The Benson house sat at the far edge of town, where cracked asphalt gave way to dirt roads and the forest pressed close to the backyard. Clara's taxi rumbled down the lane, and her chest tightened at the sight of the weathered farmhouse.
The paint had peeled to a dull gray, the shutters hung crooked, and ivy curled over the porch railings. But it was the silence that struck her most. Margaret's house had always been alive—wind chimes singing, dogs barking, her aunt's laughter spilling through open windows. Now, it felt like a place abandoned by the living.
The driver muttered, "Wouldn't catch me stayin' out here." He shoved her suitcase onto the porch steps and sped off, leaving only dust in his wake.
Clara stood for a moment, clutching her coat tighter. Then, she pushed open the door.
The smell hit her first—old wood, faint mildew, and something else… something metallic. The house was dim, the curtains drawn tight. She flicked the switch by the door. The lights buzzed and flickered weakly.
Her footsteps echoed as she moved through the hallway. Memories clung to every corner: the patched wallpaper she used to trace with her fingers, the armchair where Margaret read aloud, the kitchen table still bearing faint scratches from countless family dinners.
But when she entered the living room, her breath caught.
On the mantle sat a row of photographs. Clara as a child. Margaret in her garden. But at the end of the row was a picture Clara had never seen before. A young girl—pale, dark-eyed, standing in front of the very woods behind the house.
No name. No frame. Just the photo, curling at the edges.
Clara reached for it, but the floorboards groaned above her head.
Her heart lurched.
The house was supposed to be empty.
She froze, listening. A soft creak, then another. Someone was upstairs.
Clara glanced toward the staircase, her throat dry. The old wooden steps loomed like the mouth of a cave. For a long moment, she couldn't move.
Then, summoning her breath, she whispered, "Hello?"
No answer.
She took one cautious step forward. Then another. The air grew colder as she reached the foot of the stairs. Her hand hovered over the banister—when suddenly, a sharp knock rattled the front door behind her.
Clara jumped, spinning around.
Through the glass, a face peered in—the sheriff.
When she opened the door, Dalton studied her pale expression. "Everything all right in there?"
"There's someone upstairs," she whispered.
He pushed past her, hand on his gun, and climbed the stairs with slow, deliberate steps. Clara followed, her pulse hammering.
Room by room, he checked. The bedroom. The bathroom. The storage closet. Empty.
Finally, Dalton lowered his weapon. "No one's here. Old houses make old noises. Clara wasn't convinced.
As the sheriff headed back down, she glanced toward the last door at the end of the hall—her aunt's study. It stood ajar, the faintest draft seeping through. And on the wood, just above the doorknob, was something she hadn't noticed before.
A smear Dark Faded Blood.