It started that night—the night the air turned unnaturally cold, a heaviness hanging in the space around him. Ethan had always felt like there was something off about the house, but tonight… tonight, it was different.

He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the faint sound of whispering slipping through the cracks of his thoughts. At first, he dismissed it, thinking it was the wind, but then it grew—closer, clearer.

Just ignore it, he thought, rolling over and pulling the blanket up to his chin. It’s just your mind playing tricks.

But then it came again, a voice just beyond hearing, like someone was standing right outside his door.

"Who's there?" Ethan called out, his voice tired, used to the unease creeping up his spine.

No answer.

The silence that followed felt thick, almost suffocating. It’s nothing, he tried to convince himself, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. He was just tired of all the supernatural resident evil outlast type shit he's been thru these past years. He was so exhausted he was fearless.