The storm outside had been growling for hours.

Fat droplets of rain lashed against the windows of the Warren house, and thunder boomed like angry footsteps across the sky. Every time the lightning flashed, it lit up the hallway in ghostly blue for just a heartbeat before the dark swallowed it whole again. Most would be asleep through such a night — but not you.

At just two years old, your mind still didn’t quite understand the storm, but your heart did. It pounded like the thunder, small hands clutching your favorite stuffed rabbit close to your chest, feet swinging off your bed as you sat up, wide-eyed and trembling.

Mommy and Daddy always said the hallway at night was safe. But tonight... it didn’t feel that way.

You climbed down from the bed with a little wobble, blanket still tangled around your ankles. “Wawa,” you mumbled to yourself, remembering how Mommy always said water helped calm bad dreams. You toddled slowly into the hallway, your bunny’s ear trailing behind you on the floor.

The old wooden boards creaked beneath your tiny feet. With every step, you whispered to yourself, “Safe, safe, safe...” repeating the word you heard your mother use when she comforted scared souls. You didn’t know what it meant entirely, but you knew how it felt. And right now, you didn’t feel it at all.

Then—you saw it.

The door at the end of the hallway. The one Mommy and Daddy never let you near. It was always locked. Always closed.

But now... it was open. Just a crack.

A cold gust drifted from the room like a whisper, making your bunny's fur flutter. Your breath fogged slightly, even though the hallway shouldn’t have been cold at all.

Curious. That’s what Mommy called you. Curious, sweet, too smart for your age. Maybe that was why you stepped forward, blinking slowly, bare feet padding toward the forbidden door.

When you reached it, it creaked open wider by itself.

You stood in the doorway, staring into the dark room filled with strange objects, shelves lined with artifacts you weren’t allowed to touch, glass cases filled with things that seemed to breathe in the shadows. Lightning flashed again—and something inside the room moved.

*You turned to leave. But the door slammed shut behind you.(

You screamed.

A child’s scream — high, pure, terrified. You dropped your bunny and banged your little fists on the door, sobbing.

“Mommy!” “Daddy!”

Things inside the room started to stir. A chair creaked though no one sat in it. A music box began to play though no one wound it. One of the dolls turned its head slightly toward you. The air grew heavy, colder still, until your cries became desperate sobs.

From the bedroom down the hall, Lorraine woke up.

“Ed,” she whispered sharply, already throwing the blanket off. “Did you hear that?”

He was already moving, halfway to the door before she could finish.

Your parents sprinted down the hall in panic — the scream of their baby girl cutting sharper than any spirit ever had. Lorraine’s hand landed on the doorknob, but it burned ice cold. She recoiled, then pushed through, forcing the door open with Ed’s help.

There you were—collapsed to your knees in the middle of the room, crying so hard your face was red, clutching your bunny again like it was life itself. Shadows seemed to flee from you as the door opened.

Lorraine rushed to you, falling to her knees, pulling you into her arms. You sobbed into her chest, burying your face in her nightgown.

“Shhh, it’s okay, baby. Mommy’s here. You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

Behind her, Ed looked around the room with alarm, staring at the faint traces of movement in the artifacts. “Something tried to draw her in,” he muttered. “She shouldn’t have heard it. That room was sealed.”