Mara didn't realize how long she had been standing in the hallway until the chill from the floorboards seeped through her shoes. The silence of the house pressed against her skin, thick and stale, humming with something she couldn't name. She shook herself, rubbing her arms as she stepped back into the living room.
The house felt uninhabited but not abandoned—like it had simply been holding its breath.
She flipped a switch on the wall. The overhead light flickered once, twice, then steadied into a dim, yellowish glow that barely cut through the shadows.
"That's… comforting," she muttered.
The electricity must have been neglected—wiring old, bulbs older. She could fix it later. Tonight, she just needed to settle in long enough to sleep.
Though the thought of sleeping here felt strangely daunting.
Mara walked deeper into the living room, her boots tapping against the hardwood in lonely echoes. Her father's recliner sat angled toward the fireplace, a quilt draped over the back. She touched the fabric—it was cold, stiff from disuse, smelling faintly of cedar and something else she couldn't place.
There should have been signs of chaos, she thought. People dying alone often left messes: mail piled up, unwashed dishes, spoiled food. But the house was too tidy.
Neat. Ordered. Staged.
The hairs on the back of her neck bristled.
She moved into the kitchen, exhaling slowly. Her father's favorite mug sat upside down on a towel beside the sink, as if drying. A thin layer of dust coated the rim. The fridge door handle felt cold and slightly damp under her fingers. When she opened it, a gust of stale air rushed out. Inside, the shelves were mostly empty: an expired carton of milk, a few bottles of water, neatly stacked cans of soup.
Everything arranged with strange precision.
Her father had always been meticulous—but not like this. This felt forced, methodical, unnatural.
She closed the fridge gently.
A faint creak sounded behind her.
Mara spun, breath catching——but there was nothing. No shift of shadow, no open door.
Just that invading sensation again. Watching. Waiting.
She inhaled deeply and forced herself to check the rest of the house before nightfall. The hallway grew darker, shadows pooling in the corners as if thickening with every step she took. Her father's office stood at the far end, door slightly ajar.
She paused. Her father had forbidden her from entering that room when she was a child. He'd said it was too cluttered, but she had always sensed something else—something he didn't want her to see.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the door. She pushed it open.
A soft, stale breeze curled past her face, carrying a smell of old paper and something faintly metallic.
The room was dim, blinds drawn tight. Dust lay thick on the bookshelves, which were crammed with geology texts, old atlases, mining logs, and journals with cracked spines. A large corkboard hung above the desk, layered with yellowed newspaper clippings, handwritten notes pinned at odd angles.
A map of Blackbridge lay spread across the desk. Red string connected dozens of points—mostly around town, but many leading into the surrounding forest. Some of the lines converged beneath the town square.
A knot tightened in her stomach.
Her father had been researching something. Something that involved the town's history. And the woods.
She stepped closer and brushed her fingertips across one of the pinned scraps. It was a photocopy of a mining record dated 1891:
"Tunnel expansion halted due to structural instability and… biological hazards?"
The last two words had been circled heavily with red ink, the pressure deep enough to indent the paper beneath.
Mara frowned.
Biological hazards? In an 1891 coal mine?
She traced one of the red strings with her eyes as it led from the mine site on the map to a point labeled only as: Underneath the Spine
A chill slid down her back.
She didn't know what that meant—not yet.
Her father's notebook lay slightly open on the desk, a folded piece of paper stuck between the pages like a marker. Mara hesitated, then pulled it free. Her hands trembled as she unfolded the page.
It was a letter.
Not finished. Written in her father's hurried, uneven handwriting.
*Mara—
If you are reading this, the house already knows you're here.
I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner.
The town isn't what it was. They aren't what they were. Something beneath us has begun to move again.
If they reach the house, do not let them come inside. The walls don't hold like they used to.
And if you hear humming—*
The letter stopped abruptly. The rest of the page was blank.
Mara's heart slammed against her ribs. Her father wasn't poetic or cryptic. He wasn't a man who left unfinished warnings without good reason.
She swallowed hard, the words echoing in her head:
"If you hear humming…"
The floor creaked behind her.
She spun around again—faster this time, adrenaline surging.
Still nothing. Just silence.
Except…
Her ears twitched. A faint vibration hummed somewhere in the house—low, distant, almost too soft to detect. At first, she thought it was old plumbing or settling wood, but the sound didn't come from the walls.
It came from below, deep in the foundation.
She stepped back. Her pulse pounded. No. She was tired, imagining things, misinterpreting sounds.
The humming faded as quickly as it had begun, leaving her in a hush so complete it made her feel hollow.
She folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket. Whatever her father had gotten himself tangled in; she needed to learn more before panic swallowed her rational mind whole.
The sun had dipped low by the time she moved upstairs. Night approached with unnatural speed, the sky shifting to a deep, oppressive blue gray as though the mountain swallowed daylight instead of merely ending it.
Her childhood bedroom was unchanged—pale lavender walls, old star stickers on the ceiling, her childhood drawings thumbtacked to the corkboard. The nostalgia that should have comforted her only made the room feel smaller.
She pulled her bags from the car, double-checking the locks on the front door. She couldn't explain why the idea of leaving it unsecured unsettled her so deeply.
Maybe the townspeople's blank stares were lingering in her mind. Or maybe the house had seeded its unease into her bones.
As night fell, the temperature plummeted. The floorboards groaned with every shift of the house's ancient frame. Wind pressed against the windows, carrying a distant pattern—almost like voices too muffled to distinguish.
Mara lay in bed, bundled under a thick quilt. The house's quiet was no longer peaceful. It was anticipatory. She stared at the ceiling, listening.
A soft thud came from the hallway.
Then another. Slow. Heavy.
Footsteps.
Mara held her breath.
The steps stopped directly outside her bedroom door.
Silence stretched—long, brittle, suffocating.
Then—
tap
A single, gentle knock.
Her mouth went dry.
Another knock came. Softer. As if someone—or something—was testing the wood.
She forced her voice to sound steady. "H-Hello…?"
No answer.
A thin line of shadow appeared at the bottom of the door—movement so subtle she almost missed it. Something shifted on the other side, casting a warped silhouette across the floorboards.
Her heart pounded hard enough to hurt.
Do not open the door.
The thought wasn't her own. It came sharp, instinctual, primal.
Her father's words in the letter echoed through her skull:
"If they reach the house, do not let them come inside."
The silhouette lingered. Then slowly slid away, the shape stretching unnaturally as though pulling itself along the hallway.
Mara didn't sleep for a long time.
When she finally drifted off, she dreamed of the house breathing.