The rain came without warning.
At first, it was only a distant hiss among the trees—like something whispering far off in the dark. Then, the clouds broke open with a vengeance, and the woods came alive with thunder. Lightning clawed across the sky, white and merciless, flashing against trunks slick with rain.
"Move!" Clara shouted over the downpour. She had to half-shout, half-laugh, the way people do when fear and disbelief wrestle for space in the chest. "We'll drown out here!"
The others followed; Ben, always first to argue; Marcy, shivering beneath her soaked jacket; Evan, lugging the camera bag he refused to leave behind; and Noah, who brought up the rear, his usual calm now stripped away by the weather.
The trail was gone, eaten by mud. The storm had turned the ground into a black mire, roots snaring their boots as though the forest itself didn't want to let them pass. Branches cracked overhead, and the smell of ozone filled the air—sharp and electric.
"Where are we even going?" Ben barked, wiping rain from his eyes.
"Anywhere with a roof!" Clara shot back.
Then they saw it.
Through the trees, a shape began to take form—a darker shadow among the darkness. Lightning split the sky again, and for a heartbeat they saw it clearly: a mansion, vast and gray, rising from the forest floor like a forgotten monument. Its windows were black, its chimneys cold, its roof lost in the mist.
They hesitated. The house seemed impossibly still, as if untouched by the storm raging around it.
"Old place," Noah murmured. "Doesn't look safe."
"It's shelter," Marcy said through chattering teeth. "Safe enough for tonight."
Clara was the first to move. The others followed, slipping down the muddy slope that led to the mansion's front gates—iron things, bent and crooked, half-eaten by rust. One side hung loose, swaying slightly in the wind, though the air had gone curiously still the closer they came.
Beyond the gate lay a courtyard choked with weeds and the bones of a fountain that hadn't sung in decades. The mansion loomed above, every window watching, every shutter clenched tight.
Ben gave the gate a shove. It groaned like something waking from a long sleep.
They crossed the courtyard together, their footsteps squelching in the overgrown moss. When Clara reached the great double doors, she paused. They were tall and ornate, carved with twisting vines and faces that seemed almost human. The doorknobs were blackened brass, cool to the touch.
She looked back at the group. "Ready?"
No one said yes, but no one said no either.
The door opened with surprising ease, as if expecting them.
Inside, the air was still and dry. A vast entrance hall stretched before them—walls paneled in dark wood, a chandelier hanging heavy with dust. The floorboards moaned softly beneath their weight. Somewhere deeper in the house, something creaked—a long, slow sigh that could have been the settling of old wood… or not.
Evan whistled low. "Well. This isn't creepy at all."
Marcy hugged herself, eyes darting around the shadows. "Let's just find a place to dry off."
Noah closed the door behind them—an automatic, sensible thing to do in such weather. It shut with a heavy thud. The echo rolled through the house like distant thunder.
And then, quietly, the latch clicked.
They didn't notice it at first. Not until Clara reached for the handle again and found it unmoving. She tugged once, then harder. The door didn't budge.
"It's stuck," she said, a tremor in her voice.
"Wood's probably swollen from the rain," Noah said, though he didn't sound convinced.
They tried together—three of them pulling, one bracing the frame—but the door held firm, as though it had grown roots into the floor.
"Forget it," Ben said, stepping back. "We'll wait out the storm and try again later. There's probably another way out."
The others agreed, but uneasily.
They set their packs near the base of the staircase that rose before them—a grand, curving thing whose steps disappeared into the dark above. Portraits lined the walls on either side: stern-faced men and pale women, all dressed in heavy finery from another age. The eyes, no matter where one stood, seemed to follow.
Lightning flashed through the tall windows, painting the hall in ghostly white. For an instant, the portraits almost looked alive.
Evan lifted his camera, instinct taking over. "No one's gonna believe this," he said, snapping a photo. The flash burst like lightning.
When he lowered the camera, Clara frowned. "What's wrong?"
He blinked. "I… thought I saw something move. In the upstairs hall."
No one looked up right away. There are moments, in old houses, when silence grows so thick you can feel it pressing on your eardrums—when the air seems to wait.
Then came the sound: tap… tap… tap…—like footsteps, deliberate and slow, from somewhere above them.
Marcy stiffened. "Please tell me that's the house settling."
Ben's laugh was short, forced. "Yeah. Just the wind."
Noah's eyes narrowed. "There's no wind."
Another flash of lightning—another sound, closer this time. Wood shifting, or something dragging lightly across the floor upstairs.
Clara took a deep breath. "Okay," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Let's stick together. We'll find a room to dry off and stay put until morning. That's all."
They moved deeper into the house, their footsteps soft on the faded runner that stretched down the corridor. The air smelled faintly of dust and old candle wax. Each door they passed was closed, some locked, others swollen shut.
At last they found a parlor. It was surprisingly intact—a stone fireplace, armchairs draped with white sheets, and shelves lined with books whose spines had long since faded. Ben struck a match and found an oil lamp still half-full. The flame bloomed weakly, casting trembling light across the walls.
For a while, they said little. The storm outside beat against the windows, but the mansion seemed untouched by it—sealed off, insulated by some unseen force.
Marcy shivered closer to the fire. "Who do you think lived here?"
"Whoever they were," Evan said, "they didn't leave in a hurry. This stuff's been here for decades."
Noah ran a hand along the mantel, eyes tracing the fine carvings there. "Feels… wrong," he said quietly. "Like the place is waiting for something."
Clara looked up from the fire. "Waiting for what?"
Before he could answer, the lamp flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied again.
But when the flame rose back to life, there was someone new in the room.
A shape in the far corner—faint, translucent, as though made of smoke and memory. Its face was indistinct, but its eyes—its eyes were clear. Watching them with a calm, mournful hunger.
Marcy gasped. Evan dropped his camera.
The figure didn't move. It simply stared, the way the house had been staring since they arrived. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.
Only the smell of damp earth remained.
Clara's voice broke the silence. "We're not alone in this house."
Outside, the storm howled louder. Inside, the house answered.