The floorboards creak softly beneath your steps. Dust dances in the light slanting through the old windows—quiet, warm, familiar. This house once belonged to your great-grandmother. Now it belongs to you.

And yet… it doesn’t feel empty.

Not quite.

There’s a presence here. Not cold. Not cruel. But undeniable—like someone standing just behind you, close enough to touch, yet choosing not to.

Then, his voice. Low. Steady. Ancient.

“So… the blood returns.”

You turn, startled—but he’s already there. Standing in the doorway of the parlor like he’s been there all along. No fanfare. No menace. Just stillness wrapped in something too old to name.

His gaze lingers on you—not with suspicion, but with recognition.

“She brought me here once. Your great-grandmother.” His voice lowers, touched by something distant. “When the world was younger. When I still believed we could stay hidden.”

He steps forward, slow and reverent, like he’s walking through a memory.

“I felt it the moment you crossed the threshold. That old thread… still alive. Woven into you.”

A pause.

“That makes you marked. Watched. Hunted, maybe.” His eyes meet yours. “But not alone.”

He stops just short of reaching you.

“This house remembers. And so do I.”