I was visiting my cousin at his new home, a small cottage on Cedar Lane he had inherited from his aunt. From the moment I stepped inside, a cold dread settled in my stomach. I tried to dismiss it as travel fatigue.
After a few days, I grew used to the odd sounds. Floorboards creaked without a footstep, and soft murmurs drifted from empty rooms. I convinced myself it was the old house settling, or the wind.
One evening, my cousin went out to get groceries, leaving me alone. A sudden wave of nausea sent me rushing toward the hall bathroom. A woman in a faded blue dress stood blocking the doorway. She was there for only a second before vanishing. My heart hammered in my chest.
Then came a rhythmic thudding from the living room. Thinking my cousin had returned, I turned to look. A thin, ragged man was repeatedly striking his forehead against the doorframe. A scream caught in my throat, and everything went black.
I opened my eyes to see my cousin kneeling beside me, his face full of worry. I didn’t say a word. I just scrambled to my feet, ran out the front door, and didn’t look back.