The lock clicked.
That cold, final sound echoed louder than it should have.
Mia turned slowly from the door, her breath catching in her throat. Daniel stood frozen, hand still on the doorknob, eyes wide with confusion and something that was fast becoming fear. Leah hadn't moved. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the strap of her bag tighter against her chest, her eyes flitting nervously between her siblings.
"This has to be a mistake," Daniel said, forcing a shaky laugh. "Old houses creak and lock themselves. It's probably just… warped wood or something."
"Wood doesn't click like that," Mia said quietly. She stared at the door, still shut tight, and felt something stir in her gut. An uneasiness that she hadn't felt since she was a child. "And it doesn't trap you."
Leah shifted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Let's just try another door. Maybe the back one's open."
Daniel nodded, grateful for something to do. "Right. Yeah. I'll check."
They moved through the house quickly, sticking together like shadows chasing each other down a hallway. The air inside felt different now, heavier somehow. Like it was pressing against their skin, watching.
The kitchen hadn't changed much since they were kids. The same worn tile, same wooden cabinets that never quite closed right. Daniel yanked open the back door. Nothing. Locked solid. No key in sight.
He rattled the handle. Slammed his shoulder against the door.
Nothing gave.
"Okay, this is getting ridiculous," he muttered. "Who locks every door and doesn't leave a key?"
"Dad didn't do this," Mia said flatly. "This house is… different."
Leah backed away from the window, pulling her hoodie tighter around herself. "Can we just… not split up, please?"
"No one's going anywhere alone," Mia said.
Silence settled again.
Then Mia remembered the photograph—the one with the extra child.
"I need to check something," she said, turning toward the hallway. "Come with me."
They followed her reluctantly. Back to the wall of family portraits. She stared at the frame again. The boy stood there, same as before—quiet smile, dark eyes that looked like they'd seen too much. He was close to her age in the photo. Maybe a year older.
"Do either of you remember him?" she asked.
Daniel's brows drew together as he stared at the picture. "No. I remember taking this photo, though. We were in those itchy Sunday clothes Mom used to make us wear."
"So why is he there?" Mia pressed.
"I don't know."
Leah was pale. "Maybe it's photoshopped? Maybe someone messed with the photo?"
"It's real," Mia said, brushing her thumb over the frame. "Feel the paper. It's not digital."
Daniel leaned in. "Then how do you explain it?"
Mia didn't answer. She couldn't.
They stood in silence again. The house creaked above them. Not the soft settling kind of creak. A purposeful one. One that sounded like footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.
All three of them looked up at the ceiling at the same time.
"Is there someone upstairs?" Leah whispered.
Daniel reached for his phone and cursed. "It's dead. Fully dead. I charged it before we left."
Mia checked hers. Dead too. Leah's screen didn't even light up.
"Okay," Mia breathed, steadying herself. "We go upstairs. Together."
"Upstairs?" Daniel said. "You want to go toward the sound?"
"Whatever's happening here… it started the second we came inside. That boy in the photo—he's the key. And something upstairs is waiting."
Daniel looked like he wanted to argue but knew better. He nodded once.
They made their way to the staircase. Every step groaned under their feet, the kind of sound that made it feel like the house was protesting their presence. Shadows stretched across the walls as the last rays of sunlight filtered through the dusty windows.
At the top of the stairs, a hallway stretched ahead—lined with five doors. Four of them were closed. One stood open, just slightly. It rocked gently, as if someone had passed through it moments before.
Mia walked to it slowly, her siblings flanking her.
The door creaked as she pushed it open.
The room inside was still, dust dancing in the air like trapped memories. A small bed sat against the wall, neatly made. Toy soldiers lined the windowsill. On the desk, a stack of children's books sat beside an old lamp. The wallpaper was peeling. The curtains, faded blue, hung limp and lifeless.
"This room," Mia said. "This wasn't here before."
"It was," Daniel said. "But it was a storage room. Dad kept old tools here."
"It was a kid's room," Leah whispered. "It belonged to Elliot."
Mia turned to her. "How do you know that name?"
Leah blinked, as if surprised by her own words. "I… I don't know. It just came to me."
Mia crossed the room to the nightstand. A cracked photo frame sat there. She picked it up. The boy again. Elliot.
Written on the glass, in faint smudged handwriting, was:
"I'm still here."
Mia's breath caught.
Then she noticed something else—scratches on the wall above the bed. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. Each one carved into the plaster with slow, desperate hands.
"I'm still here."
Over and over again.
Daniel stepped back. "We need to get out of here."
Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind them. They rushed to it, but it wouldn't budge.
"Mia?" Leah's voice cracked.
Mia turned. The room had gone cold. The kind of cold that sank into your bones and froze your thoughts. Her breath came out in white puffs.
A whisper brushed against her ear.
"You forgot me."
She spun around. Nothing. But Leah had heard it too. Her eyes were wide, staring at a spot in the corner of the room.
Something shifted in the shadows.
A figure stood there. Small. Still.
It looked like the boy from the photo.
"Elliot?" Mia said, her voice trembling.
The boy tilted his head. His eyes were hollow. Sad. And then he blinked—slow and unnatural—and vanished like smoke.
The door flew open behind them. Leah screamed.
Daniel grabbed her and pulled her out. Mia followed, her heart hammering in her chest.
They stumbled into the hallway. The lights above them flickered.
Mia clutched the photo frame to her chest. She didn't know why, but it felt important.
"We need answers," she said. "Dad's study. He must've left something."
They raced downstairs. The study was at the end of the hallway, the door stiff from years of not being used. Daniel kicked it in.
The room was just as they remembered—books lining the walls, a cracked globe, an old desk.
Mia flipped through drawers. Useless papers, tax files, maps. Then she found a notebook—worn leather, its edges brittle.
She opened it.
Her father's handwriting.
"There are things I made them forget. I thought I was protecting them."
"Elliot was the price I paid. But debts like this don't fade. They wait."
"The house remembers. Even when we don't."
Mia's vision blurred as she read.
"If you've come back, then the deal is broken. The protection is gone. Elliot remembers now."
Daniel looked over her shoulder. "What the hell does that mean?"
Leah spoke before Mia could answer. Her voice distant.
"There were four of us. I remember now. He used to sleep on the top bunk. I thought he was just a dream."
The lights in the study blew out in a burst of sparks.
Darkness swallowed the room.
A soft knock echoed from the hallway.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then a whisper:
"You left me here."