Helen remained frozen on the hallway floor, her back pressed against the wall, breath trembling in her chest. The whisper on the other side of the storeroom door still echoed in her ears—soft, childlike, impossibly familiar.
"Sister… Helen… you're home…?"
The words circled around her mind, entwining with dread so thick she could almost taste it. Her rational mind scrambled for explanations—illusions, stress, the wind, her memory playing tricks—but none of those excuses matched the chilling clarity of the voice she heard.
She forced herself to look at the door again.
The scratches.
The carved word: SIS.
The faint splinters still on the floor.
This wasn't old. Someone or something must have done this recently.
Helen rose slowly, legs trembling beneath her. She took a step backward, her eyes fixed on the silent door. She wanted to run. Every instinct begged her to. But the house around her felt alive — watching, waiting.
And deep inside her chest, against her will… a small part of her wanted answers.
She swallowed hard.
"I should leave," she whispered to herself. "Right now."
She turned away, moving toward the stairs. But halfway down the hall, she stopped. Her foot hovered mid-air.
The air around her shifted—subtle, yet unmistakable.
Warm… then cold.
Still… then humming faintly.
It felt like the house exhaled.
Helen's skin prickled.
"Enough," she hissed in a trembling whisper.
She hurried down the stairs, her footsteps clumsy, desperate. When she reached the bottom, she went straight for the living room window and pulled back the dusty curtain, letting the faint evening light in.
The room looked different now—smaller, darker, as though shadows pooled in the corners like water.
Her eyes swept across the old photographs again.
Her grandmother in her youth.
Her grandfather, long passed.
Young Helen, small, smiling awkwardly.
And then she noticed it....
One of the frames had fallen face-down on a side table. She didn't remember it being like that when she entered earlier.
A lump formed in her throat.
She picked it up, her hands unsteady.
Inside the frame was a family picture she had never seen before. She was around six years old in the photo, standing beside her grandmother, holding a doll. Behind them was the house… the same house, but brighter, newer.
But something was off.
There was a faint outline beside her, almost as if someone had been there, but the figure was blurred out. Wiped away. Smudged deliberately.
Helen frowned, breath growing shallow.
She flipped the photo over.
Her stomach dropped.
On the back, in her grandmother's handwriting, it said:
"Helen + Arina — 2006"
Arina?
She had never known anyone by that name.
Her heart thudded painfully.
"No…" she whispered. "I didn't have... I never had..."
Her words trailed off.
A sudden sound cut through the house.
A soft dragging noise… coming from the kitchen.
Helen spun around.
Her pulse hammered.
The sound continued slow, scraping, rhythmic.
It was the kind of sound furniture made when pushed across old tile.
"Hello?" she called out, instantly regretting it.
The dragging stopped.
Silence followed a deep, unnatural silence.
Helen stepped toward the kitchen doorway, every nerve pulsing with fear. She reached the entrance and peeked inside.
The kitchen was dim, lit only by the last strip of dying sunlight slipping through the window. Everything seemed untouched, the plates stacked, a kettle rusted on the stove, shelves thick with age.
But the chair at the small dining table…
was no longer under the table.
It was turned slightly angled toward the doorway.
Toward her.
Helen's mouth went dry.
Her palms dampened with sweat.
The chair was facing her.
As if someone had been sitting there.
Watching the hallway.
Waiting for her to come down.
She took a step back.
And then she heard it... a tiny sound behind her.
tap… tap… tap…
Not footsteps.
Fingernails.
Light, dragging across the wooden floor.
She turned sharply, but the hallway was empty.
"Helen…"
She froze.
The whisper floated through the downstairs air—soft, close, impossibly near. She didn't know where it came from. The walls? The staircase? The very air around her?
"…Don't go…"
Her heart seized.
That wasn't the same voice from the storeroom.
This one was slightly older.
Not a child.
Not an adult.
Something in between.
Helen bolted for the front door, grabbing the handle with both hands.
It didn't move.
She pulled harder.
Then harder.
The old door rattled violently, but it remained stuck—jammed, locked from the inside though she hadn't touched any lock.
"No—no—NO—!" she cried, her voice cracking as panic sliced through her chest.
She stepped back, chest heaving.
Then she saw it.
In the reflection of the dusty glass window beside the door...
A faint outline stood at the top of the stairs.
Small.
Still.
Watching her.
Not detailed—just a silhouette.
A child-sized shadow shaped like a little girl.
Helen's blood ran cold.
The silhouette did not move.
Did not tilt its head.
Did not breathe.
It simply stood there…
…as if waiting for her reaction.
The house felt colder.
Heavier.
The air itself began to thrum softly around her, like a heartbeat.
Helen forced herself to turn around.
Slowly.
Terrified.
The staircase was empty.
No figure.
No shadow.
Nothing.
But footsteps—light, running—echoed across the upper floor.
patter-patter-patter—STOP.
Directly above her.
"Helen…"
The younger voice again.
"…Why did you leave me…?"
Her vision swam with fear.
"I— I don't know who you are," she choked out.
A soft giggle drifted down the stairs.
Not playful.
Not innocent.
A giggle that sounded… broken.
Then....
Every light in the house flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then died.
Darkness swallowed her completely.
The house inhaled....and Helen realized she was not alone.
Not anymore....
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To be Continued...