The car's engine fell silent, and the forest instantly reclaimed the stillness.
Emma stepped out slowly, leaning on the car roof as she looked around. The silhouette of the house, nestled deep in the woods, rose like a forgotten memory—one that should've stayed buried. Its porch sagged under its own weight, paint flaking, windows staring blank and black. Weak sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting long shadows that crawled as if watching their every move.
"Total horror movie vibe," Jessica said with a half-smile, though Emma caught the tension in her voice.
Greta shrugged defiantly. "Come on. It's just an old house. Don't freak out."
Nora stood silently, the key clenched in her hand. Shadows played across her face, and for a moment, Emma thought she saw hesitation—like Nora didn't want to go in.
Nora finally moved toward the door. The key trembled slightly in her grasp as she inserted it into the rusty lock. The mechanism groaned in protest before clicking open. The door swung inward with a long, aching creak, and a breath of stale, cold air drifted out, brushing their faces like something exhaled from the dark.
Emma stepped across the threshold first.
The moment she entered, the atmosphere shifted. It was as if the house had closed its mouth around her. Behind her, the forest still whispered, but inside—it was as though time had thickened. The air smelled of mold, old wood, and something older. Something forgotten.
The hallway swallowed the light. Floorboards moaned beneath her feet, and faded paintings lined the walls—portraits of blurred, half-vanished faces, their eyes dulled by years of neglect. Everything in the house seemed to lean slightly, as if cowering under some invisible weight.
And somewhere deep inside, beyond walls and rooms not yet seen—something moved.
Emma froze. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
The house wasn't empty.
It was waiting.
A candle flickered in the living room—just a faint, fluttering flame set into an old brass holder. The room felt colder than it should have, and the shadows moved too easily.
Something darted across the far wall.
Jessica gasped. "Did you see that?"
"See what?" Greta asked, already on edge.
Jessica paused. "Nothing. I—I guess it was just a shadow."
But Emma knew better. That movement hadn't been nothing. It hadn't been wind.
It had eyes.
Later that night, as midnight crept across the walls, each of them retreated to their own rooms. The house exhaled a long, uneasy silence.
Emma sat at the edge of the bed, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of mothballs. The candle's light danced across the walls, casting elongated shapes that twisted with each flicker. She stared at them, trying to decipher meaning in the movement.
Then she heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft. Bare. On the wooden hallway floor.
They grew louder. Closer.
They stopped right outside her door.
Emma didn't move. Didn't breathe.
The doorknob turned—slowly, deliberately. It didn't open, but there was a tension, like someone testing it, pushing against something unseen.
Then, the knob snapped back into place.
In the silence that followed, she heard it: a sigh.
Not the wind. Not the creaks of an old house.
A deep, aching sigh. Human.
As if the house itself were grieving.
Emma didn't sleep. Not even when the candle died, and the dark swallowed the room whole.
Somewhere deep in the forest, something stirred.
And watched.
She lay still for hours, every creak in the walls a warning. Outside, the trees whispered in a language she couldn't understand, and somewhere—too close—a crow called once, then fell silent.
Emma's eyes stayed open long after the dark had swallowed the room. Sleep never came.
And in the stillness, she knew one thing with absolute certainty.
They were not alone.