The Uber dropped Claire at the edge of Wicker Lane and took off like the street was cursed. Honestly, she didn't blame him. Even through the screen of her hoodie, she could see it—The Ashwood House—still standing, still watching.
It hadn't changed much. Grey stones cracked like dry skin. Ivy choking its spine. Windows like blind eyes, yet somehow… aware. Like they were waiting for her to blink first.
Claire adjusted the strap of her backpack and took a deep breath. She had promised herself she wouldn't look back, but this place—this house—had other ideas.
The iron gate creaked open on its own. Not dramatically, not like in the movies. Just enough to say, "Come in. We've missed you."
She swallowed hard and stepped through. Dead leaves whispered under her boots, and the air got colder with every step. Her phone buzzed in her jacket pocket—low battery. Classic horror movie energy.
"This isn't a movie," she muttered. "It's just a house."
But the house didn't agree.
Inside, the silence wasn't empty. It was thick. Listening. Like the air had ears.
Claire walked through the foyer, dust rising in soft clouds like ghosts stretching after a long nap. She paused at the staircase. It creaked softly, even though no one had stepped on it.
Then—
"Claire."
Her name. Clear. Whispered. But no one else was there.
She spun around. Empty.
She should leave. She knew that. Every part of her was screaming it. But another part—the same one that brought her back here—stood frozen, staring up the stairs.
The voice came again, this time more urgent.
"Upstairs."
Her legs moved before her brain gave permission. The air grew colder with every step. As she reached the landing, she felt it again: not just watched—heard.
This house didn't just see you.
It listened.
And somewhere in its silence, it remembered everything.
Even the things Claire tried to forget.