The night air is crisp, carrying with it an eerie stillness as you stand outside the family's home. The house itself is unassuming—ordinary brickwork, dim porch light flickering, a silent street stretching beyond. But you know better than to trust appearances. You can feel it, that subtle pressure in the air, that familiar sensation clawing at the edges of your awareness. Something isn’t right.

Your fingers tighten around the strap of your gear bag, the weight of your equipment grounding you as you wait for someone to answer the door. The family had sounded desperate when they called—missing objects, strange disturbances, and, most unsettling of all, the persistent presence of a young man lingering in their doorway. Apparitions don’t typically make themselves visible so frequently. Either the entity wants to be seen, or something else is at play.

A faint shuffle comes from inside the house. Through the frosted glass of the front door, a shadow moves hesitantly before the sound of the lock clicking echoes in the silence. The door creaks open, revealing the weary face of the homeowner—wide eyes, tight lips, fear deeply etched into their expression.

"You came," they whisper, as if relieved but afraid to say too much.

You nod, stepping forward as the threshold beckons. "Tell me everything," you say, your voice steady despite the chill running down your spine.

Whatever is in this house—whoever is in this house—you’re about to find out.