The morning light did little to ease Evelyn's nerves.
She sat at the small wooden table, hands wrapped tightly around her mug of tea, as though its warmth alone could keep her grounded. The house seemed different today—heavier, quieter, with a stillness that didn't feel natural. Even the floorboards seemed to hold their breath.
She hadn't slept much, only a few scraps of restless dozing between the long stretches of staring into the dark. The memory of last night—the voices, the pressure in the walls—still clung to her skin.
But this morning was worse.
The silence was wrong.
Her eyes drifted again, against her will, to the basement door. It stood at the back of the kitchen, paint chipped at the edges, as plain and ordinary as ever. And yet Evelyn couldn't look at it for long without her stomach tightening.
For days, she had told herself that the sound from below—the chopping, the whispers—was the echo of something else. Something spectral, maybe. The house itself grieving, haunted by shadows of its past.
But this morning, when the first sound drifted up, it wasn't the scrape of a blade or the distant whisper of a ghost.
It was a cough.
A dry, human cough.
Evelyn froze, mug halfway to her lips. The sound was unmistakable, too real to dismiss.
She set the cup down carefully, afraid the smallest clink of porcelain might draw attention. Her breath came fast, shallow.
There was someone in her house.
For a long moment, she sat perfectly still, hands trembling. Every instinct screamed at her to run—to get out of the house, call for help, do anything except stay here. But her body wouldn't move. Her legs felt locked in place, as though the chair had grown roots into the floor.
The cough came again, followed by the unmistakable shuffle of boots on concrete.
The basement.
Her mind spun, searching for excuses. Maybe it was her imagination again. Maybe the neighbors, maybe the pipes, maybe—
But the next sound killed those hopes: the deliberate, steady drag of wood across stone.
Like someone pulling the handle of an axe.
Evelyn's pulse thundered in her ears.
She rose from the chair so suddenly it scraped across the tile. She winced, slapping a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. The sound had already rung out, sharp in the silence.
The basement noise stopped.
Her heart hammered. She stood frozen, waiting, listening. For a long, suffocating moment, the house was silent again.
Then, slowly, something touched the inside of the basement door.
A single, deliberate knock.
Evelyn stumbled back, hand flying to her throat. The knock came again, louder, followed by a low chuckle. A man's chuckle.
The truth crashed into her with the force of a storm: this wasn't a haunting. This wasn't voices from the grave.
There was a man in her basement.
And he wasn't hiding anymore.
--- ✦ ---
Evelyn fled into the hallway, her socks slipping on the hardwood. She pressed herself against the wall, trembling so violently she could hear her teeth click.
For a long minute, nothing happened.
Then the basement door creaked.
She bit her knuckle to keep from crying out.
The door opened slowly, inch by inch, the hinges groaning. Through the narrow crack, she saw it: a hand. Large, veined, the skin pale and rough. The nails thick, yellowed with age. The hand gripped the doorframe with an ease that made her stomach flip.
The door swung wider, and the man stepped out.
Evelyn's breath caught in her throat.
He wasn't a phantom, not some shadow of the past. He was flesh and blood, towering and solid, with shoulders broad enough to block the light from the kitchen window. His hair was gray and stringy, his face weathered with deep lines that carved his skin like stone. A thick beard shadowed his jaw, flecked with white.
But it was his eyes that froze her.
Cold. Yellow-gray. Empty of mercy.
And in his hands, dangling casually as though it weighed nothing, was an axe. Its head was dark with old stains, the wooden handle polished smooth by years of use.
Evelyn clamped both hands over her mouth to stifle the scream clawing up her throat.
The man tilted his head, his lips curling into a grin that was more teeth than warmth.
"Well," he rasped, his voice gravel and smoke. "Didn't expect to find someone living here again."
Evelyn's back pressed harder against the wall. Her thoughts screamed: run, run, run.
But her legs wouldn't obey.
The man stepped further into the hallway, his boots heavy against the floorboards. His eyes roved over her, taking in the trembling, the fear she couldn't hide.
"You hear them too, don't you?" he asked. His grin widened. "The knives. The voices. They don't let you rest."
Evelyn's stomach dropped. Her chest heaved, but no words came out.
"I know," he said softly, almost kindly. "I gave them to you."
Her vision blurred. The walls tilted. For a terrifying moment, she thought she might faint.
This man—this monster—was the source.
The voices in her head. The echoes of knives. The whispers that had plagued her since childhood.
They weren't just madness.
They were him.
He leaned on the axe handle, casual as if they were sharing tea. "My name's Edgar. You'll be rememberin' that soon enough."
--- ✦ ---
Evelyn bolted.
She didn't think, didn't breathe—just ran. Her socks slid on the floor as she tore into the living room, heart pounding so hard she thought it might crack her ribs. She stumbled toward the front door, fumbling at the lock with shaking hands.
Behind her, Edgar chuckled again, the sound low and patient.
"You can run, girl," he called. "But I'll catch you. I always do."
Her fingers scraped the cold metal, finally wrenching the lock open. She yanked the door wide, the morning air hitting her like ice—
And then she froze.
Across the street, Silas stood in his yard, his rake limp in his hands. His eyes widened as he saw her—saw the terror written across her face.
"Silas!" she gasped, her voice breaking.
Behind her, boots thudded. The sound of the axe dragging across the floor.
She didn't have time to think. She bolted across the porch, half-tripping down the steps, sprinting toward Silas like her life depended on it—because it did.
"Evelyn!" Silas shouted, dropping the rake, rushing toward her.
She collapsed against him, gasping, clutching his arm. "He's in the house—he's in the basement—he has an axe—"
Before she could finish, Edgar appeared in the doorway.
He filled the frame like a shadow out of nightmare, axe balanced on his shoulder, grin still plastered across his lined face. His eyes flicked to Silas, and for the first time his smile faltered.
"Well, well," he rasped. "Didn't know there were two of you."
Silas pushed Evelyn behind him, his stance low, protective. His jaw clenched, eyes locked on Edgar.
Evelyn clung to his sleeve, trembling, every nerve in her body screaming in terror.
Edgar stepped down onto the porch, axe gleaming in the pale light.
The game had begun.....
The world slowed to a crawl.
Evelyn could hear everything—the creak of the porch beneath Edgar's boots, the soft hiss of her own panicked breaths, the faint rasp as Silas's hand flexed into a fist.
Edgar tilted his head, watching them as though deciding how best to gut a deer. His grin returned, slower this time, dripping with satisfaction.
"I remember this feeling," he rasped. His voice was low, smoke and gravel, as though pulled from the throat of the earth itself. "The fear. Been years since I tasted it."
Evelyn's stomach lurched. She wanted to move, to scream, to do anything but stand frozen, but her body was locked in place.
Silas didn't move either—at least, not at first. Then, steady as stone, he reached back and gently pressed Evelyn farther behind him. "Go inside," he murmured.
She clutched his sleeve tighter, shaking her head frantically. "No—Silas—he'll—"
"Go," Silas repeated, sharper this time. His eyes never left Edgar.
Edgar laughed, a sound that rolled through the street like broken glass. "Sweet. Protecting the girl. But you can't protect her from me. No one can."
He lifted the axe, its head catching the sunlight, and Evelyn's heart seized.
Silas's voice was flat, almost eerily calm. "Put it down."
Edgar's grin widened. "Or what, boy?"
Silas didn't answer with words.
He moved.
One second he was still, the next he was sprinting across the street, his boots pounding against the cracked pavement. Evelyn barely had time to gasp before he slammed into Edgar with all the force of a storm.
The axe swung, slicing through empty air, missing Silas by inches. The sound of the blade cutting wind made Evelyn's blood run cold.
They crashed onto the porch, the wood groaning beneath their weight. Edgar grunted as Silas's shoulder drove into his chest, knocking him against the doorframe.
Evelyn's scream tore through the quiet street.
The two men grappled, raw strength against desperation. Edgar was older, but his body was thick with muscle, hardened by years of brutality. Silas was leaner, quicker, but rage and survival sharpened him into something relentless.
Edgar swung the axe again, but Silas caught the handle, muscles straining as the blade hovered inches from his face.
"You don't know what you're fighting," Edgar hissed, his breath foul, his eyes blazing with manic light. "You don't know what I've done."
"Don't need to," Silas growled, forcing the axe upward, his jaw clenched tight.
For a moment, it seemed Silas might wrench it from him—but Edgar shifted suddenly, his boot slamming into Silas's shin. Silas gasped, stumbling back, and in that instant Edgar swung the axe sideways.
The blade grazed Silas's arm, tearing through fabric and skin. Blood spattered across the porch. Evelyn's knees nearly buckled at the sight.
"Silas!" she cried.
But Silas didn't fall. His face twisted in pain, but his grip only tightened. He lunged forward, slamming his forehead into Edgar's nose with a sickening crack.
Edgar roared, stumbling back, blood pouring from his nostrils.
Silas wrenched the axe from his grip and tossed it across the yard. The weapon landed with a heavy thud in the grass.
Evelyn thought, for one fragile heartbeat, that it was over.
Then Edgar laughed.
Low at first, then louder, booming, rolling out across the street like thunder. He straightened, blood smeared across his face, teeth glinting red.
"You think that'll stop me?" he rasped, his voice almost gleeful. "I've killed stronger men than you. Boys like you barely scream before the end."
Silas tensed, fists raised, but Evelyn could see the tremor in his arm, the blood soaking through his sleeve.
She wanted to run forward, to grab him, to drag him away—but her body was frozen between terror and helplessness.
Edgar lunged, his hands like claws, slamming into Silas with enough force to rattle the porch. The two crashed against the doorframe, wood splintering beneath them.
Evelyn stumbled backward onto the street, her breath shallow, her chest aching. Her mind screamed: Do something. Don't just stand here.
Her eyes darted to the axe lying in the grass.
The sight of it made bile rise in her throat, but she forced herself to move. She sprinted across the yard, her lungs burning, and grabbed the handle with both trembling hands.
It was heavier than she imagined, the weight of it nearly pulling her to the ground.
Behind her, Silas grunted in pain, Edgar's fist slamming into his ribs.
"Evelyn—run!" Silas shouted, his voice strangled.
But she didn't run.
She turned.
Her hands shook violently as she raised the axe, her chest heaving. Edgar's back was to her, his massive frame pinning Silas against the door.
Every part of her screamed in resistance. She wasn't a fighter. She wasn't strong. She wasn't supposed to lift an axe and swing it at another human being.
But then she remembered the whispers. The knives. The years of torment. The truth that Edgar had given them to her.
And she moved.
She swung the axe downward with all the strength she could muster.
The blade buried itself into the porch railing, missing Edgar by inches. The force of it rattled up her arms, nearly knocking her off balance.
Edgar twisted his head, eyes widening for the first time—not in fear, but in delight.
"There's fire in you after all," he growled. "Good. Makes the game more fun."
He shoved Silas to the ground and turned toward her, towering, blood-smeared and grinning.
Evelyn yanked the axe free, stumbling backward, her arms shaking under its weight.
Silas staggered to his feet, coughing, his lip split, his arm bleeding freely. He grabbed Evelyn's wrist, steadying her, his eyes burning into hers.
"Together," he whispered.
Evelyn swallowed hard, nodding, though terror still gripped every inch of her.
Edgar cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders, readying himself for the next round.
"You won't last the night," he promised. "Neither of you."
The air between them was heavy, thick with blood, sweat, and the scent of fear.
The hunt had only just begun.....