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The wind howled through the empty house, whispering “Tom” in the dark. I stood at the threshold of the old Schueller estate, my breath fogging in the frigid night air, my flashlight trembling in my hand. It was a dare from my friends—Jack, Mike, and Florence—because they knew I couldn’t resist proving them wrong. They’d spent weeks spinning tales about this place: how the Schueller family vanished in ’73, how neighbors swore they heard screams years after, how the house sat untouched, rotting on the edge of town like a festering wound. “It’s just a creepy old dump,” I’d said, smirking, but now, with the warped door creaking open under my push, my bravado felt thin as the mist curling around my ankles.

Inside, the air was stale, heavy with dust and something sour I couldn’t place. My flashlight beam swept over peeling wallpaper, furniture draped in moldy sheets, and a grandfather clock frozen at 3:17, its pendulum dangling like a broken limb. The silence was oppressive, but then the floorboards groaned behind me, a slow, deliberate creak, as if someone had shifted their weight. I spun around, heart hammering, but there was nothing—just the gaping doorway and the night beyond. “Hello?” I called, my voice swallowed by the house. No answer, only the wind rattling the shutters like a caged animal desperate to get in—or out.

I pressed deeper, past a dining room where plates sat untouched, crusted with decades-old food, and up a staircase that sagged under my steps. Each creak felt like a warning, but I told myself it was just the house settling, not the presence I swore I felt watching me. A cold draft brushed the back of my neck, prickling my skin, and I turned again—nothing but shadows. Except now the shadows seemed wrong, elongated and twisting, like fingers reaching from the walls. My flashlight flickered, and in that stuttering light, I glimpsed something—a shape darting across the hall, too fast to be real, too human to be imagination.

The attic door was at the end of the corridor, its paint chipped into a jagged grin. I don’t know why I climbed those final stairs; maybe it was the dare, maybe it was the pull of something I couldn’t name. The attic smelled of mildew and rust, cluttered with boxes spilling yellowed letters and faded photographs of the Schueller’s—smiling faces that didn’t match the stories. In the corner stood a cracked mirror, its frame warped and blackened, and when I looked into it, my breath caught. My reflection wasn’t mine. It was hers—Eleanor Schueller, the woman who’d disappeared last, her portrait still hanging in the town hall. Her eyes were pits of ink, her mouth a crooked gash stretching wider than any humans should, and she stared back at me, unblinking.

I stumbled back, the flashlight dropping with a clatter, plunging me into darkness. The air thickened, pressing against my chest, and the walls began to throb—a slow, rhythmic pulse like a heartbeat echoing through the house. Footsteps thudded below, heavy and deliberate, climbing the stairs. I grabbed the flashlight, its beam weak now, and ran, the attic door slamming shut behind me with a force that shook the frame. The stairs twisted under my feet, the wood bending as if trying to trap me, and I half-fell, half-leaped down, my hands scraping against splinters and something wet that smelled of copper.

The hallway stretched longer than before, the front door a distant speck. Behind me, the footsteps grew louder, joined by a low, guttural hum that vibrated in my bones. I didn’t dare look back—I couldn’t. When I reached the door, it wouldn’t budge, the knob icy and slick under my palms, but with a desperate shove, it gave way, and I spilled onto the porch, gulping the night air. The house loomed behind me, its windows dark and accusing, and I ran—down the overgrown path, past the rusted gate, not stopping until I hit the road where my car waited.

I fumbled with the keys, my hands shaking so badly I dropped them twice, and when I finally looked up, the house was still there, silhouetted against the moon. Safe, I thought, leaning back in the driver’s seat, my pulse slowing. But then the wind picked up, slicing through the trees with a sound too sharp, too alive. It wasn’t just wind—it was her voice, Eleanor’s, low and insistent, threading through the noise, calling my name “Tom”. I froze, staring at the house, and in the upstairs window, a figure stood, its head tilted, its smile too wide. The car wouldn’t start. The air grew colder. And I knew, with a sinking dread, that I hadn’t escaped at all—she’d let me think I had, just to pull me back. The wind howled through the empty house, whispering “Tom” in the dark.