The road to Blackwood Hollow narrowed as if it wanted to disappear.
Ethan Walker slowed his car when the trees began leaning inward, their branches tangled like fingers locking together above the asphalt. Fog rolled low across the road, thick and damp, clinging to the tyres as if trying to stop him from moving forward.
He hadn't been back in fifteen years.
The village sign creaked in the wind:
WELCOME TO BLACKWOOD HOLLOW
Someone had scratched beneath it:
Leave before dark.
Ethan swallowed and drove on.
The Walker House appeared suddenly, rising out of the fog like something waking from sleep. It was larger than he remembered—three stories of decaying stone, crooked windows staring blindly into the night. The iron gate stood open.
That hadn't been the case before.
Ethan parked and stepped out. The air smelled of wet leaves, rust, and old smoke. Every sound felt too loud—his footsteps, his breath, the thudding of his heart.
"You're just tired," he muttered.
The front door was unlocked.
Inside, the house was colder than the night air. Dust coated the walls, yet the floor in the hallway was clean, as if recently swept. A single lamp stood on a table, already lit.
Ethan frowned.
"I don't remember leaving this on."
The flame did not flicker.
As he moved forward, the door behind him closed with a soft click.
Not a slam.
A decision.
Ethan turned sharply. The handle refused to move.
The house settled around him, wood groaning, walls stretching ever so slightly. He felt it then—not fear, but recognition.
The house knew him.
He climbed the stairs slowly, each step creaking beneath his weight. Halfway up, he noticed something carved into the banister.
A name.
ETHAN
His throat tightened. He hadn't carved that. He was sure of it.
At the end of the corridor upstairs, his father's bedroom door stood open. The smell hit him first—old cologne mixed with something metallic.
Inside, the room was untouched. The bed neatly made. On the desk lay a journal, open to the final page.
Ethan read the words written in trembling ink:
If you are reading this, it means the house has accepted you.
His pulse pounded.
Do not trust the mirrors. Do not answer the voices. And whatever you hear at night—
The sentence ended abruptly.
Behind him, the mirror on the wall began to fog from the inside.
A hand pressed against the glass.
Then another.
The reflection in the mirror was not Ethan.
It was his father, Jonathan Walker—eyes wide, mouth stitched shut, skin grey and cracked—slowly shaking his head in warning.
The lamp went out.
In the darkness, a voice whispered from every wall at once:
"Welcome home, Ethan."
And somewhere beneath the floorboards, something began to breathe.