The slam of her mother's door still echoed in Sarah's ears. She pressed her hand against it, hoping—just hoping—that if she pushed hard enough, her mother might answer again. But the silence stretched long, heavy, and suffocating.
"Mom?" she whispered. No reply.
Her fingers slipped away, trembling. Something about the way her mother had said those words gnawed at her. Don't go to places you don't understand.
The rustling noise returned. Louder this time.
Sarah's head snapped toward the basement door. Her breath came quick, shallow. The sound wasn't random anymore—it was rhythmic, almost deliberate. Like something shifting in the darkness below, waiting for her.
She swallowed, her throat dry. "It's nothing. It's just nothing…" she murmured, but her body betrayed her—her feet edged closer to the basement. Step by step, the pull grew stronger, as though invisible strings tugged her forward.
Her hand brushed the doorknob again. The cold metal sent a shiver up her arm.
The rustling stopped.
A new sound replaced it. A whisper. Low, dragging, like words half-formed through straw.
"...Sarah…"
Her chest tightened. She stumbled back, heart slamming against her ribs. "Who—who's there?!"
No answer. Only silence.
The air in the kitchen thickened, heavy with something she couldn't name. She backed away, eyes darting toward the window.
The scarecrow was gone.
The empty patch of yard stared back at her, darker than it had been a moment ago.
Sarah's hands shook as she gripped the counter, her breath uneven. She wanted to scream, to run upstairs and hide under her blankets like a child. But she couldn't move. Not yet.
Because beneath the floorboards, the whisper came again.
"...closer…"