He tried not to go near that door again. But every night, the whispers started.At first, they were too soft to make out — a low murmur beneath the wind. Then, on the third night, they formed a word:
"Rowan."
He jumped up, flashlight trembling in his hand. The voice came from the vents, then from the floor, then the walls — as if the house were speaking from everywhere at once.
He pried open a vent in the hall. Inside lay a photograph, yellowed and dusty. A man, a woman, and a child — smiling stiffly in front of the same mansion.On the back, the date read 1913.
He turned the photo over again.Now there was another figure — standing in the window behind them.
It was him.