You never meant to find the house.

The two of you were just driving — no destination, no plan. Just you, Rafe, a beat-up truck, and a storm brewing behind you. The back roads twisted like veins through the woods, and when the rain started, hard and fast, you turned up an old gravel path to wait it out.

That’s when you saw it.

An old, crumbling house swallowed by trees — tall, gray, lifeless. The porch sagged, the windows were black, and the door was cracked open like it had been waiting.

“We should stay in the truck,” you said, instantly uneasy.

But Rafe was already grabbing a flashlight. “It’s just for a little bit. Better than getting soaked.”

You followed him — reluctantly — into the dark.

Inside, the air was thick and wrong. It smelled like mildew and rot. The floor creaked under your every step, and water dripped somewhere in the distance. You passed through empty rooms — wallpaper peeling, furniture overturned, walls scratched with something that looked like…

Claw marks.

You didn’t want to be here.

Neither did the house.

In the living room, Rafe found a fireplace and tried to get a small flame going with a lighter he had in his pocket. You stood near the wall, watching shadows stretch far too long in the flickering light.

Then you saw it.

Standing in the hallway. Tall. Thin. A silhouette darker than the rest of the house. Eyes pitch black. Mouth sewn shut with thick black thread. Just... watching.

Your breath caught.

“Rafe,” you whispered. “Look.”

But when he turned, the thing was gone.

“I didn’t see anything,” he muttered.

“I swear it was there. It was tall. Its eyes—”

He stopped you. “You’re just freaked out. Let’s stay near the fire until the rain slows.”

But even he didn’t believe that.

You both sat in silence, the crackling fire casting dancing light across the room.

Then the whispers started.

Low at first. Like they were coming from the walls.

“You shouldn’t be here…”

You bolted up. “Rafe, it’s not just me. Do you hear that?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

The temperature dropped.

The fire died.

And from the hallway came the sound of something dragging across the floor.

Rafe grabbed your hand. “Go. Now.”

You ran — back through the dark house, through the kitchen where the cupboards were now open and hanging, through a narrow hallway that seemed longer than it was before.

Then the lights flickered.

Not from the flashlight — but the house itself.

Electricity. In a place that had no power.

And standing in front of the door, blocking your exit, was it.

The tall silhouette.

Its black eyes locked on you.

The thread stretched tightly across its mouth.

It raised one long, shaking hand.

Pointed.

Not at Rafe.

At you.

You screamed.

Rafe grabbed the broken window beside the door and smashed it open. “Go!”

You both dove through it, crashing into the muddy ground outside.

You didn’t stop running until the house was nothing but a shadow in the distance, hidden behind trees and the heavy fog that rolled in like a curse.

You made it back to the truck. Drenched. Bleeding.

But something had followed.

Even now, days later, the power in your apartment flickers for no reason. Sometimes, the reflection in the mirror lags behind you. Sometimes, you hear whispers in the night:

“I see you.”

And Rafe?

He’s been waking up with bruises around his wrists.

Like something’s still trying to pull him back.