The Uber dropped Claire at the edge of Wicker Lane and took off like the street was cursed. Honestly, she didn't blame him. Even through the screen of her hoodie, she could see it—The Ashwood House—still standing, still watching.
It hadn't changed much. Grey stones cracked like dry skin. Ivy choking its spine. Windows like blind eyes, yet somehow… aware. Like they were waiting for her to blink first.
Claire adjusted the strap of her backpack and took a deep breath. She had promised herself she wouldn't look back, but this place—this house—had other ideas.
The iron gate creaked open on its own. Not dramatically, not like in the movies. Just enough to say, "Come in. We've missed you."
She swallowed hard and stepped through. Dead leaves whispered under her boots, and the air got colder with every step. Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket—low battery. Classic horror movie energy.
"This isn't a movie," she muttered. "It's just a house."
But the house didn't agree.
Inside, the silence wasn't empty. It was thick. Listening. Like the air had ears.
Claire walked through the foyer, dust rising in soft clouds like ghosts stretching after a long nap. She paused at the staircase. It creaked softly, even though no one had stepped on it.
Then—
"Claire."
Her name. Clear. Whispered. But no one else was there.
She spun around. Empty.
She should leave. She knew that. Every part of her was screaming it. But another part—the same one that brought her back here—stood frozen, staring up the stairs.
The voice came again, this time more urgent.
"Upstairs."
Her legs moved before her brain gave permission. The air grew colder with every step. As she reached the landing, she felt it again: not just watched—heard.
This house didn't just see you.
It listened.
And somewhere in its silence, it remembered everything.
Even the things Claire tried to forget.
Chapter Two: The Room at the End
Claire hesitated at the top of the stairs. The hallway stretched long and narrow, dimly lit by what little dusk seeped through the dust-fogged windows. The wallpaper was peeling like scabbed skin, and every door on either side was closed—except one.
The last door on the left stood ajar.
"Why is it always the last door?" she whispered, forcing a nervous laugh.
She walked forward, each step softer, quieter, like the house wanted her to keep the silence intact. Her fingers brushed the wall for balance, and she felt it then—a vibration, subtle but steady. Like a pulse.
Claire reached the door. Her hand trembled as she pushed it open.
The room was smaller than she remembered. Same old faded wallpaper. Same cracked mirror above the dresser. But the air—the air was alive. It buzzed with whispers too quiet to make out.
In the center of the room sat a wooden rocking chair.
And it was moving.
Back.
Forth.
Back.
Forth.
No wind. No open windows. Just movement.
Claire stepped back, heart pounding in her ears.
"Who's there?" she asked, voice dry.
The rocking chair stopped.
And then a child's voice, soft and broken, echoed through the room:
"You left me."
Claire's knees nearly buckled. She knew that voice.
"No... no, that's not possible."
She turned toward the closet—the place her brother had disappeared twelve years ago.
It stood closed. Perfectly still. But then, it clicked open.
A whisper again:
"He's still here."
Claire didn't run. She couldn't.
The house had more to say.
And it wasn't finished listening.