That night, the house felt different. The air was cooler, heavier, like it was holding its breath. Emma lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. She had turned off the lights, but the moonlight coming through the curtains made faint shapes on the walls.
She was almost asleep when she heard it—a sound from somewhere deep in the house. It was soft at first, a faint tapping, like someone knocking gently on wood.
Emma sat up, listening. The sound came again. Slow. Uneven. Closer.
Her heart started to race. She told herself it was probably the wind or the old pipes. Houses like this made noises all the time. But then she realized the sound was coming from the direction of the locked door.
She slipped out of bed and stood still for a moment, her bare feet on the cold floor. The tapping stopped. The silence that followed was worse.
Emma took one step toward the hallway. Then another. Her breath sounded too loud in the stillness. She reached the end of the hall and stood before the locked door.
Nothing. No sound. Just the dark outline of the door in the moonlight.
Emma turned to go back, but then she heard something else—a faint whisper, so soft she couldn't make out the words. It seemed to seep through the wood, as if someone were speaking on the other side.
She froze, her skin prickling. Then the whisper stopped.
Emma hurried back to her room, closed the door, and climbed into bed, pulling the blanket up to her chin. She didn't sleep for the rest of the night.