The House on the Hill
The sky had already turned a dusky purple by the time Emily and Adrian reached the old hill on the far edge of town.
The air was colder here, sharper, as if the wind carried whispers from years long buried.
At the very top, half-hidden behind towering oak trees, stood the house.
Emily stopped walking.
It looked exactly like her mother had once described in a passing memory, an old, shuttered place her grandmother refused to visit. The windows were boarded.
The roof sagged slightly. Vines crawled over the walls like grasping fingers.
The entire house seemed to exhale an ancient heaviness.
Adrian stepped closer and gently squeezed Emily’s shoulder.
“We don’t have to do this tonight.”
Emily swallowed. “If we wait, he might come again.”
She didn’t need to say who he was.
Adrian nodded, jaw tense. “Then we stay together. Every step.”
They walked up the last muddy stretch, the grass crunching beneath their shoes. Adrian pushed the rusted gate open; it groaned loudly, the sound echoing in the cool evening air.
Emily’s pulse raced.
“This place…” she whispered, “…it feels alive.”
“Or disturbed,” Adrian murmured.
They climbed the wooden steps—which creaked under their weight and stopped in front of the door. Emily reached out and touched the faded paint. It peeled under her fingers like brittle skin.
Adrian looked at her. “Ready?”
Emily nodded, though her heart trembled.
He pushed the door open.
A rush of cold, stale air swept over them.
Cobwebs hung from the ceiling like silver threads. Dust coated the floors in untouched layers.
Old furniture sat draped in white sheets, ghostlike in the dim light. The entire house smelled of old memories—forgotten, neglected, waiting.
Emily stepped inside slowly.
“This was your grandmother’s house?” Adrian asked.
“Yes,” Emily whispered. “She lived here until she was about sixteen. She never talked about it much. My mom said she refused to come back after something happened.”
“What happened?” Adrian asked softly.
Emily shook her head. “No one knows. Or no one told us.”
They moved deeper into the house.
The living room felt suspended in time: faded portraits on the wall, a rusted clock that had stopped ticking long ago, stacks of old books leaning against the hearth.
Emily’s eyes drifted to one photograph on a side table.
It was the same little girl from the old photo.
Her mother.
Emily reached for it, but just as her fingers brushed the frame, a sudden noise echoed through the house.
A sharp thump.
She gasped. Adrian’s hand flew to hers.
“That came from upstairs,” he whispered.
Emily nodded, trembling. “We’re not alone.”
Adrian took a cautious step toward the staircase. “Stay behind me.”
They climbed the stairs slowly, each creak sounding louder than the last. Emily felt watched—by the walls, the portraits, the air itself. As they reached the landing, a long hallway stretched ahead, lined with closed doors.
Adrian pointed to the last door on the right. “The sound came from there.”
Emily hesitated. “What if it’s him?”
Adrian’s grip tightened around her hand. “Then he won’t touch you.”
Together, they approached the door.
Adrian pushed it open—
and immediately froze.
Inside was a small bedroom.
The moonlight filtered through a broken window, casting pale stripes across the room. Dust floated like soft snow in the air. In one corner stood an old wooden desk.
But what caught their attention was something else.
A trunk.
The same size and shape as Emily’s wooden box—just much older, much heavier.
Emily stepped forward slowly, heart thudding. “This belonged to my great-grandmother…”
Adrian knelt beside it. “Do you want to open it?”
Emily nodded shakily.
They lifted the lid together.
Inside were papers, journals, letters tied with string, and a faded silver locket. Emily picked up one of the journals—the leather cracked under her touch.
She opened it.
Her breath stopped.
The handwriting—elegant, looping—matched the handwriting in the old letter from the wooden box.
“It’s her,” Emily whispered. “My great-grandmother.”
Adrian looked over her shoulder as she read aloud:
“He returned today. The one they call the Observer. He stands near the fence every night. I lock the doors, but it doesn’t matter—he is not looking for a way in. He is looking for someone.”
Emily’s throat tightened.
Another line followed:
“I fear he will follow my daughter next.”
A cold chill ran down Emily’s arms.
Adrian turned to her. “This has been happening to every generation of your family.”
Emily continued reading:
“He watches. He waits. He never grows older.”
Adrian exhaled sharply. “She saw the same thing we did.”
Emily flipped three pages ahead.
This entry was darker:
“Mother says the box must never be opened. The key must stay hidden. He searches for it. If he finds it… our bloodline will not survive what comes next.”
Emily slammed the journal shut, shaking.
“What does he want? What is in the box?!”
Adrian placed a calming hand on her back. “We’ll figure it out.”
Emily clutched the journal tightly.
But then—
The floorboards creaked behind them.
Both turned sharply.
Standing in the doorway was a silhouette.
Tall.
Still.
Watching.
The same hat.
The same coat.
The same impossible stillness.
Emily’s heart crashed against her ribs.
“Adrian…” she whispered.
He immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her.
The man said nothing. He simply tilted his head, as if studying them—like they were two pieces of a puzzle he had been waiting to fit together.
Emily tried to speak, but terror stole her voice.
Adrian took a step forward. “What do you want from her?”
The man didn’t answer.
He raised a hand—slowly—almost gently.
Emily felt a wave of nausea roll through her. She stumbled back, clutching her mother’s old journal.
Adrian grabbed her arm. “Emily, run!”
But before they could move, a gust of icy wind blew through the room—though the window was closed. The lamp flickered wildly. Dust spiraled into the air.
Emily felt her vision blur.
Her hands trembled uncontrollably.
A cold whisper brushed her ear.
“It begins with you.”
Adrian pulled her back, heart racing, as he shouted, “Emily, stay with me!”
The room trembled—literally trembled—as if the house itself recognized the man.
Then—
Just as suddenly as he appeared—
He was gone.
Vanished.
The doorway stood empty.
The air stilled.
Emily collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath.
Adrian knelt beside her, holding her tightly.
“I’m here. I’ve got you. He didn’t touch you.”
Emily trembled violently.
“He spoke to me,” she whispered. “For the first time… he spoke.”
Adrian’s face froze. “What did he say?”
Emily swallowed hard.
“He said… It begins with you.”
Silence wrapped around them like a suffocating blanket.
Adrian looked toward the empty doorway, fear and fury burning in his eyes.
“Then we end it with us,” he whispered.