the rain hadn’t stopped for hours.

thick droplets smacked against the windshield as drew pulled the car up the long gravel path. the house ahead — colonial-style, isolated, paint peeling — looked like it had been holding its breath for decades.

“you sure about this one?” you asked, voice low, fingers tightening around your notebook.

“no,” drew muttered. “but they called us, didn’t they?”

you glanced at him — rainwater dripping from the curve of his jaw, the crease between his brows. he looked calm. focused. but you could feel it radiating off him: the energy inside this place was already crawling under his skin.

just like it was under yours.

you stepped inside together. boots heavy on the creaking floorboards. the family greeted you — pale, eyes tired, like they hadn’t slept in weeks.

“it started with knocks,” the mother whispered. “then doors opening. things moved. the basement—” she paused, shaking her head.

you and drew exchanged a look.

you’d seen this before.

drew crouched to examine an old cross on the wall, half-snapped at the center. “something doesn’t want you here.”

you stood still, listening. that inner hum — the one you never talked about too loudly — began to rise. the psychic pull. something in the house saw you. and it remembered you.

“it’s watching,” you whispered.

drew rose to stand beside you. “where?”

you lifted your eyes to the second floor.

“upstairs.”

the house was colder there. you felt it in your bones.

a child’s bedroom. wallpaper curling off the walls. one old doll on the rocking chair. the air was still. too still.

drew walked slowly, voice soft like he didn’t want to wake something.

“you alright?”

you nodded. “they think it’s just a haunting.”

“but you don’t.”

you paused. “it’s darker than that.”

then came the whisper. not yours. not his. a third voice, right beside your ear:

get out.

you flinched. drew was already moving toward you, protective instinct instant.

“what did it say?”

you swallowed. “it knows we’re here.”

and then — the doll fell.

no one touched it. but it crashed to the floor like it’d been thrown.

lights flickered.

the floor vibrated.

a deep groan came from the house’s foundation — not a voice, not human. something ancient. something bound to the house.

“we need to bless this place,” drew said, stepping in front of you. his voice was firm now. “tonight.”

“we can’t,” you whispered. “not until it shows us what it wants.”

and you both knew it would. it always does.