Evan's scream echoed through the suffocating darkness, a raw, guttural sound that seemed swallowed by the house itself. He clawed blindly at the door behind him, his nails scraping the wood as his mind raced, trapped between the primal urge to flee and the paralysing terror that pinned him in place.
"Light," he muttered under his breath, his trembling fingers fumbling in his pocket. The flashlight. He needed the flashlight.
His hands closed around the cold metal, but when he clicked it on, nothing happened. He smacked it against his palm, frantic, each hollow clunk reverberating like a countdown. Finally, the beam sputtered to life, weak and faltering, casting long, shifting shadows along the hallway.
It was empty.
The figure that had been advancing on him was gone. The hallway stretched out in eerie silence, the faint beam of his flashlight barely illuminating the edges of the warped floorboards and peeling wallpaper.
But the air was wrong. Heavy. Charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Evan's chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing. "It's not real," he whispered to himself, the words trembling on his lips. "It's just—just my head playing tricks on me."
His heartbeat thundered in his ears as he turned back to the door. He twisted the lock again, yanking with all his strength, but it refused to budge. It was as if the house itself had decided to hold him captive.
The whisper came from behind him, soft and serpentine.
"You can't leave."
Evan spun around, the flashlight jerking wildly. The hallway was still empty, but the shadows felt alive now, shifting and curling at the edges of the light, like they were watching him, waiting.
He backed away slowly, his breath catching in his throat as his mind replayed the image of the figure—its impossibly long limbs, the rasp of its voice. The words it had spoken.
You never should have come back.
"What do you want from me?" Evan shouted into the oppressive quiet, his voice cracking. "What the hell do you want?"
The house answered with a low groan, the sound coming from deep within its foundation. It rolled through the walls, the floor, the very bones of the place, vibrating under Evan's feet.
And then, faintly, he heard it again: the melody.
Clare's lullaby.
It was coming from upstairs this time, drifting down like a ghostly echo, weaving itself into the silence. Each note sent a shiver down his spine, laced with an unnatural sweetness that made his stomach churn.
"No," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'm not going up there. I'm not—"
But even as he spoke, his legs moved, almost involuntarily, pulling him toward the staircase. The flashlight trembled in his hand as he approached the foot of the stairs, the lullaby growing clearer, each haunting note filling him with equal parts longing and dread.
He paused at the first step, staring up into the yawning darkness above. Every rational thought in his mind screamed at him to stop, to turn back, to break a window if he had to and get the hell out of the house.
But the melody tugged at him, insistent and familiar, and with a shaky breath, he took the first step.
The stairs creaked beneath his weight, each groan echoing through the house like a warning. The flashlight flickered again, casting fleeting glimpses of the warped wood and peeling paint. As he climbed, the air grew colder, the faint scent of decay wrapping around him like a shroud.
"Clare?" he called softly, his voice trembling.
The lullaby stopped.
Evan froze, his heart pounding as the silence pressed down on him. For a moment, nothing moved, the darkness stretching out endlessly before him.
And then he heard the whisper, so close it could have been right beside his ear.
"She's waiting for you."
The flashlight flickered violently, its beam flashing across the hallway at the top of the stairs. For a brief second, Evan saw it again—the same impossibly tall, distorted figure standing at the far end, its head tilted at that unnatural angle, its empty eyes locked on him.
Then the light went out.
The sound of footsteps—quick, heavy, inhuman—came rushing toward him through the dark.
Evan's breath caught in his throat, his entire body freezing as the rapid, pounding footsteps closed the distance. The darkness pressed in around him, thick and suffocating, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might burst.
Instinct took over. He turned and bolted down the stairs, his feet slipping on the worn wood as he half-stumbled, half-fell. The pounding sound was right behind him now, impossibly fast, impossibly close.
"Get away!" he screamed, his voice raw with terror.
He hit the bottom of the stairs and darted toward the foyer, his outstretched hand searching blindly for anything—a weapon, a door, a way out. His mind raced, a chaotic mess of fear and desperation.
The pounding stopped.
Evan skidded to a halt, his chest heaving, his hands gripping the edge of a table near the wall for balance. The silence was deafening, broken only by the ragged sound of his breathing. He dared to glance back over his shoulder, his blood running cold as his eyes strained against the dark.
Nothing.
The staircase loomed behind him, empty and silent, as if nothing had chased him at all.
But the house felt alive. The air vibrated with a low, almost imperceptible hum, and the shadows seemed to ripple, like waves disturbed by an unseen current.
Evan's trembling hand fumbled for the flashlight again. When he clicked it on, the beam sputtered weakly to life, illuminating the immediate area with a dim, flickering light.
"Okay," he muttered under his breath, his voice shaking. "Okay, just breathe. It's—it's not real. None of this is real."
But as the words left his lips, he saw it.
A dark stain, glistening and wet, trailing across the floor from the staircase toward the hallway. The beam of the flashlight followed it, his stomach twisting as he realized it wasn't just a stain.
It was a trail.
Footprints.
Large, inhuman footprints, the edges smudged as if something heavy had dragged across the floorboards.
The trail led toward the kitchen.
Evan's mind screamed at him to stay put, to barricade himself in the foyer and wait until morning, but something stronger—curiosity, or perhaps the terrible need to know—pulled him forward.
The flashlight flickered as he followed the trail, his footsteps slow and deliberate, each creak of the floorboards making him wince. The footprints became more erratic as they neared the kitchen, their shapes twisting, as if whatever made them had begun to lose cohesion.
When he reached the doorway, the air was colder still, biting at his skin. The kitchen was a mess, its counters covered in dust and broken crockery, the air filled with the faint smell of mildew and something sickly sweet.
And there, in the centre of the room, stood a figure.
It faced away from him, its body hunched and trembling, its silhouette barely illuminated by the weak beam of his flashlight.
Evan's breath caught. "Who—who are you?" he whispered, his voice cracking.
The figure didn't respond, but its movements became more erratic, its shoulders jerking in sharp, unnatural motions.
"Clare?" he asked, the word slipping from his lips before he could stop it.
The figure froze.
Slowly, impossibly slowly, it turned.
Evan's stomach dropped as the flashlight illuminated its face—or what should have been its face. There was no flesh, no features. Just a void, black and yawning, stretching across where a face should have been.
It raised an arm, long and skeletal, the fingers twisted like gnarled branches.
And then, in Clare's voice, it whispered:
"Why didn't you save me?"
The flashlight went out.
Evan screamed as the void surged toward him, the sound of its distorted, guttural breathing filling the room. He stumbled backward, his feet tangling in the edge of a rug, sending him crashing to the floor.
The cold rushed over him, suffocating and relentless, as if the void itself was consuming him. His hands clawed at the floor, desperate for purchase, for escape, but the presence pressed down harder, pinning him in place.
"Why did you leave me?" the voice rasped again, louder this time, reverberating through his skull.
Evan squeezed his eyes shut, his mind racing, fragments of memories flooding back: Clare's laughter, her touch, the look on her face the last time he saw her alive.
"I didn't mean to!" he shouted, his voice breaking with anguish. "I didn't—"
A sudden burst of light filled the room, blinding and searing, accompanied by a deafening crack.
The weight vanished.
Evan gasped, his eyes fluttering open. He was alone. The kitchen was empty, the air still and silent once more.
But as he sat up, his heart still pounding, he saw something on the floor where the figure had stood.
A photograph, curled and yellowed with age.
He picked it up with shaking hands, his breath catching in his throat as he recognized the image. It was Clare—smiling, radiant, her arm around him on the porch of this very house.
But in the corner of the photo, barely visible, was a shadowy figure.
Watching.
Evan's fingers trembled as he clutched the photograph, the edges damp from the sweat on his palms. The shadowy figure in the corner of the image seemed to loom larger the longer he stared at it, as if the darkness itself was alive, reaching out to him through the faded paper.
His mind swirled with questions, each one more frantic than the last. How did this get here? Was it always in the house? He didn't remember this picture—at least, not this version of it. The original had been framed in his apartment for years after Clare's death, but there had been no shadow, no lurking presence in the corner.
This wasn't just a memory. It was something else.
Evan's chest tightened as the kitchen seemed to darken around him, the faint light from the hallway fading like the house itself was pulling the walls inward. He shoved the photograph into his pocket and staggered to his feet, the faint echo of Clare's voice still ringing in his ears.
"Why did you leave me?"
He shook his head violently, trying to dispel the words, the guilt. I didn't leave her. I couldn't save her. But the argument, even in his own mind, felt weak, hollow.
A faint sound pulled him from his thoughts—a rhythmic tap-tap-tap, coming from the hallway.
Evan froze, the blood draining from his face. It was slow and deliberate, like nails dragging across wood, moving closer with each tap.
He turned the flashlight back on, the beam weak and trembling as he aimed it toward the hallway. At first, he saw nothing, just the empty stretch of darkened floorboards leading to the foyer. But then, slowly, he noticed something emerging from the shadows.
A hand.
Pale and thin, with fingers too long to be human, curling over the edge of the wall.
"Jesus Christ," Evan whispered, his voice barely audible as his heart pounded in his chest.
The hand gripped the corner of the wall, and then another appeared below it, pulling the rest of the figure into view. It crawled on all fours, its limbs jerking in unnatural movements, its head low to the floor. Its body was emaciated, the skin stretched tightly over bones that jutted at sharp angles.
It didn't have a face.
Just a smooth, featureless expanse where a face should have been, its void-like presence pulling at Evan's mind, filling him with a primal dread.
The figure paused, its head tilting toward him despite the lack of eyes.
"Evan," it rasped, its voice a grotesque mimicry of Clare's. "You can't run."
The sound broke him from his paralysis. Evan bolted toward the back door, his shoes slipping on the tiles as he fumbled with the handle. He yanked at it, praying it wasn't locked like the front, and relief surged through him when it gave way.
He stumbled out into the overgrown backyard, the cold night air biting at his skin. The grass was tall, damp with dew, and the faint outline of the woods loomed in the distance.
Behind him, the house groaned, the sound low and menacing, like a beast waking from slumber.
Evan didn't look back. He sprinted toward the woods, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. The flashlight bobbed in his hand, its beam barely illuminating the ground in front of him, but he didn't stop. The thought of that thing chasing him, of its voice calling his name, propelled him forward.
The trees swallowed him quickly, their twisted branches forming a canopy that blocked out the moonlight. The woods were silent, save for the crunch of his footsteps on dead leaves and the rapid thud of his heartbeat.
But then he heard it.
The tapping sound.
It was faster now, more erratic, echoing through the trees as if it were coming from all directions.
"No," Evan panted, his legs burning as he pushed himself harder. "No, no, no!"
The tapping grew louder, closer, until it was all he could hear.
And then it stopped.
Evan skidded to a halt, his chest heaving, his flashlight darting wildly through the trees. The woods were silent again, unnaturally so, as if the entire world was holding its breath.
Something moved in his peripheral vision—a flicker of white among the dark trunks. He turned the flashlight toward it, the beam trembling as it landed on a figure standing just a few feet away.
It was Clare.
Her dress was torn and dirty, her hair matted, but her face was perfect—soft, beautiful, the way he remembered her.
"Clare?" he whispered, his voice breaking.
She stepped closer, her bare feet silent on the forest floor. Her eyes, wide and filled with sorrow, locked onto his.
"Why didn't you save me, Evan?" she asked, her voice trembling with pain.
"I—I tried," he stammered, tears streaming down his face. "I swear to God, Clare, I tried!"
Her expression hardened.
"You let me die."
Before he could respond, her face twisted, her features contorting into something monstrous. Her mouth stretched too wide, her teeth sharp and jagged, and her eyes darkened into endless voids.
She lunged.
Evan screamed as he fell backward, the flashlight clattering to the ground, its beam cutting off as it landed. The darkness closed in around him, and all he could feel was the cold.
Evan hit the forest floor hard, the damp earth pressing against his back as the darkness enveloped him. The air was cold, biting, but it was the weight that came next that sent his mind spiraling into panic.
Something heavy pressed down on his chest, pinning him in place. He gasped, clawing at the unseen force, but his hands found nothing but air.
"Evan," the voice hissed, distorted and dripping with malice. "You can't run from the truth."
A flicker of light pierced the blackness. The flashlight, lying just out of reach, sputtered faintly, casting erratic shadows across the trees. For a brief moment, Clare's distorted face came into view above him, her gaping mouth revealing rows of jagged teeth.
Evan screamed and thrashed, his hands digging into the soil beneath him. "You're not real! You're not—"
Her hand, cold and skeletal, pressed against his throat, silencing him. "You left me," she whispered, her voice now layered with anguish and rage. "You ran when I needed you most."
"I didn't!" Evan choked, his voice barely audible. Tears streamed down his face, the raw pain of the memory tearing through him. "I swear, Clare, I didn't leave you!"
Her grip tightened, and for a moment, he thought he would black out. But then, the flashlight flickered again, brighter this time, the beam cutting through the shadows like a lifeline.
The light landed on Clare's face—or what was left of it. Her features twisted, melting into something grotesque and unrecognizable, her hollow eyes boring into his. But she flinched at the light, her grip faltering for just a moment.
Evan seized the opportunity. With all the strength he could muster, he rolled to the side, breaking free from her grasp. He scrambled toward the flashlight, his fingers closing around the cold metal as he turned it toward her.
The beam hit her full force, and she let out an ear-piercing screech, her body convulsing as the light seemed to burn her. Her form flickered, shifting between Clare and the faceless creature he had seen in the house, before dissolving into the shadows.
Silence fell again, the forest eerily still.
Evan collapsed to his knees, clutching the flashlight like a lifeline. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his mind racing to process what had just happened.
But the quiet didn't last.
A faint rustling sound came from the trees, growing louder with each passing second. It wasn't just one thing moving—it was many.
The tapping returned.
Evan's stomach dropped as he turned the flashlight toward the sound. Shadows darted between the trees, quick and erratic, their shapes shifting and impossible to define.
They were surrounding him.
"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "No, no, no..."
The tapping grew louder, a cacophony of unnatural, staccato rhythms echoing all around him. And then, one by one, the shadows stopped moving, their forms solidifying as they stepped closer.
Evan's breath caught in his throat as the flashlight revealed them.
Clare. Over and over again, her face twisted and distorted, her body frozen in grotesque mimicries of pain. Each figure was slightly different—some bore open wounds, others had limbs bent at impossible angles—but all of them had her eyes. Empty, accusing, staring straight at him.
They moved as one, closing in on him, their mouths opening to release a unified, guttural scream that shook the very ground beneath him.
Evan stumbled backward, the flashlight slipping from his hand. "Stop!" he shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. "Please, stop!"
The figures halted, their screams cutting off abruptly, leaving an oppressive silence in their wake.
And then, one of them stepped forward.
It was Clare—her real face, soft and beautiful, unmarked by the horrors that surrounded him. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she looked at him, her lips trembling.
"You could have saved me," she said softly, her voice filled with heartbreak.
Evan shook his head, the weight of his guilt crushing him. "I tried," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I tried, Clare. I swear I tried."
She knelt before him, her eyes searching his. "Then why didn't you stay?"
Her question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Evan opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. The truth was there, just out of reach, buried beneath layers of fear and denial.
Clare reached out, her hand brushing against his cheek. Her touch was warm, comforting, a cruel echo of the past.
"Come back to me," she whispered, her voice like a lullaby.
Evan felt himself slipping, the forest fading around him as her words wrapped around his mind. Her hand grew colder, tighter, pulling him closer to her.
And then he heard it.
A voice, distant but familiar, cutting through the haze.
"Evan!"
He snapped back to reality, the forest coming into sharp focus. The figures were gone, the oppressive silence replaced by the sound of his own ragged breathing.
But the voice called again, urgent and clear.
"Evan, run!"
It wasn't Clare.
It was someone else. Someone alive.
Evan scrambled to his feet, his flashlight barely flickering as he turned toward the voice. In the distance, through the dense trees, he saw a faint glow—a lantern, swinging wildly.
And then a figure appeared, running toward him, shouting his name.
"Run!" the person screamed again, their voice filled with terror.
Behind them, the shadows stirred.
Evan's heart pounded in his chest as the figure ran toward him, their outline becoming clearer with each desperate step. The lantern in their hand swung wildly, casting long, eerie shadows across the trees. But it wasn't the figure that caught his attention—it was what followed.
The shadows in the woods were moving again, more violently this time, swarming from every direction. The air crackled with a charged, unnatural energy, like the forest itself was alive and closing in.
"Run, Evan! Get out of here!" the figure shouted, their voice panicked, strained with fear.
Evan's eyes widened in terror. The shadows behind the figure were no longer subtle—they were tangible, their forms grotesque and unnerving. Long limbs reached out from between the trees, their fingers curling like claws. And then—he saw her.
Clare.
But it wasn't the Clare he remembered. This version of her was twisted, her face a distorted reflection of the woman he loved, her skin pallid and stretched tight over her skull. Her eyes were empty voids, and her mouth gaped wide, her teeth jagged and dripping with something dark. She moved with a jerky, unnatural gait, her limbs twitching as if pulled by invisible strings.
"Clare…" Evan whispered, his voice shaking.
The figure in the distance—whoever they were—was almost at him now, but the shadows, the creatures, were closing in too fast.
"Evan!" The voice cried out, more desperate now, but the shadows were already upon them.
The figure was yanked back, a silent scream filling the air as they vanished into the darkness.
Evan's breath caught in his throat, the lantern falling to the ground, its light flickering out.
The forest was alive with movement now, the sound of hundreds of feet shuffling, breathing, crawling. The very trees seemed to lean in, as though watching, waiting for him to make his next move.
Run. The command echoed in his mind, sharp and panicked.
But as he turned to flee, his legs froze in place.
There, in the distance, standing between him and any chance of escape, was Clare.
Her distorted figure swayed in the shadows, her head cocked to one side, her eyes locked onto him. She opened her mouth again, her voice low and haunting.
"Why didn't you save me, Evan?"
And then—
A terrible, deafening crash. The ground shook beneath him.
Evan spun around just in time to see the earth split open, the ground beneath his feet cracking like glass, a deep chasm yawning wide.
His heart stopped as he realized the truth. The forest wasn't just closing in—it was trying to swallow him whole.