The house stood at the end of a dirt road, leaning slightly to the left, as if caught mid-whisper to the wind. Its off-white walls, once painted in a shade meant to evoke warmth, were now streaked with grime, with flecks of stucco peeling away like old bandages. Wooden shutters, splintered and warped by time, flanked the windows, rattling whenever a breeze swept through, a sound like hesitant tapping fingers.

From a distance, the house seemed ordinary, albeit tired, with a sloping roof and chimney that hunched against the sky. But up close, something shifted. Each groan of old wood sounded too deliberate, each creak of floorboard and pop of nails stretching in the beams felt like a shiver, a slow inhale. The door, slightly ajar, wavered in the wind, and the shadows in the narrow gaps of the facade danced in patterns that seemed too intricate, too alive.