The house smelled of mildew and forgotten years, a damp weight that clung to Mara Kline's skin as she stepped through the sagging front door.
She flicked the light switch by the entryway, but the bulb overhead stayed dark, its filament long burned out.
Her boots scuffed against the warped floorboards, kicking up dust that danced in the slivers of gray light filtering through the blinds.
She'd promised herself she'd be quick—sort through her grandmother's things, pack what mattered, and leave this place behind. It wasn't home anymore. It hadn't been since she was a kid.
Mara dropped her duffel bag by the stairs and pulled her jacket tighter, though the chill wasn't just from the February air seeping through the cracked walls.
The house felt alive in a way she couldn't pin down—creaking settling noises, a faint hum she swore came from the pipes.
Memories flickered at the edges of her mind: chasing fireflies in the yard, her grandmother's voice calling her in for supper.
But those were soft echoes, drowned out by the silence that owned the place now.
She started in the living room, sifting through stacks of yellowed newspapers and porcelain knickknacks coated in grime.
Her grandmother had been a hoarder of the quiet kind—nothing flashy, just decades of odds and ends piled into corners.
Mara boxed what she could, her fingers brushing a faded photo of herself at sixteen, all awkward limbs and a crooked smile.
She tucked it into her pocket, a small ache tugging at her chest. That girl felt like a stranger now.
The attic was the last stop. She'd been putting it off, dreading the cramped space and the cobwebs she knew waited up there. The pull-down ladder groaned as she tugged it free, each rung creaking under her weight.
The air grew thicker as she climbed, heavy with the scent of old wood and something sharper, like rust.
She clicked on her phone's flashlight, sweeping the beam across a sea of junk: a busted rocking horse, a trunk spilling moth-eaten quilts, a cracked mirror reflecting her shadowed face.
And then she saw it.
Tucked against the far wall, half-buried under a tarp, was an old rotary phone. Its black casing gleamed faintly, untouched by the dust that blanketed everything else. Mara frowned, stepping closer.
She didn't remember her grandmother ever owning one like this—sleek, vintage, with a coiled cord and a dial etched with symbols she couldn't quite make out.
Runes, maybe, or just decorative scratches worn smooth by time. She crouched, brushing her fingers over its surface. It was cold, colder than the attic's chill warranted.
The phone rang.
Mara jolted, nearly toppling backward. The sound was shrill, piercing, cutting through the stillness like a scream. Her heart thudded as she stared at it, the bell rattling inside its frame.
It wasn't plugged in—there was no cord trailing to an outlet, no way it could ring. She glanced around, half-expecting someone to step out from the shadows, but the attic was empty. Just her and the noise, insistent and alive.
Her hand hovered over the receiver. She should leave it. Walk away, call it a fluke, get out of this damn house.
But curiosity—or something deeper—pulled her fingers to the cool plastic. She lifted it to her ear, breath catching.
"Hello?" Her voice rasped, barely a whisper.
Static crackled through the line, sharp and jagged. Then a voice broke through—high-pitched, trembling, unmistakably young.
"They're coming for me…" it said, each word laced with panic. "Please, you have to stop him!"
Mara's grip tightened. The voice sounded wrong, familiar in a way that made her stomach twist. It was like hearing herself, but younger, rawer, stripped bare by fear. "Who is this?" she demanded. "What's happening?"
The static surged, swallowing the reply. A faint thud echoed through the receiver, then a gasp—short, desperate. "He's here—" The line went dead, leaving only a hollow hum in its wake.
Mara dropped the phone, the receiver clattering against the floor. Her breath came fast, fogging in the dim light. She stared at the thing, its silence now heavier than its ringing.
Her mind raced—prank call, crossed signal, some old recording trapped in the wires. But the phone wasn't connected. It couldn't be anything.
She stood, backing toward the ladder, her flashlight beam jittering across the attic walls. The house felt smaller now, the air pressing in.
She'd deal with it tomorrow, she told herself. Get some sleep, clear her head. But as she descended, the echo of that voice lingered, curling into her thoughts like smoke.
And somewhere above, in the dark, she swore she heard the faintest click—like the dial resetting itself.