Detective Caleb Reed stood outside the house on Greenbriar Hill, the cold wind whipping against his face as he fumbled with a cigarette. His hands were trembling slightly though he told himself it was from the cold—and as he brought the lighter up, he missed the end of the cigarette entirely. A sigh escaped his lips, half frustration, half resignation, before he finally managed to ignite the cigarette and take a long drag. The tip glowed red, almost as if the house before him had lit it for him.
He winced as the ember touched his fingers, a sharp, stinging burn that he didn't immediately register. He was too focused on the massive, looming structure before him. The house was old, its once-proud Victorian architecture now faded and decayed. The windows, dark and empty, stared back at him like hollow eyes, and the once-vibrant paint had peeled away, revealing patches of weathered wood underneath. It looked exactly like a place where someone had died violently.
Someone like Marcus Dew.
Caleb tossed the cigarette to the ground, grinding it into the dirt with his heel. The air was thick with the smell of rain and damp earth, and the sky overhead was a bruise-colored swirl of storm clouds. It would rain soon, but he didn't care. He wasn't supposed to be here, and if he didn't find a way into the house soon, someone might notice. The last thing he needed was another black mark on his record. Another reason for the brass to think he was losing it.
"Here we go," Caleb muttered to himself, patting the pocket of his coat where he'd stashed the old key. It had been a hell of a time tracking down the realtor who'd last tried to sell the property, and even more of a challenge convincing them to let him borrow the key. After all, he wasn't exactly on a sanctioned investigation. This was just one last desperate attempt to prove to himself—and to the ghosts of his past—that he wasn't a total failure.
He slipped the key into the lock and, with a click, the heavy wooden door creaked open. Caleb hesitated for just a moment, a cold chill running down his spine. It felt like the house was breathing, exhaling stale, musty air from its depths. He pushed the door open wider, stepping inside and quickly shutting it behind him.
Darkness enveloped him, save for the thin sliver of light that crept in through the cracks around the door. Caleb fumbled for his phone, intending to use its flashlight, and then cursed under his breath when he remembered he'd left it on the table by the entrance. He turned back, blindly reaching for where he'd set it down. His fingers brushed the table's surface, but the phone wasn't there.
Panic fluttered in his chest for a brief moment. He could have sworn he'd placed it right there. Caleb's mind raced with possibilities—had he dropped it outside? Had someone followed him in and taken it? The thought sent a shiver of unease down his spine, but he quickly dismissed it. He was alone in this house, as far as he knew. The realtor had assured him the place had been vacant for years.
"Get it together, Reed," he muttered, turning back towards the darkened interior of the house. He shrugged off his coat, hanging it on the coat rack by the door, and took a deep breath. The smell of dust and mildew filled his nostrils, mingling with something else—something faint, like the lingering scent of decay.
The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of his own breathing and the soft creaking of the floorboards beneath his feet. He was acutely aware of how alone he was, the walls of the house seeming to close in around him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he cautiously moved further into the house, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.
He knew the layout of the house from the old blueprints he'd studied. Marcus Dew's bedroom was on the second floor, at the end of the hall. That would be his first stop. Caleb ascended the grand staircase, the wood groaning under his weight, as if it hadn't borne the burden of a human in years. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering in and out of existence with each step.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he hesitated again. The hallway stretched out before him, long and narrow, lined with closed doors. It reminded him of the hallways in his childhood home, the kind that seemed to grow longer in the dark, filled with unseen things lurking just out of sight. He shook the memory away and pressed on, his hand resting lightly on the wall for support as he made his way to Marcus Dew's room.
The door to the room was slightly ajar, and Caleb nudged it open with his foot. The room beyond was just as dilapidated as the rest of the house. Dust covered every surface, and the air was thick with the smell of rot. The bed was still made, as if Marcus had simply stepped out and never returned. A large, cracked mirror hung on the wall opposite the bed, and an old dresser sat in the corner, its drawers slightly open, as if someone had rifled through them in a hurry.
Caleb walked over to the dresser, his fingers brushing against the cold wood. He pulled open the top drawer, revealing a few scattered papers, a comb, and a broken pocket watch. Nothing of interest. He moved to the next drawer, then the next, each one revealing more mundane items—old clothes, a worn Bible, a yellowed photograph of a young woman he didn't recognize.
Disappointed, Caleb stood in the middle of the room, staring at the mirror. His own reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed and tired. What had he expected to find? Some glaring clue that everyone else had missed? He wasn't even sure what he was looking for anymore. All he knew was that he couldn't let this case go—couldn't let his father's failure be his own.
A soft creaking sound echoed through the room, drawing Caleb's attention to the door. It swung open slowly, the hinges groaning in protest. Caleb's breath caught in his throat. He was certain he'd closed it behind him. The air in the room grew colder, the temperature dropping sharply as if something unseen had just entered.
The objects in the room began to shift subtly—papers rustling on the dresser, the mirror trembling on its hook, the bedcovers rippling as though brushed by an invisible hand. Caleb took a step back, his heart pounding in his chest. He was alone in the room, but it didn't feel that way anymore. The air was thick with an unseen presence, something cold and angry.
He didn't need to be told twice. Without another glance, Caleb bolted from the room, nearly tripping over his own feet as he fled down the hallway. He had to get out of this house—had to get away from whatever was haunting it. He raced down the stairs, his footsteps thundering against the old wood, and reached for the door handle.
It wouldn't budge.
The door was jammed, as if something was holding it closed. Caleb pulled harder, panic rising in his throat like bile. He slammed his shoulder against the door, but it didn't give. He was trapped. Trapped in a house with something that didn't want him to leave.
His eyes darted to the table where he'd left his phone. It was gone. Completely vanished. His pulse quickened as the realization hit him—he wasn't alone in the house after all. Something had taken it. Something that didn't want him to call for help.
In the suffocating silence that followed, Caleb heard it—a soft whispering sound, like the rustling of dry leaves in the wind. It came from behind him, from somewhere deep within the house. He turned slowly, his breath catching in his throat. The hallway was dark, but he could see something moving in the shadows—a shape, indistinct and shifting, slowly making its way towards him.
He backed away, his hands trembling, and stumbled into the living room. The only other exit was the basement door. Without thinking, he wrenched it open and descended into the darkness below, his feet barely touching the steps. He was halfway down when the lights began to flicker, casting eerie, strobe-like flashes across the walls.
Boxes fell from shelves, crashing to the floor with a deafening noise. The lights above him buzzed and hummed, as if they were struggling to stay alive. Caleb's breath came in short, panicked gasps as he reached the bottom of the stairs, his eyes darting around the cluttered basement.
There was no way out.
The whispering grew louder, filling his ears with an unintelligible murmur. He pressed his hands to his head, trying to block out the sound, but it only grew louder, more insistent. The boxes that had fallen began to move, sliding across the floor towards him, as if being pushed by unseen hands.
And then, suddenly, they stopped. The basement was still, the lights steady once more. Caleb slowly lowered his hands, his pulse pounding in his ears. It was then that he saw it—a small object lying on the floor, partially hidden by one of the fallen boxes.
A voice recorder.
With trembling hands, Caleb picked it up and pressed play. The recorder whirred to life, and a voice filled the room—a voice Caleb recognized immediately, even though he had never heard it in person.
"Detective," Marcus Dew's voice crackled through the speakers, calm and eerily composed. "I've been waiting for you."