The drive to Crestwood was a journey into a different world. The sprawling suburbs and congested highways gradually gave way to winding mountain roads that coiled through dense, ancient forests. The air grew cooler, smelling of pine and damp earth. With every mile that clicked by on the odometer, the metallic taste in my mouth seemed to grow stronger, a constant, unwelcome companion. It was no longer just a faint tang; it was a persistent flavor, like sucking on an old penny, a reminder that something within me was changing, reacting to the pull of this place.
I reached the town, if it could be called that, by late afternoon. Crestwood was little more than a forgotten post office, a shuttered general store, and a handful of houses scattered along the wooded slopes like discarded toys. The air was preternaturally still, the silence broken only by the distant call of a crow. Using the faded address from the back of the old photograph and directions from a taciturn gas station attendant fifty miles back, I navigated the crumbling, single-lane road that led up to the old property.
The house stood at the end of a long, overgrown driveway, shrouded by towering pines that blocked out much of the fading daylight. It was exactly as it appeared in the photograph, yet the reality of it was a thousand times more oppressive. The green paint was blistered and peeling, revealing the grey, rotting wood beneath. Several windows were boarded up, and the porch sagged in the middle like a broken spine. It was a place of profound neglect, but more than that, it felt like a place of sorrow. The air around it was heavy and cold, even in the mild mountain afternoon.
I sat in the car for a long time, the engine ticking as it cooled, just staring at the structure. The feeling of being watched was back, but it was different here. It wasn't a focused gaze from a single point; it was a diffuse, ambient presence that seemed to emanate from the very soil, the trees, the house itself. This wasn't just a place The Watcher visited. This was its home.
Steeling myself, I grabbed my flashlight and got out of the car. The crunch of my footsteps on the gravel driveway was deafening in the silence. The front door was locked, but a window around the back, its frame warped with age, slid open with a groan of protest. The air that rushed out was frigid and carried a smell of dust, decay, and something else… something dry and ancient, like old bones.
The inside was a time capsule of a life abruptly left behind. Furniture was covered in yellowed sheets, and a thick layer of dust coated every surface. My flashlight beam cut through the deep gloom, dancing over forgotten knick-knacks and faded floral wallpaper. I moved slowly, my heart hammering, my senses on high alert. Every creak of the floorboards beneath my feet sounded like a gunshot.
I didn't know what I was looking for. A journal, another photo, some kind of clue. I made my way to the living room. On the mantelpiece, amidst a collection of tarnished silver frames, was a photograph of Great-Aunt Silvia. She was younger, but her eyes held that same "nervous" quality, a deep-seated apprehension. I picked up the frame, wiping the dust from the glass. And there it was. In the background of her own living room, in the dark archway that led to the hall, stood the shadow. It was in her house, just as it had been in my childhood home. A permanent resident.
A floorboard creaked overhead.
I froze, my blood turning to ice. It wasn't the settling sound of an old house. It was a distinct, weight-bearing step. I wasn't alone.
Holding my breath, I listened. Silence. Then, another creak, closer to the top of the stairs. I shone my flashlight beam toward the staircase, but the light seemed to die before it reached the top, swallowed by an unnatural darkness. The metallic taste in my mouth was now so strong it made me feel nauseous.
I had to get out. The urge to flee was overwhelming, a primal scream in my hindbrain. This had been a mistake. I was an intruder here. As I turned to leave, my flashlight beam swept across the wall opposite the fireplace. My breath caught.
There, scratched into the wallpaper, were lines. Not random marks, but deliberate, frantic etchings. I stepped closer, my fear momentarily eclipsed by a horrifying fascination. They were dates. Dozens of them, going back decades. Next to each date was a single, stark word.
Saw it.
Heard it.
It touched me.
The etchings became more frantic, the handwriting more unhinged, as the dates progressed. My eyes scanned down the wall, following the timeline of my great-aunt's torment. And then I saw the last entry. The date was just a week before she was found dead in this house. The words were carved so deep they had torn through the paper into the plaster beneath.
It knows my name.
A wave of pure, undiluted terror washed over me. This was not a history. This was a prophecy. The pattern was clear. The observation, the auditory phenomena, the physical contact… and then, the final, dreadful acknowledgment.
As I stood there, paralyzed by the horror on the wall, a cold draft swept through the room, extinguishing my flashlight. The darkness was absolute, a physical weight. From the top of the stairs, I heard it: a soft, shuffling footstep, followed by another. It was coming down.
I didn't wait. I turned and ran, stumbling through the dark, unfamiliar room, crashing into furniture, my only thought to get to the window, to get out. I could feel it behind me, a freezing cold presence, a silence that was louder than any sound. I scrambled out the window, falling onto the damp ground outside, and I didn't stop running until I was back in my car, the engine roaring to life, speeding down the mountain road as if all the shadows in the world were chasing me.