Night fell like someone had thrown a blanket over the world.
The house went silent again — no footsteps, no pages breathing, no ghost humming upstairs.
Just the sound of crickets somewhere far beyond the walls.
I sat on my bed, hugging my knees, trying to count how many different kinds of quiet this house had.
So far: six.
The seventh began when I heard it — my name.
Soft.
Almost curious.
Like someone standing in the garden, wondering if I'd come out to play.
I froze.
It wasn't the ghost girl. Her voice always had that mischief in it, like she was chewing words.
This one sounded… human.
Familiar, but I couldn't remember from where.
"Come," it said again, a little clearer now.
The window's curtain fluttered even though there was no wind.
I knew I shouldn't go.
But curiosity and bad decisions usually wear the same shoes.
I stood up and reached toward the window.
The moment my fingers touched the cold wood frame, the air in the room changed — sharp, heavy, like the whole world had inhaled at once.
"Don't."
That voice.
Quiet, steady, and so close it almost startled me off my feet.
I turned — he was there. The brother.
He wasn't angry. Just… alert, like someone listening to a sound only he could hear.
I pointed toward the window. "Someone's calling me."
He shook his head slowly. "No one outside is calling you."
"But—"
"It's the house testing you." His tone didn't waver. "It wants to know if you'll follow your name when it isn't yours anymore."
That sentence made no sense. None at all.
But the way he said it — calm, certain — made my throat tighten.
Like maybe he wasn't warning me about the garden. Maybe he was warning me about myself.
He walked to the window and pulled the curtains shut. The faint glow outside vanished.
Then he placed his hand on the wood frame for a moment — and the cold air eased, like something invisible had been pushed away.
"Never answer when the dark calls kindly," he said.
I blinked. "So I should wait until it yells at me?"
A small sigh escaped him. "…You talk too much for someone who sees too much."
Before I could reply, he turned toward the door. But just as he left, he added, quietly, "If it calls again — don't listen. Even I can't save you twice."
The room went still.
Even the floorboards felt like they were holding their breath.
I climbed back into bed, clutching the blanket tight.
But before sleep found me, a soft whisper came again — not from outside this time.
From inside my pillow.
And it wasn't calling my name anymore.
It was calling someone else's.