Chizzy stood at the bottom of the staircase, staring up into the thickening shadows. The three knocks echoed in her mind, unsettling and slow, as though someone—or something—wanted her attention. She tightened her grip on the banister. The house was supposed to be empty. No one had lived here since her aunt passed last spring. No visitors. No guests.
Yet someone had knocked.
Each step creaked beneath her as she climbed. Her breath fogged the air in front of her, and she felt the cold settle deeper into her bones. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched out like a spine, with closed doors on either side. One of them stood slightly ajar, the darkness inside pressing against its edges.
She approached the door.
"Hello?" Her voice barely rose above a whisper. "Is someone here?"
No answer. Just the faint hiss of the wind threading through a crack in the old window at the end of the hall. She reached out and pushed the door open slowly. It revealed a room cloaked in dust and decay. The faded bedspread sagged in the center, as though someone had sat there recently. Chizzy stepped inside, heart hammering.
On the dresser, a framed photo lay face-down. She picked it up with careful fingers. It was old—too old—but the figures were familiar. Her aunt. Her mother. And in the middle, a girl no older than ten. Her.
She blinked, startled. The photo hadn't been there earlier. It couldn't have been.
A soft creak behind her.
She spun around.
Nothing. Just the half-closed door and the hum of silence thickening again. But her instincts prickled. She wasn't alone. Something unseen brushed past her, stirring the dust in the air.
She stumbled backward and hurried out, closing the door behind her.
As she descended the stairs, the temperature seemed to lift. The pressure in the air eased. But her pulse still thundered, and the back of her neck burned.
This house wasn't empty.
And it had no intention of letting her forget.