Ethan Harper was never a man to believe in ghosts or demons. A practical, quiet man in his late twenties, he preferred the certainty of numbers and facts over the unpredictability of superstition. But tonight, as the heavy fog crept across the little town of Hollow Creek and swallowed the streets whole, certainty was the last thing Ethan felt.
It started with a noise—a soft tapping, like fingernails drumming slowly on old wood. Ethan woke suddenly, heart thundering in the darkness of his bedroom. The house, a creaking two-story relic that had belonged to his family for generations, was usually silent at night, save for the occasional groan of old timber settling.
But tonight, the tapping was persistent.
He reached for the lamp on his nightstand, his fingers trembling, and flicked it on. The weak yellow light revealed peeling wallpaper, cracked plaster, and shadows that seemed to stretch longer than they should. Ethan's eyes shifted to the window beside his bed.
The tapping came again, louder now.
He pulled the curtain aside. Outside, the fog rolled thick and cold, concealing everything beyond the yard's twisted, leafless trees. Nothing was there.
Ethan shook his head. "Just the wind," he whispered, but the feeling of unease lingered.
Turning back to bed, he noticed something else—on the floor