The front door of her childhood home creaked open with ease.
The air inside smelled of damp wood and decay. Dust floated in the thin shafts of streetlight sneaking through cracks in the boarded windows.
Amara's legs wobbled as she stepped inside. Her phone buzzed weakly in her pocket. She checked it.
"It's too late."
A photo frame lay face-down on the floor. She picked it up. The image was of her—smiling, younger. But the eyes were scratched out, leaving hollow black holes staring back.
Every room she entered was empty. Everything she remembered was warped, twisted, broken. Yet she could feel eyes watching her from every corner.
The faceless passenger drifted silently behind her. The driver leaned against the staircase, still and quiet, observing.
Amara's lips trembled. "What… what is this?"
The whisper came from all around her:
"You've never left."