Ava noticed the car first.
It wasn’t the kind of vehicle that would raise any alarms—an old, faded hospital-branded sedan, with chipped decals and a cracked spotlight mounted to the side. The kind of car that blended into the background of the city, unnoticed by most. It was parked across the street, half-concealed by the neighbor’s dying hedge. Nothing overt. But it had been there for three days.
At first, Ava dismissed it. She lived near the city, where people parked on streets without a second thought. Maybe it was someone who just needed a quiet place to stop. She tried to ignore it, tried to go on with her day. But every time she glanced out the window, the car was still there. Staring back at her.
And then, one evening, she saw him.
The man. Always the same.
Middle-aged. Clean-shaven. In a faded blue uniform with a black security patch stitched above his chest. He sat in the driver’s seat, barely moving, just enough for her to catch a glimpse of his face. But it wasn’t the stillness that unsettled her. It was the way he watched the house. The way his eyes seemed to linger on her window, even though she never saw him look away.
Ava had worked in hospitals long enough to recognize the type—overworked, underpaid, always on edge. She couldn’t remember seeing this one before. Not during her time at St. Joseph’s. But there was something strangely familiar about his expression. Not recognition—something darker. Something almost possessive.
She told herself it was nothing, that it was just paranoia. He was probably just on a late-night patrol. Maybe he had parked there to sleep, maybe he was waiting for a shift to start. She didn’t call the police. Not yet. Not when it could all just be a coincidence.
But then, that night, things changed.
Ava woke at 2:13 a.m., a chill in the room that seemed to seep into her skin. She rolled over, eyes heavy with sleep, but something tugged at her—the strange, growing sense of unease that had been nagging at her for days. She turned toward the window, eyes searching the darkness outside.
He was there.
Standing in her yard.
No flashlight. No clipboard. Just standing, facing the house. His body was unnervingly still, arms hanging loosely at his sides. He wasn’t moving. Not even a twitch. Just standing there, staring at the darkened windows like he was waiting.
And then, as her heart thudded in her chest, she realized one thing—he hadn’t looked away.
Ava dropped to the floor before he could see her. Her body moved instinctively, a panic-fueled reflex that had her crawling beneath the windowsill in one swift motion. Her heart hammered against her ribs, an unrelenting thud, like something desperate to break free.
She stayed there, not moving, until the first light of morning filtered through the blinds.
She hadn’t meant to stay the night like that. It wasn’t something she’d planned. But the thought of leaving, of stepping into the open where he might see her, felt impossible. So, she waited. Her body aching from the cold floor, her breath shallow and tight.
Ava told herself she had to go back. Not to the police—they wouldn’t believe her. Not to confront the man, either. No, she had to go back to the hospital. St. Joseph’s.
It had been over two years since she left. She hadn’t stepped foot inside since the day she walked away. But now, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was pulling her back. It was an invisible force, something buried deep inside her, like a gravitational pull she couldn’t resist. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe something darker. She didn’t know.
The sky was overcast when she parked outside the hospital. The lot was mostly empty, the air biting and sharp. She sat in her car for a moment, staring at the aging building, its windows dark, heavy with silence. She almost turned around. Almost drove away and pretended none of this was happening. But she didn’t.
She couldn’t.
Inside, the smell hit her immediately. That same sterile mix of bleach and dry air, with a faint undercurrent of something metallic—like old coins left too long in water. It hadn’t changed. Not even after all this time.
The front desk didn’t ask questions when she walked in. Old habits, she reminded herself. She moved like she still belonged, the weight of the building pressing against her. She was invisible here, fading into the familiar walls.
Her feet carried her down the back hallway toward the old administration wing—now closed for renovations. She slipped past the taped-off barricade without a second thought, the silence swallowing her footsteps.
And then she heard it.
Footsteps.
Sharp. Measured. Slow.
Ava’s body froze, her pulse racing as she ducked into a side office, heart slamming in her chest. The lights were off, the door half-hinged. She crouched beneath an old desk, the metal edges digging into her back. She held her breath, barely daring to make a sound.
The footsteps stopped.
Then… they turned.
Her body pressed lower to the floor, her chest tight as the silence grew thicker. A shadow passed across the frosted glass. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out everything else.
And then—
Clink.
A sound like metal hitting the floor.
Ava’s hand shot to her pocket instinctively, but it was too late. The hospital ID.
She hadn’t even realized she’d lost it.
It lay a few feet from the door, half-lit by a flickering exit sign. Her face stared up at the ceiling from the grainy photo, her full name printed beneath it: Ava Harris, Former Employee.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Was he close? Did he see it? Did he see her?
The shadow returned.
Ava watched in breathless silence as he bent down slowly, his movements deliberate. He reached for her ID, picking it up with a careful hand.
And then, almost too softly, he spoke.
“So she’s still here.”
Ava’s blood ran cold. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement, as if he already knew.
Without another word, he ran. Not toward her, but away. Toward the parking garage. Toward her car.
Ava’s heart lurched. She had to move. She had to go.
By the time she scrambled to her feet and made it outside, the hospital lot was empty.
No security guard. No faded sedan.
Only her car.
She stood there for a moment, disoriented, the weight of what just happened sinking into her bones. But then she saw it.
A folded slip of paper, tucked beneath the windshield wiper.
Her fingers felt numb as she peeled it free, breath hitching in her throat as she unfolded it.
One sentence, scrawled in jagged red marker:
"Next time, don’t leave your name behind."
A chill ran down her spine. Her hands trembled as she crumpled the paper, but it was no use. The words were already burned into her mind.
Ava didn’t waste time. She turned and ran to her car, hands shaking as she fumbled with the door. She locked it immediately and started the engine, her mind racing.
As she drove home, she kept her eyes glued to the rearview mirror, glancing every ten seconds. Her breath was shallow, the grip on the steering wheel tight and unyielding.
No headlights. No car behind her.
But the unease didn’t fade. It deepened. Hardened.
The night felt heavier now, as if the darkness had grown more oppressive, more aware. Every shadow seemed to stretch longer, every corner held something unseen. Ava wasn’t sure if the guard was still watching—or if something else was.
But she knew one thing for sure. He was close. Too close.
That night, Ava didn’t sleep.
She sat curled in a blanket on the living room floor, eyes fixed on the streetlights through a crack in the curtain. The memory of the badge on that hallway floor lingered in her mind, sharp and insistent—like a dropped weapon she couldn’t retrieve.
It had her face. Her name.
He had both now.
Sometime past midnight, a quiet thwack shattered the silence.
Ava jerked upright.
Another thwack. Then another—dull, hollow thuds against the far side of the house. Wood creaked. Glass hummed in its pane. Something was hitting the house from outside. Something fast.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart drummed against her chest, a frantic rhythm she couldn’t calm.
She crawled toward the window, hands trembling, as if each inch she moved brought her closer to the threat lurking just beyond the glass. The moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting long, thin shadows across the floor.
A third thwack.
Then—nothing.
She peered through the gap in the curtain. Her stomach dropped.
An arrow was embedded in the porch beam.
A real one. Black shaft. Sharp steel tip. It quivered slightly from the impact, like it was still alive, still waiting.
A second arrow had shattered the basement window—Ava could see the jagged remnants of glass sparkling in the moonlight across the room. Her pulse spiked.
No, no, no…
She grabbed her phone with trembling hands, praying for a signal, for something. The screen was black.
No signal. No Wi-Fi.
A chill crawled up her spine. The stillness around her felt wrong now—too quiet, too expectant.
She couldn’t tell if the arrows were a warning or a promise.
Either way, she knew she wasn’t alone.
Then came the scream.
Not hers.
A neighbor’s.
Ava froze.
It was raw, high-pitched, and close—too close. She scrambled to the front door, fumbled with the lock, and flung it open just in time to see a man stagger into view from between the hedges, clutching his side.
An arrow jutted from beneath his jacket, angled up under his arm. He collapsed on her lawn, gasping for breath, eyes wide with confusion and pain. Another figure—his partner, maybe—fell to their knees beside him, sobbing.
“It hit his shoe,” the woman cried, voice breaking. “It didn’t go through, it didn’t—”
Blood bubbled on the man’s lips. He looked at Ava with a dazed, desperate clarity.
“There was someone in the street,” he rasped. “He wasn’t aiming at me. He was aiming at your window.”
Ava slammed the door.
Hard.
The lock clicked back into place like a shot.
She didn’t turn on the lights.
If he was still out there—watching—she wouldn’t give him the advantage.
The house seemed to hold its breath around her.
Ava crouched low and crawled across the hardwood floor, knees aching, palms slick. Every creak under her hand echoed too loud in the dark. Every uncovered window felt like an eye—open, waiting, hungry.
She reached the kitchen and peeled the blind back an inch with shaking fingers.
Outside, the street was silent.
And there it was.
The sedan.
Parked just up the block, half-drenched in shadow.
Lights off. Engine silent.
But he was inside.
A figure, just barely visible in the driver’s seat.
Still. Watching. Waiting.
Her breath fogged the glass.
She backed away from the window, limbs trembling.
She didn’t run—didn’t dare. She crawled.
Back toward the stairs. Toward the illusion of safety.
Her phone was still clutched in her hand, screen dark. No signal. No bars.
Still.
It wasn’t just interference.
She knew that now.
He had done something. Jammed it. Cut it. Or maybe…
Maybe it wasn’t the house anymore.
Maybe it had stopped being hers.
Halfway up the stairs, the front doorknob rattled.
A slow, deliberate twist—like someone testing it, not trying to open, just… checking.
Ava stopped breathing.
The sound was so soft it could’ve been imagined. But it wasn’t.
She backed up one stair. Then another.
Not running.
Running would make noise.
And he wanted noise.
Click.
The lock.
She had locked it. She was sure she had.
Wasn’t she?
The door didn’t open. But the handle stopped moving.
A pause followed—long, patient, almost clinical.
Then came the voice.
“Ava.”
A beat.
“I know you’re still here.”
It was flat. Controlled. Like someone reciting lines from a report.
No anger. No rush.
Just certainty.
Then—nothing.
The silence that came after was heavier than his voice.
The kind that sinks into the walls.
Ava backed into the upstairs hallway, her steps soundless, every muscle screaming not to move too fast.
She slipped into the bathroom, eased the door shut with trembling fingers, and dropped to the floor.
She crawled beneath the sink, curling into the narrow crawlspace, her knees to her chest, her spine pressed against the pipes.
The tile was ice beneath her cheek.
She pressed her ear to the floor.
And heard it.
The door creaking open.
The sound of footsteps—slow, spaced apart, methodical—vibrated up through the tile, into her skull.
He had entered.
She hadn’t heard him come up the stairs, but somehow she knew.
He was there.
On her floor.
She watched the base of the door through the cabinet crack.
The shadows shifted.
Paused.
Then moved again.
No words this time. No whisper.
Just the sound of him walking.
Steady.
Searching.
As if he already knew the layout. As if he’d been here before.
She pressed a hand over her mouth.
Her heartbeat was too loud—thudding against her ribs, echoing in her throat like it might rattle the pipes around her.
She didn’t dare breathe.
The house was wrong.
It felt sealed now. Heavy. Close.
Not just shelter, but witness. Watching.
That's when she heard it.
A new sound.
Dragging.
Metal against wood. A soft scrape, rhythmic.
Not stumbling. Not rushed.
Intentional.
Something was being pulled along the hallway floor, just outside.
A chair leg?
A pipe?
A crowbar?
Her mind spun uselessly, trying to match the sound to a shape, a purpose.
Each guess worse than the last.
Then it stopped.
Right outside the bathroom door.
Her lungs locked.
No footsteps. No creak. No breath.
The doorknob didn’t twitch.
No knock.
Just a pause.
A presence.
Waiting.
She counted seconds in her head.
Five.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Still nothing.
Then—
A whisper. Threaded beneath the door like a draft. Barely there.
“You were supposed to stay gone.”
Ava’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened.
The voice wasn’t the one from the hospital. Not exactly.
It was older. Rougher.
Worn down like the corners of a childhood memory.
It sounded like someone she used to know.
Something shifted in her chest—a weight, long buried, rising.
She clamped her eyes shut.
Her head pulsed, heat building behind her eyes.
It didn’t feel like a nightmare anymore.
It felt like a memory.
One she’d forgotten how to forget.
Like something had followed her home a long time ago—
And had waited.
Patient.
Unchanging.
Ava reached into the cabinet beneath the sink, fingers trembling.
Cold porcelain. Plastic bottles. A rusted hinge.
Searching until she found something Metal.
She gripped the only thing with weight.
A wrench.
Her hand curled around it, knuckles white.
Silence.
She crouched there quietly waiting before hearing a single knock.
Not loud. Not frantic.
It was almost inviting.
The knock echoed through the hollow of her chest like it had been there before.
Not just sound, but sensation.
Recognition.
Something in her remembered it.
And that was worse than fear.
Ava gripped the wrench tighter.
Her breath came in shallow, trembling pulls.
The silence had changed.
Not absence of sound—but presence.
Like the house itself was listening. Holding its breath with her.
Then the doorknob turned.
Not sudden, nor violent.
Just… deliberate.
One slow rotation.
Then another.
And then—stillness.
It wasn’t locked.
She hadn’t locked it.
She’d been too focused on hiding. Too scattered.
Her body went rigid. The wrench lifted in her hands, trembling just enough to make the metal whisper against her palm.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
The door creaked inward.
Not wide. Just enough.
Ava braced to strike.
Waiting for a figure. A silhouette. A shadow.
But nothing stepped through.
Only silence.
The air changed.
Not colder.
Heavier.
Like the room was filling with water.
Like the walls were sinking.
Something stepped inside.
She didn’t see a face. Not at first.
Only bare feet.
Pale. Damp.
Skin—not shoes.
Not a uniform.
Just… feet.
And something else.
Familiarity.
Ava’s grip tightened.
Her mouth went dry.
She knew those feet.
Had seen them before—
beneath a hospital sheet.
Ten years ago.
Her stomach dropped.
Not like fear.
Worse.
Like falling back into something she'd spent years clawing her way out of.
Her mind reeled.
"It was an accident," she whispered.
A reflex. A defense. A lie she’d told herself often enough it almost felt like truth.
The figure in the doorway didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
But Ava heard it anyway.
Not a voice in the room. A voice inside her.
You walked away.
Her breath caught.
She shook her head, harder than she meant to.
"I couldn’t have saved you."
The silence pressed closer. Then—
You didn’t even try.
Her fingers went slack.
The wrench slipped from her hand, hit the floor with a dull, unceremonious clatter.
The figure didn’t flinch.
Of course not.
It wasn’t here to punish her.
It was here to remind her.
Ava’s knees buckled. She caught herself on the edge of the sink, the porcelain biting into her palms. The bathroom tilted. The corners warped.
Like the house was no longer anchored to anything real.
Like maybe it never had been.
The bare feet stepped closer.
One breath.
Then another.
Slow and soundless—like memory sliding across tile.
"You don’t belong here," she said. It came out hollow.
The response came immediately, folding around her like a sheet pulled tight.
Neither do you.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
She gripped the counter, as if it could hold her upright against the past pressing in.
Images flared behind her eyes—unwelcome, unstoppable.
A hallway lined with flickering fluorescents.
The fire alarm screaming overhead.
A name badge dropping from her chest to the floor—
Her own voice yelling. But no one listened.
They never did.
She had run.
She hadn’t gone back.
She had watched the building burn from the parking lot.
The badge still clipped to her shirt.
The wrong one.
The wrong day.
She hadn’t seen it in ten years.
Not the feet.
Not the fire.
Not the face that used to haunt her dreams.
And yet here it was—folded into the walls. Into the quiet.
Ava stood slowly.
The wrench lay forgotten. The cabinet door swung open, creaking slightly on its hinge. Her house looked the same—but it didn’t feel the same. The silence was still there, but it had changed.
Not gone.
Just quieter.
Less like a predator.
More like a shadow.
Something she might carry.
Forever.
She would leave the house today.
She had to.
But escape wasn’t the same as release.
Not when the thing following you was inside your own name.
The badge had always been hers.
And the memory?
The memory wasn’t done with her yet.