The attic door didn't creak like wood. It sounded like a rib cage cracking open.
And what stepped down wasn't a figure. It was the absence of one. A shadow too black for moonlight, too deliberate for coincidence. Something that moved without displacing the air. Like memory. Like regret.
I didn't scream. I couldn't. My throat locked the way a dream does when you try to wake up.
Thirteen steps.
That's how many stairs led up to the attic.
Thirteen. Always thirteen.
It reached the bottom without making a sound.
And then it was gone.
---
The light came back on a moment later. Mom's voice called out from the kitchen, casual, distracted, as if the world hadn't tilted.
> "I found more lightbulbs!"
I didn't answer.
I just stared at the staircase where the dark had descended, heart pounding, pulse ticking like a metronome for something that knew I was listening.
That night, I didn't sleep.
Neither did the house.
---
The next morning, Mom tried to cook eggs, and the stove flared up so violently she screamed.
The flames died fast.
But the burn marks on the floor didn't.
They looked like footprints.
Long. Slender. Pressed in pairs, like someone was watching from the kitchen doorway and never moved. And Mom? She said nothing. Just scrubbed the black away, humming a lullaby I'd never heard before.
That's when I knew.
The house had already started writing her into its script.
---
I explored during daylight, mapping the rooms. Every one had a light switch, and every one obeyed the thirteen-second rule.
At thirteen, something stirred.
Never a shape. Never a face.
But a promise.
A presence.
And worst of all—an invitation.
---
The living room had a grandfather clock that hadn't worked in years.
But at 3:13 AM, it ticked. Once.
Loud enough to wake me.
Loud enough to open the hallway mirror again.
I got up, flashlight in hand.
The beam flickered the closer I got.
Then died completely.
I was standing in front of the mirror when it happened.
My reflection blinked.
But I didn't.
Then it stepped forward. Slightly. Half an inch past the glass.
And I realized the mirror wasn't a reflection at all.
It was a window.
---
Mom started talking to the hallway.
Not in sentences. Just names.
One night I passed her room and heard her whispering:
> "Miriam… Ellie… Jonathan… George…"
She was listing the dead.
I asked who she was talking to.
She said, "The light told me."
And closed the door.
---
That night, the attic creaked again.
But the door didn't open.
The light in the hallway stayed on.
And I understood:
It wasn't after us.
Not yet.
It was training us.
Thirteen seconds to fear. Thirteen seconds to notice. Thirteen seconds to decide: run or obey.
And I was starting to obey.
Without meaning to.
Without even realizing it.
Until the next night.
When the lights didn't come back on.
---
It happened during a storm.
The kind that makes the house groan. Windows rattle. Walls sigh like lungs.
The power died at 2:47 AM.
The backup flashlight was already dead.
I lit a candle.
The hallway swallowed the light instantly.
I stepped out anyway.
Because I had to know.
I counted.
One. Two. Three.
The air got colder.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
My candle flickered like it wanted to run.
Ten.
The mirror moved.
Eleven.
A whisper.
Twelve.
A breath that wasn't mine.
Thirteen.
A hand reached for my shoulder.
And then—
The chandelier in the living room blazed back to life, flooding everything with gold.
The hand vanished.
The hallway was empty.
But I wasn't alone.
I never was.
---
The next morning, I found a letter under my bedroom door.
Yellowed paper. Cursive handwriting.
It read:
> You are being rehearsed.
> Please don't miss your cue.
> The house hates improvisation.
At the bottom:
"Sincerely, The Stage Manager"
---
Mom didn't see the letter.
She couldn't see it.
Every time I showed her, it was blank.
But I noticed something else:
She'd stopped humming.
She was just listening now.
To the lights.
To the ticking.
To the house.
And it was listening back.
---
I marked every light switch with a number. I wore a timer. I practiced counting with my eyes shut.
The house wanted obedience?
Fine.
But I'd learn its script before it wrote mine.
I'd memorize its rhythm.
So when it turned its full attention to me…
I'd be ready.
Or I'd already be too far inside.