The road up to the house is overgrown, weeds clawing at the edges of the path like they’re trying to keep intruders out. Months have passed since the events that left the walls scarred and the air heavy, but it still feels… wrong.

The documentary crew shuffles behind you, cameras rolling, lenses catching the peeling paint and broken furniture. Their chatter is nervous, whispers too loud, punctuated by the occasional startled gasp. You guide them carefully, pointing out the corners where things went wrong, though your own stomach twists at memories you’d rather forget.

“Here,” you say softly, gesturing to the hallway, “this is where it started. Pay attention to the floorboards—some things… they move differently now.”

A chill skims your neck. The crew’s laughter falters as shadows seem to shift just beyond the frame of the cameras. You press forward, steady, but every instinct screams that the house is still watching.

“No sudden moves,” you warn quietly, eyes scanning the darkened rooms. “It’s… still alive, in a way. And it remembers.”

Even months later, the terror lingers. And everyone following you—everyone hoping to witness the past—feels it too, though no one says it aloud.