(Izzy's POV)
The smell of pine hit me before the house even came into view. Crisp. Damp. Like the woods were hiding something just beneath the mossy surface.
Dad's old truck rattled to a stop at the edge of the overgrown driveway. I stared out the window, up at the house that was supposedly "ours" now. Three stories of weathered wood, a slanted roof, and shutters hanging like broken arms. The porch was lopsided, and ivy clung to the walls like it was trying to strangle the place.
"Looks worse than the pictures," I muttered.
Mom smiled tight. "It's got character."
"Yeah," I said, opening the door and stepping down into the wet grass. "Haunted character."
The wind shifted and I shivered, pulling my jacket tighter. My long blonde hair whipped around my face, sticking to my glossed lips. Ocean blue eyes—Dad's words, not mine—met my reflection in the truck's side mirror. I didn't recognize the girl staring back. She looked tired already.
"Isabel," Mom called, "help me with the boxes?"
Izzy. I liked Izzy. It felt like mine. Isabel felt like the name of someone who didn't belong here… or anywhere really.
I grabbed a box from the back of the truck, arms straining under the weight. The front door creaked open when I nudged it with my foot, revealing a shadowed hallway that seemed too long for the size of the house. Cold air greeted me like a breath on the neck.
"Ugh." I exhaled sharply. "Of course it's freezing."
I walked in, each floorboard groaning under my steps. Paint peeled in strips from the walls, and the faint smell of mildew lingered in the corners. There was an old grandfather clock in the hallway, its pendulum frozen in place like time had given up trying.
I took the stairs two at a time to escape the heavy silence and find my room. I needed a space that didn't feel like it wanted to swallow me whole.
The bedroom at the end of the hall had the only intact window. It overlooked the woods—miles of trees swaying under a gray sky. The wallpaper was faded pink, curled at the edges, but it wasn't terrible. I dropped the box and collapsed onto the bare mattress. For a minute, I just stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind moan through the cracks in the walls.
A knock.
I sat up. "Mom?"
No answer.
Another knock. Slower. From behind the closet door.
My heart jumped into my throat. The closet door hadn't been open when I came in. It had been latched shut with a rusted hook.
I stood slowly, staring at the door. The knock came again—gentle. Like someone—or something—was asking to be let out.
I inched forward, hand shaking as I reached for the knob.
Another knock.
I froze.
Then I heard footsteps on the stairs and Mom's voice echoing faintly, "Izzy? Did you hear that?"
I whipped around. "Yeah. The closet—" I looked back.
The door was closed. Still latched.
No sign of anything.
My throat felt dry. "Maybe this place is haunted."
Dinner was awkward. Mom kept trying to talk about how "exciting" this fresh start was, but I could see the tightness around her eyes, the way she picked at her food. We'd moved because of the divorce, and because she'd inherited this house from her creepy great-aunt we'd never met.
And apparently, no one else wanted it.
I excused myself early and went back upstairs. The house settled around me like it was watching. Listening.
That night, I couldn't sleep. The wind howled outside, tree branches scraping against the window like nails across glass. I kept thinking about the closet. The knock. The way it felt like someone had been there.
At some point, I dozed off. I don't know how long I was out before I woke to the sound of humming. A melody so soft, I wasn't sure if it was in my head or outside the door.
I got up, bare feet on the cold floor, and stepped into the hallway.
The humming stopped.
A shadow shifted at the end of the hall—just past the stairs. I squinted.
There, standing just where the hallway turned into darkness, was a boy.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark, messy hair. I couldn't make out his face, but something about him pulled me like gravity.
"Hello?" I whispered.
He didn't move.
"Do you… live here?"
Still no answer.
I blinked. And he was gone.
No footsteps. No door creaking. Just… gone.
I backed away, heart pounding.
That night, I kept the light on.
***
The next morning, I told myself it was a dream. Stress. Too many horror movies.
But when I came downstairs, there were muddy footprints on the floor—leading from the back door to the stairs.
I looked out the window. The woods were still. Quiet.
And at the edge of the trees, where the shadows were deepest, I thought I saw him again.
Watching me.
Waiting.