The first time I heard my name coming from the abandoned house on Sycamore Street, I thought I was imagining things. I had passed the house a thousand times before. It sat at the corner, a skeleton of what must have once been a beautiful home, now forgotten and left to decay under the weight of time. Its boarded-up windows gaped like empty eye sockets, the peeling paint curling away from the wood like old, dead skin. The house had been empty for years. Or at least, that’s what people said. No one lived there. No one had for a long time, not since the accident. That’s what they called it—an accident. A vague, hushed explanation that never quite sat right. There were rumors, of course. Stories exchanged between kids like stolen secrets: a fire, a family that vanished overnight, a man who had gone inside on a dare and never came back. I never believed any of it until that night. It was late. I had just finished a closing shift at the diner, exhausted, half-dreaming of my bed. The streets were empty, the town asleep. A cold wind carried the scent of damp pavement and decaying leaves as I walked past the house, my footsteps muffled against the cracked sidewalk. And then, I heard it. A whisper. "...Daniel." I stopped cold. The sound came from inside the house, threading through the darkness like a breath against my ear. Soft. Deliberate. My chest tightened as I turned toward the house, my gaze drawn to the boarded windows. The streetlamp flickered, casting long, fractured shadows across the warped wooden siding. The door was shut, its frame leaning slightly, like an old man too tired to hold himself upright. Something about the way it stood there—silent, waiting—unsettled me. I swallowed hard, my throat dry. It was just the wind, I told myself. Just the exhaustion playing tricks on me. I took a step back, shaking my head. That’s when I heard it again. "Come inside." A whisper, softer this time. Not a command. A request. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise. My feet itched to move, to run, but my body remained frozen, locked in place by something I couldn’t name. The house was empty. It had always been empty. Hadn’t it? A sudden gust of wind rattled the loose boards against the windows, snapping me out of my trance. My breath came sharp and unsteady as I forced myself to move. I walked away quickly, keeping my eyes forward. I refused to look back. I told myself I was being ridiculous, that it was just my imagination, fed by childhood stories and too little sleep. But when I got home, I found dirt on my shoes. Dark, damp earth. As if I had already stepped inside. I tried to ignore it. I told myself I was overreacting. But all the next day, the memory of that voice clung to me like damp air before a storm. It sat in my chest, thick and oppressive, making it hard to breathe. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard it again—whispering my name in a voice that was neither friendly nor cruel. It was just… waiting. The feeling didn’t leave me. It coiled in my ribs, gnawed at the edges of my thoughts. It was the kind of unease that settled in the bones, an itch I couldn’t scratch. At work, I moved in a haze, going through the motions. The register beeped. The scent of coffee and grease filled the air. Customers talked around me, but their voices sounded distant and muffled. I caught myself staring off, hands frozen mid-motion, as the next customer cleared their throat impatiently. I blinked. For a split second, I saw it again. The house. Dark. Looming. Waiting. My stomach twisted. I shook my head and forced myself to focus. Just a trick of the mind. A lingering thread of a bad night. Still, I left work with the same gnawing feeling, like something unseen had brushed against me. The shadows felt heavier, the air too still. Every time my eyes drifted toward the end of Sycamore Street, my pulse quickened. I didn’t walk that way home. But that night, I dreamed of it.
________________________________________
I stood in the doorway.
The front door hung wide open, its edges fading into darkness. The light from the streetlamp behind me barely reached past the threshold, swallowed whole by the house.
The air inside was thick. Stagnant. It smelled of dust, damp wood, and something else—something metallic and faintly sweet.
I could hear breathing.
Slow. Deliberate.
Waiting.
I wasn’t alone.
I knew it before I saw him.
A figure stood in the hallway, facing away from me.
Not a shadow. Not a reflection.
Me.
A second me.
He stood perfectly still, his back straight, hands at his sides. As if listening to something deep within the house.
Something I couldn’t hear.
Something I wasn’t supposed to hear.
Dread coiled tight in my chest.
I wanted to speak—to demand to know who he was, what he was doing.
But I couldn’t.
The words sat heavy on my tongue, unmoving.
The air around me pressed in, thick as water. I couldn’t even step forward.
Then he moved.
A slow tilt of his head.
Not turning completely, just enough for me to see his mouth curve into a smile.
A stretched, knowing grin.
I couldn’t see his eyes.
But I could feel them on me.
The moment stretched impossibly long, the silence filling my ears until it roared.
Then he took a step forward.
Toward me.
I woke up gasping.
________________________________________
My sheets clung to my damp skin, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.
I sat up fast, my breath coming in sharp, ragged pulls. The air in my room felt wrong—too cold, too still.
My stomach clenched as I swung my legs over the bed, trying to shake off the lingering dread. Just a dream. Just a dream.
Then I felt it.
A strange ache in my feet.
Like I had been walking all night.
A cold shiver crawled down my spine as I hesitated, then slowly pulled back my blankets.
My breath caught in my throat.
Dirt.
Dark, damp earth caked between my toes.
The kind you’d find inside the house on Sycamore Street.
The third night, I told myself I wouldn’t go near it.
I even walked the long way home, cutting through side streets, avoiding Sycamore altogether.
It didn’t matter.
Somehow, I still ended up in front of the house.
I wasn’t sure how long I had been standing there, staring up at the slanted roof, the boarded windows. The wind had died. The whole street was still.
Too still.
Not even the rustling of leaves, the distant hum of a passing car.
Just silence.
The kind that makes your ears ring, the kind that presses against your skin.
My breath hitched.
I hadn’t meant to come here.
I knew I hadn’t meant to come here.
Yet here I was.
Then the door creaked open.
Not a soft sway from the wind. Not a slow, hesitant shift.
It opened.
Wide. Yawning into the night like a mouth waiting to swallow me whole.
Waiting.
The boards over the windows seemed darker now, the jagged gaps in the wood almost watching.
I should have run.
I should have turned and never looked back.
But my feet moved on their own.
I stepped inside.
________________________________________
Inside the House
The moment my foot crossed the threshold, the air changed.
It was thick. Stagnant.
It smelled of damp wood and something older—something rotting beneath the surface, something that had been waiting.
The floor groaned beneath my weight, dust swirling in the moonlight, filtering through the gaps in the boarded windows. I took another step. The air pressed closer, wrapping around me like unseen hands.
Then I saw them.
Footprints.
Leading up the stairs, outlined in dirt.
My breath hitched.
They weren’t old. They weren’t faded.
They were fresh.
They matched mine.
I lifted my foot. The print was identical. Same shape. Same depth.
As if I had already walked this path.
As if I had already been here before.
Hadn’t I?
A whisper curled through the air, curling at the edge of my mind.
“Welcome home.”
The voice was closer now. Beneath my skin. Inside my ribs.
I turned sharply—
And then the door slammed shut.
________________________________________
The Reflection in the Hall
Darkness swallowed the room.
My breath came in sharp gasps as I stumbled back, hands fumbling against the walls for a switch, a handle—anything.
Nothing.
Just the weight of the house pressing in, the whisper of dust shifting through the air.
Then… footsteps.
Not mine.
They came from upstairs.
Slow. Deliberate.
Each step measured, dragging slightly, like something moving with hesitation—
Or purpose.
The old wooden stairs groaned under the weight of something unseen.
I wanted to scream.
I wanted to run.
But my feet wouldn’t move.
A whisper, closer now.
“You never should have left.”
The words slid through the dark like cold fingers against my spine.
My throat was dry. My hands are clammy.
I wasn’t alone.
A shape-shifted at the top of the stairs.
Tall. Thin.
Its limbs are too long. Its posture is too still.
But I recognized it.
It was me.
Or something wearing me.
The figure tilted its head the way a doll might when its strings are pulled.
And I saw it clearly now.
It was smiling.
Not a natural smile. Not something human.
A stretched, knowing grin that reached too far.
It didn’t blink.
I tried to move.
Tried to breathe.
But the air had thickened, pressing against my lungs, heavy as water.
The figure lifted a hand—
And beckoned.
________________________________________
The Final Night
I don’t remember leaving.
I don’t remember getting home.
All I know is that when I woke up, my body ached.
Like I had been walking all night.
My throat was dry. My muscles stiff.
And my bedroom smelled like dirt.
I sat up, running a shaking hand through my hair.
The house had been a dream. A nightmare.
Hadn’t it?
I swung my legs over the bed—
And froze.
Dirt.
Dark, damp earth clung to my feet.
Staining the floor.
Trailing toward the door.
My stomach twisted. My fingers trembled as I reached for my phone, desperate for light.
The glow illuminated my bedroom, casting sharp shadows against the walls.
Then I saw it.
The mirror.
It was covered in dust.
And in the dust, traced in familiar strokes—
D A N I E L.
My breath caught.
A shadow shifted behind my reflection.
The lights flickered.
And the whisper came one last time.
“It’s time to come home.”
________________________________________
The Next Morning
The house on Sycamore Street is still empty.
At least, that’s what people say.
No one lives there. No one has in years.
But at night, when the wind is still, the whispers return.
Some say it’s just the house settling, the old wood shifting after decades of abandonment. Others blame the wind, whistling through the gaps in the boarded-up windows.
But those who have walked past—who have dared to pause at the crumbling gate or glance up at the darkened second-story window—know better.
The whispers don’t come from the wind.
They come from inside.
Soft, curling through the air like smoke.
Calling.
Sometimes, they hear my name.
“Daniel.”
Other times, it’s something else.
Something older.
Something that doesn’t belong to me.
The streetlights in front of the house flicker more often than they should. Dogs refuse to walk past it. The air around it is always colder than the rest of the block.
No one dares to step inside anymore.
Not after what happened last time.
Not after the boy from the next neighborhood over disappeared last winter.
His friends swore they saw him walk up the steps on a dare. They heard him laugh, heard the front door creak open.
But they never heard him come back out.
They waited.
And waited.
And then they heard him scream.
But by the time they got help, the house was silent. The door was closed.
And the boy was gone.
The police searched. They broke the boards, pushed through the rotting wood.
They found dust.
Empty rooms.
But they never found him.
Not even a footprint.
Nothing.
It was as if the house had swallowed him whole.
Now, people walk faster when they pass by. They keep their eyes down.
They ignore the whispering.
They don’t stop.
Because those who step inside—
They never leave.