creaks that sounded more like warning than wear. Like the house didn't want them going any farther. Like it was pushing back. Mia led the way, her hand gripping the railing tight. It felt rough, splintered in places. Cold, like it hadn't been touched in years. Daniel followed close behind, eyes scanning the walls, every nerve on edge. Leah clung to the photo against her chest, as if letting go of it would open some invisible door she couldn't close. The hallway behind them grew darker with every step up. And ahead— Shadows stretched long across the staircase walls. Paint peeled like old skin. The last bit of sunlight leaked through the high, dusty windows, cutting across the bannister in slants. The light didn't feel warm. It felt like it was trying to hang on. Trying not to let go. As they climbed higher, the silence above didn't feel still anymore. It felt like breathing. Like something up there knew they were coming. At the top of the stairs, the air felt heavier—thicker somehow, like it had been waiting. The hallway stretched out in front of them, long and narrow, the ceiling just a little too low, the walls a little too close. Five doors lined the hall. Four were shut. Completely still. But one— One stood open. Just slightly. Not wide enough to see inside, just enough to make your imagination do the rest. And it was moving. Barely. Rocking gently on its hinges, like someone had passed through it a second before they reached the top. Like it hadn't finished settling. Mia stepped forward. Slow. Careful. Each footfall silent, as if the floor might shout if she moved too fast. Daniel and Leah stayed close, one on each side. No one said a word. No one had to. The closer they got to the open door, the colder it felt. Not like a draft. This cold was dense, almost wet, crawling along their skin. Mia reached out and placed her fingers on the wood. The door was ice under her touch. She pushed. Creeeeeak. The sound stretched into the hallway like a warning. And the darkness inside the room opened its arms, waiting. The room was still. Not just quiet—but still. Like everything inside had been frozen mid-thought. Dust floated through the air in slow spirals, catching what little light crept through the window. It looked like breath held too long. Like the air itself hadn't moved in years. A small bed sat against the far wall, sheets tucked in tight, perfectly smooth. Too smooth. Neat in a way no child ever leaves it. Toy soldiers stood in a line along the windowsill—facing outward, as if keeping guard. Their paint chipped, some missing limbs, but all standing tall. Mia's eyes moved to the desk. A small stack of books sat beside an old lamp. The covers were worn and frayed at the corners—picture books, stories with wide lettering and faded illustrations. One had a sticker half-peeled from the front, the kind you'd find in school libraries. The wallpaper was peeling in long, slow curls. Once bright, now yellowed and cracked, like it had aged faster than the rest of the room. And the curtains— Faded blue. Still. Limp. Lifeless. They didn't even move with the breeze, because there was no breeze. There was just the cold. And the quiet. And the feeling that whoever had lived here… hadn't really left. "This room," Mia said, her voice barely above a whisper. "This wasn't here before." She stood in the doorway, eyes sweeping over every piece—the bed, the books, the soldiers—all of it too perfect, too untouched. Daniel took a step beside her, squinting like he was trying to see through time. "It was," he said slowly. "But it was a storage room." He glanced around again, jaw tightening. "Dad kept old tools in here. Boxes. Paint cans. It was always locked." But none of that was here now. Just a child's room. Still. Waiting. Leah's voice came from behind them, soft and strange. "It was a kid's room," she said. Her eyes didn't leave the bed. "It belonged to Elliot." Mia turned fast, heart thudding. She stared at her sister. "What did you say?" Leah blinked, confused for a second, like she didn't know she'd spoken at all. "I—" Her lips parted. She looked down, then back at Mia. "I don't know. I just… knew." Mia's voice dropped. "Leah… how do you know that name?" But Leah didn't answer. Because suddenly, she didn't know either. Leah blinked, her lips parted like the name had left her mouth before she'd even realized it. "I… I don't know," she said, her voice thin. "It just came to me." She looked at Mia, wide-eyed, searching, scared. Mia didn't speak. She turned and crossed the room slowly, her boots soundless on the old wood floor. At the side of the bed, a small nightstand stood with peeling paint and one drawer slightly ajar. Sitting on top of it was a photo frame. The glass was cracked across the corner, a faint splinter cutting through part of the image. She picked it up carefully. It was him. The boy. That same quiet smile. Same dark eyes. Same face from the hallway portrait. But here, it was different. He was alone. No family. No siblings. Just him. Standing in what looked like this same room, the wallpaper still intact behind him, the blue curtains freshly hung. And across the glass—written in smudged, almost invisible handwriting, like it had been there for years—were three words: "I'm still here." Mia's throat tightened. She stared at the message, her fingers trembling slightly against the edge of the frame. Elliot. Whoever he was… He never left. Mia's breath hitched in her chest, stuck somewhere between shock and dread. She lowered the frame slowly, heart pounding, eyes scanning the room again—deeper this time. And then she saw it. Just above the bed. The wall. The wallpaper had peeled back there more than anywhere else, curling like skin trying to hide something beneath. And beneath it— Scratches. Dozens at first glance. Then more. Hundreds. All carved directly into the plaster. Deep. Jagged. Uneven. Like whoever did it had nothing but fingernails. Or a dull piece of metal. Or bare, bleeding hands. Words scratched again and again in messy lines. Some crooked. Some overlapping. "I'm still here." Over and over. Faint in some spots, angry and fresh in others. The same phrase. Repeating like a chant. Like a cry. Like a truth no one listened to. Leah stepped forward behind her, her breath shallow. Daniel didn't speak. The silence wasn't empty anymore. It was full. Full of that voice—his voice—still trapped somewhere in these walls. Still carving. Still waiting. Daniel stumbled back a step, eyes wide, voice tight. "We need to get out of here." It wasn't a suggestion. It was panic. Then— SLAM. The door behind them snapped shut with a force that shook the floorboards. All three of them jumped. Leah was the first to move, bolting for it. She grabbed the handle and twisted hard. Daniel was right behind her, yanking, shoving his shoulder against the wood. It didn't move. It didn't even creak. Like the door was part of the wall now. Like it had never meant to open again. "Mia?" Leah's voice cracked around her sister's name, sharp with fear. Mia didn't answer right away. Because something had changed. The room was colder now. Not the kind of cold you feel on your skin. The kind that seeps deeper. Slipping under your clothes, under your ribs, into your spine. It filled her lungs with every breath—sharp, wet, wrong. She exhaled slowly, and her breath came out in a soft, white cloud. Like she was standing outside in the dead of winter. Only there were no windows open. No breeze. Just the cold. And whatever had brought it with it. A whisper brushed against Mia's ear. Soft. Close. "You forgot me." Her body jerked as she spun around—fast, heart in her throat. No one. Nothing. Just the still room, the quiet dust, the bed untouched. But the words still echoed in her mind, louder than they had any right to. And then she saw Leah. Frozen. Her face pale, her lips parted like she was about to speak but couldn't. Her eyes were locked on the far corner of the room. Unmoving. Unblinking. "Leah?" Mia said, stepping toward her. "Did you hear—" Leah nodded slowly. Barely. And then she lifted a shaky finger, pointing. "There," she whispered. "In the corner." Mia turned. The light didn't quite reach that far. Just a dim patch of space near the desk where the shadows sat thicker than they should. Too thick. Too still. And then— Something shifted. Just enough to catch the edge of her vision. A flicker. A shape. Not moving forward. Just… unfolding. Like it had always been there. Waiting to be seen. A figure stood there. Small. Still. Right where the shadows had thickened in the corner—just beyond the desk, half hidden in the dark. Mia's breath caught again. It was him. The boy. The same face from the hallway photo. The same soft jawline. The same too-wide eyes. But now he was real. Real enough to cast a shadow. Real enough to make the air drop ten more degrees. "Elliot?" Mia said. Her voice cracked on the name. He didn't answer. Just tilted his head, slow and silent, the way animals do when they hear something no one else can. And his eyes— They were hollow. Not empty. Just too deep. Like looking into a well with no bottom. They weren't angry. They weren't kind. They were sad. So deeply, quietly sad it made Mia's throat close. Then— He blinked. Once. Slow. Unnatural. Like his body had to remember how. And before anyone could move— Before a single breath could be drawn— He vanished. Like smoke. Like he'd never been there at all. The door behind them flew open with a violent crack, slamming against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame. Leah screamed—sharp and full of raw panic. Daniel didn't hesitate. He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her backward, dragging her through the doorway. Mia was right behind them, her legs shaking, lungs tight, heart pounding like it was trying to break through her ribs. They didn't stop until they were back in the hallway, stumbling over each other, tripping on their own fear. The air out there wasn't much better—still cold, still pressing—but it felt like a step away from something they weren't ready to face. Then the lights above them flickered. A long buzz. A dim glow. Then darkness. Then flicker again. Each flash casting strange shadows along the walls—stretched, crooked, wrong. Mia turned back toward the room. The door was still wide open. But Elliot was gone. And the cold hadn't left with him. Mia clutched the photo frame tight to her chest, pressing it close like it might keep her grounded. She didn't know why. She just knew it mattered. That he mattered. That the truth was tangled up in that quiet face and the words etched into the glass."We need answers," she said, her voice hoarse but steady. Her eyes locked on Daniel's. "Dad's study. He must've left something." Daniel nodded once, already moving. They raced down the stairs, every step echoing through the house like a warning. The flickering lights above blinked once more, then died completely, leaving them in the gray wash of the late afternoon. Shadows stretched and twisted around them as they turned down the main hallway. The study was at the very end. The door was thick, the wood dry and stiff from years without use. Mia reached for the knob, tried to twist it—stuck. She pulled harder. It didn't budge. Daniel stepped forward without hesitation. "Move." He braced his shoulder and kicked. CRACK. The old wood gave with a groan, the door swinging inward with a burst of stale air and dust. And then— Silence. The kind that made you hold your breath without realizing it. They stood at the threshold, the room waiting for them. And whatever was inside… had been waiting too. The room looked frozen in time. Exactly how they remembered it— Books lining the walls, some leaning, some stacked two rows deep. Dust clung to every surface. The cracked globe in the corner still spun slightly when Mia brushed past it, like it had been waiting for a reason to move. The desk stood at the center, massive and dark, every drawer shut tight. Mia didn't hesitate. She dropped the photo frame carefully on the desk and started yanking drawers open. Receipts. Tax files. Maps folded too many times, corners torn. So much paper. So much nothing. Daniel stood beside her, rifling through stacks of folders, flipping pages like he was racing time. Leah hovered near the door, one eye still on the hallway. Then— Mia froze. At the bottom of the last drawer, tucked beneath a brittle envelope and a stack of old invoices, something caught her eye. A notebook. Worn leather. The color faded to a tired brown. Its edges were frayed, almost flaking. The strap that once held it closed had snapped long ago. She lifted it slowly, like it might fall apart in her hands. It was heavier than it looked. And when she opened it— The first page was blank. The second one wasn't. Her father's handwriting, unmistakable. Messy. Rushed. And at the very top of the page— "Elliot." Underlined twice. Mia stared at it, her hands suddenly cold again. The answers were here. And so were the secrets. Mia blinked, her hands trembling as her eyes traced each line. Her father's handwriting—slanted, uneven, familiar in a way that twisted something deep inside her. She read the words aloud, barely above a whisper, like saying them too loud might wake the walls. "There are things I made them forget." The ink was darker there. The pen must have pressed hard. "I thought I was protecting them." Mia swallowed. Her throat burned. Daniel leaned in beside her, silent now, reading over her shoulder. Leah didn't move from the doorway. "Elliot was the price I paid." That line hit like a punch. "But debts like this don't fade." "They wait." Mia's vision blurred. The edges of the page wavered. She didn't know if it was tears or something else—some deeper weight pressing down on her. Her fingers tightened on the notebook. "The house remembers." "Even when we don't." The room seemed to shrink around them. The silence changed. Not empty. Not quiet. Listening. Mia closed the notebook, but the words stayed in her chest. They hadn't just forgotten Elliot. They were made to. Mia turned the page with a slow, shaking hand. More writing. Faded. Smudged. Like it had been scribbled in the dark, in a hurry. "If you've come back, then the deal is broken." "The protection is gone." "Elliot remembers now." Her eyes locked on those last words. Like they were meant for this exact moment. Like her father had known they'd come back one day. Daniel leaned over her shoulder, reading with her. His brow furrowed, lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn't quite figure out where to start. Then— "What the hell does that mean?" he finally said, his voice tight, breathless. But before Mia could speak— Leah did. Soft. Low. Her voice didn't sound like it belonged to her at all. It was far away. Like it was coming from a dream she hadn't chosen to enter. "It means we weren't supposed to remember him." They turned to her. She wasn't looking at them. She was staring straight ahead—into nothing. Eyes glassy. Voice hollow. "Dad made us forget." A pause. Then, softer— "But Elliot never forgot us." Leah's voice cracked, barely holding together as the memory surfaced. "There were four of us." She didn't blink. Didn't move. Her arms hung loosely by her sides, as if even her body was still catching up to the truth spilling from her lips. "I remember now." Mia stood frozen. The notebook hung heavy in her hands. "He used to sleep on the top bunk," Leah said, her voice fragile, distant. "He always had that stuffed lion with the one eye. He'd tuck it under his chin and whisper to it when he thought we were asleep. I thought… I thought he was just a dream I made up." And then— CRACK. The lights in the study burst in a sudden explosion of sparks. A stinging pop echoed through the room, followed by glass scattering across the floor. Then nothing. No light. No hum. Just black. A thick, pressing kind of darkness—like a blanket pulled too tight over their heads. Then— Knock. Soft. From the hallway. Once. They held their breath. Knock. Twice. Closer now. Knock. Three times. Leah gasped. Daniel stepped in front of her. Mia didn't move. And then, from just beyond the door— Right outside the study, clear as breath on glass— A whisper. Thin. Fractured. "You left me here."
