The road stretched before Evan Mallory like a vein through the countryside, winding between shadowy thickets and rain-slicked asphalt. Each mile brought him closer to the house, a place he had vowed never to return to. Yet here he was, the weight of his decision pressing like a stone against his chest.
The car's headlights cut through the mist, illuminating the skeletal trees lining the road. He had thought the drive would offer some kind of clarity, a chance to rehearse the words he needed to say to himself. Instead, it only deepened the pit in his stomach.
The house loomed ahead, its gabled roof and warped timbers a silhouette against the darkening sky. Even through the blur of rain on the windshield, it seemed alive, its windows faintly aglow with a flickering light that shouldn't have been there. He parked in the gravel driveway, staring at the place where so many of his childhood memories—good and bad—were etched.
Evan stepped out of the car, the crunch of gravel underfoot startlingly loud in the oppressive silence. The air smelled of wet earth and decay, mingled with something he couldn't quite place, like burnt wood. He tightened his grip on his duffel bag and climbed the steps to the front door.
The key trembled in his hand, the metal cold against his skin. He hesitated. Did he really want to step inside? He could still turn back, drive to a hotel, and figure things out in the morning. But Clare's voice whispered in his mind, soft and sorrowful: You promised.
The door creaked open, revealing the yawning blackness of the foyer. Evan flicked the light switch instinctively, but nothing happened. "Figures," he muttered, pulling out his phone to use as a flashlight.
The beam illuminated the entryway, revealing wallpaper peeling like old skin and a faint layer of dust coating the floorboards. It looked as if no one had stepped foot here in years. Except for the faint drag marks on the floor leading toward the staircase.
Evan froze, his pulse hammering in his ears. It could have been his imagination, the shadows playing tricks on him. But when he bent down to examine the marks, his breath hitched. The pattern was unmistakable—five thin lines, as if clawed fingers had raked across the wood.
A low thump echoed from upstairs.
"Hello?" Evan's voice cracked, the word swallowed by the oppressive stillness. He stood, his body tense, staring up at the staircase. The thump came again, followed by the faint creak of floorboards.
It wasn't the house settling.
Adrenaline surged, but his legs refused to move. The years hadn't dulled the memories of this place—of the times he and his sister, Olivia, would dare each other to climb the stairs in the dead of night. Back then, the fear had been a game. Now, it felt real.
Finally, he forced his feet forward, the duffel bag slipping from his grasp and landing with a muffled thud. Each step groaned under his weight as he ascended, the flashlight's beam wobbling with his unsteady hands. The hallway stretched before him, doors on either side leading to rooms he hadn't thought about in decades.
The thumping stopped.
He reached the end of the hallway, where the master bedroom door stood ajar. A faint light flickered from within, casting long, warped shadows on the walls.
"Who's there?" Evan demanded, his voice trembling.
The door creaked open further, as if inviting him in.
Evan's heart pounded as he stepped over the threshold. Inside, the room was empty—save for the mirror above the dresser, its surface fogged over. Slowly, letters began to form on the glass, as if an unseen hand were writing them.
LEAVE.
He stumbled back, his breath coming in shallow gasps. But his reflection in the mirror didn't move.
It smiled.
Evan's chest tightened as he stared at the grinning reflection, his breath catching in his throat. The image in the mirror felt alive—its eyes darker, its grin stretching unnaturally wide. He blinked, desperate to clear the illusion, but the reflection remained, now tilting its head slowly, unnervingly.
Behind him, the door slammed shut with a deafening bang.
Evan whipped around, the flashlight beam jerking across the room. The door was shut tight, the faint outline of the hallway gone. He reached for the doorknob, his hands shaking, and twisted, but it wouldn't budge.
"Come on," he muttered through clenched teeth, his voice trembling. He jiggled the handle harder, then pounded on the wood. "Who's there? Let me out!"
A low chuckle echoed from the mirror.
Evan froze, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. Slowly, he turned back to face the dresser. The reflection of the room had changed. Behind his mirrored self stood a shadowy figure—tall, gaunt, and featureless. Its presence seemed to press against the glass, as if trying to break through.
"No," Evan whispered, his voice cracking. "This isn't real. This isn't—"
The shadow moved, stepping closer to his reflection, though nothing stood behind him in the room. Evan stumbled back, bumping into the dresser. The mirror vibrated violently, the glass rippling like water.
Then the shadow spoke.
"You came back," it said, its voice hollow and layered, like a dozen whispers overlapping. "You shouldn't have come back."
The room plunged into darkness. The flashlight in Evan's hand flickered, its weak beam cutting through the oppressive black. The air thickened, heavy with the scent of mildew and something metallic.
"Why are you doing this?" Evan shouted, his voice breaking with a mixture of anger and fear.
The shadow didn't respond, but the whispers grew louder, spilling into the room from all directions. They overlapped, indecipherable yet seething with malice. Evan clamped his hands over his ears, his flashlight clattering to the floor.
"Stop!" he yelled, his knees buckling as he crumpled to the ground.
And then, silence.
Evan opened his eyes cautiously. The room was bathed in pale moonlight streaming through the now-open window. The mirror stood cracked, its surface splintered into a spiderweb of fractures. His reflection was normal again—wide-eyed and pale, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
Evan scrambled to his feet, his gaze darting around the room. The air felt lighter, but the unease remained, like an unseen presence still lingering in the corners. Grabbing his flashlight from the floor, he bolted for the door, which now opened with ease.
The hallway was empty, the house silent once more.
Evan didn't stop until he was back in the foyer, his breath ragged as he leaned against the wall. He clutched his chest, willing his heart to slow. His mind raced, replaying the events upstairs, searching for some rational explanation.
"This is just grief," he whispered to himself. "It's messing with my head. That's all this is."
But even as he said it, he didn't believe it.
He glanced toward the staircase, its shadowy ascent now impossibly foreboding. The thought of spending the night here seemed insane, yet the idea of going back out into the rain, into the isolation of the countryside, filled him with a different kind of dread.
From somewhere deep within the house, a faint hum rose—a tune, melodic and eerily familiar.
Evan's blood ran cold. It was Clare's favourite lullaby.
The melody floated through the air, soft yet inescapable, drawing him further into the house.
"Clare?" he whispered, his voice cracking.
The humming didn't answer, but it didn't stop either. Against his better judgement, he took a tentative step toward the sound, his hands trembling as he gripped the flashlight.
Each step felt heavier than the last, as if the house itself resisted his movement. The melody led him to a door he hadn't opened in years: the basement.
Evan's stomach churned. He remembered this door well. It was where he and Olivia had always dared each other to go, though neither ever made it far. The basement had always felt wrong, even as a child—a place steeped in an unspoken dread.
The humming grew louder, more insistent.
Evan reached for the doorknob, his hand hovering inches from the tarnished brass. His instincts screamed at him to turn back, to leave the house and never return. But the sound of Clare's lullaby tugged at his chest, filled with both sorrow and longing.
"Clare," he whispered again, tears brimming in his eyes.
He twisted the knob.
The door creaked open, revealing the yawning blackness of the basement stairs. Cold air rushed out, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and something sickly sweet. The lullaby seemed to emanate from the very depths of the darkness, beckoning him forward.
Evan's grip on the flashlight tightened as he descended, each step groaning under his weight. The air grew colder, thicker, the shadows seeming to press in around him.
The melody stopped.
And then came the voice, soft and unmistakably hers.
"Evan, why did you leave me?"
He froze, his breath catching in his throat.
"Clare?" he called out, his voice trembling.
The flashlight flickered, the beam catching the outline of a figure at the bottom of the stairs. It stood motionless, its features obscured by the dark.
"Come closer," the voice urged, dripping with a mixture of warmth and accusation.
Evan took a shaky step forward, his heart pounding. The figure didn't move, but something about it felt off—its posture too rigid, its presence too consuming.
"Why did you let me die, Evan?" the voice whispered, closer now, though the figure hadn't moved.
Tears streamed down his face as he took another step, his mind screaming to turn back, to run. But the figure's presence rooted him in place, its form shifting slightly as the flashlight flickered again.
"Come closer," it repeated, its tone darker now, almost mocking.
The flashlight went out.
The sudden plunge into darkness hit Evan like a blow, stealing his breath and leaving him swaying on the narrow stairs. His mind scrambled for sense, for direction, for anything that could anchor him in the oppressive black. The air felt colder now, almost wet against his skin, and every instinct screamed that he wasn't alone.
"Clare?" he whispered again, his voice trembling, the name barely escaping his dry throat.
A soft, wet sound answered him—like bare feet shifting on damp stone. It came from below, closer than before.
The flashlight sputtered back to life in his hand, its beam faint and erratic, slicing through the thick darkness. He aimed it downward, toward the figure.
What he saw wasn't Clare.
The thing standing at the bottom of the stairs was wrong. It wore the suggestion of her—a tattered version of the dress she'd worn the night she died, long strands of hair plastered to its too-pale face. But its features were distorted, stretched as if they had been pulled by invisible hands. Its mouth was too wide, the corners curling into a grotesque semblance of a smile. And its eyes—empty pits of blackness that seemed to drink in the light—locked onto his.
"Why did you leave me?" the thing whispered, its voice a guttural mimicry of Clare's.
Evan's breath hitched as he stumbled back, his hand reaching for the railing. His foot slipped on the edge of a stair, and he caught himself just in time to avoid tumbling down. The flashlight flickered again, the beam dimming as the creature's malformed head tilted in an unnatural, jerking motion.
"You promised, Evan," it hissed, each word seeping with venom. "You promised you'd keep me safe."
The guilt he had buried—deep, so deep—exploded in his chest, and his mind reeled with the weight of it. The promises he had made to Clare. The ways he had failed her. The lies he had told himself to cope.
"This isn't real," Evan muttered to himself, shaking his head violently, as if the motion could dispel the nightmare unfolding before him. "You're not real!"
The thing at the bottom of the stairs didn't move. It only watched him, its unblinking eyes searing into his soul.
And then, with an inhuman swiftness, it leapt.
Evan barely had time to scream before it reached him. Its claw-like hands clamped onto his shoulders, cold and impossibly strong, dragging him downward. He thrashed, the flashlight clattering to the floor and spinning wildly, its beam casting dizzying patterns on the walls.
"Let me go!" he shouted, his voice breaking as he kicked against the thing's weight.
The creature's face was inches from his, its breath icy against his skin. Up close, its features were even more grotesque, its skin mottled and stretched taut over jagged bones.
"You left me to die," it whispered again, its voice splitting into overlapping tones—Clare's voice and something darker, more monstrous. "And now you'll stay."
Evan felt his legs buckle under the weight of its words, the truth slicing through him like a blade. But somewhere deep inside, a spark of defiance flared. This thing wasn't Clare. It wasn't her.
Summoning every ounce of strength, Evan twisted his body sharply, throwing the creature off balance. It screeched as it stumbled back, its claws raking across his chest and leaving trails of burning pain.
Evan scrambled up the stairs, his hands and knees scraping against the rough wood as he climbed. The flashlight's beam flickered one last time before dying completely, plunging the basement into total darkness. Behind him, the thing screeched again, a sound that echoed with rage and hunger.
He didn't look back. He didn't dare.
Reaching the top of the stairs, Evan slammed the basement door shut and leaned against it, his chest heaving. He could still hear the faint whispers from the other side, growing softer, retreating into the depths.
The house was silent again.
Evan slid to the floor, his back against the door, tears streaming down his face. His shirt was torn, his chest burning where the creature's claws had scraped him. He reached up to touch the wounds, his fingers trembling, and pulled them back sticky with blood.
This wasn't grief. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't his mind playing tricks on him.
Something was in this house.
And it wanted him to stay.
Evan sat slumped against the basement door, his breath ragged, the faint metallic scent of his own blood filling his nostrils. The house was eerily quiet now, the oppressive stillness pressing down on him like a physical weight. He wiped his face with a trembling hand, trying to gather his thoughts, to force some semblance of clarity through the haze of terror.
He needed to leave. Right now.
Staggering to his feet, he grabbed the duffel bag he had dropped earlier and made his way to the front door. His legs felt like lead, his vision swimming, but the thought of escaping this nightmare pushed him forward.
The door loomed ahead, its brass handle glinting faintly in the dim light. He reached for it, every muscle in his body coiled with desperation. His fingers closed around the cold metal, and he twisted it.
It didn't budge.
"No," Evan whispered, panic rising in his throat. He tried again, yanking harder, but the door remained firmly shut. "No, no, no!" He pounded on it with his fists, the sound echoing hollowly through the house.
Behind him, the floor creaked.
Evan froze, his breath hitching. The sound was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was there—a slow, deliberate creak, like the weight of someone taking a step.
He turned slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs.
At the far end of the hallway, a figure stood shrouded in shadow, its form just barely visible in the dim light. It was tall and unnaturally thin, its arms hanging too long at its sides, its head cocked at an unnatural angle.
"Evan," it rasped, its voice low and wet, like something bubbling up from the depths of a swamp.
The thing stepped forward, its movements jerky and unnatural, its feet dragging slightly against the floorboards.
Evan backed against the door, his fingers scrambling for the lock, for anything that might open it. "Stay away!" he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation.
The figure stopped, its head tilting further as if studying him. And then, in a voice that chilled him to his core, it whispered:
"You never should have come back."
The lights flickered violently, plunging the house into darkness.
Evan screamed.