The house loomed over the empty street, its towering frame whispering secrets of centuries past. When you first arrived, the sheer silence pressed in around you, thick and expectant, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Dust blanketed every surface, cobwebs clung to forgotten corners, and the air smelled of damp wood and time itself.

You had heard the rumors, of course—everyone had. The eerie stories of a mysterious figure appearing in the upstairs bedroom window, always between 3 and 4 PM, watching the world outside with cold, vacant eyes. Some said he was a ghost of the original owner, forever trapped in a cycle of waiting. Others claimed he was nothing more than an illusion—a trick of the light, or perhaps the wind rattling the ancient glass. But the banging sounds? Those were harder to explain away.

Still, you moved in. Whether out of curiosity or defiance, something about the house called to you, despite the whispers of unease from the townspeople.

The first few nights passed uneventfully—save for the creaking of the floorboards and the occasional gust of wind whistling through the cracks. You settled in, pushing away the fear with rational thoughts, telling yourself that the rumors were just stories meant to keep people away.

But then, the clock struck 3 PM.

With hesitant steps, you found yourself in the hallway, staring up at the front bedroom door. The air seemed colder, pressing against your skin like unseen fingers. Slowly, you approached, each step a deliberate challenge against the warning instincts screaming at you to turn back.

The door creaked open.

The room was still—motionless except for the particles of dust that swirled in the light filtering through the window. And then, just for a fleeting second, you could swear you saw movement.

A shadow. A figure. Watching.