Chapter 3 — The House Beckons

Clara Bennett

The Dead Man’s House loomed at the edge of Willow Street like a wound festering in the town’s collective memory. Clara stood on the cracked cobblestone path leading to the house, her breath hitching as her hazel eyes swept over its decayed Victorian facade. The air was sharp and damp, carrying the scent of wet earth and mildew, mixed with something faintly acrid, like burnt herbs—a smell that stirred an inexplicable pang of recognition deep within her. Ivy curled up the exterior like desperate fingers clawing at the wooden panels, prying apart what was left of the house’s once-proud white paint. Now, the paint hung in brittle strips, revealing the weathered gray skeleton beneath.

Clara adjusted the strap of her leather satchel, the familiar weight of her Vision Journal pressing against her hip. Her pulse quickened as a strange sense of familiarity tugged at her, as though the house recognized her as much as she recognized it. A flicker of unease tightened her chest, but she swallowed it down. “It’s just a house,” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the oppressive stillness. The words felt hollow, as though the house itself scoffed at her attempt to diminish it. The air seemed heavier here, thickened with a presence she couldn’t rationalize, daring her to step closer.

The iron gate groaned as she pushed it open, its rusted hinges shrieking in protest. The sound echoed unnaturally, swallowed by the overcast sky and the silence of the surrounding woods. The overgrown garden pressed in on her, its thorny bushes and wilting flowers reclaiming the space like an invading army. A broken birdbath caught her eye, its once-elegant design marred by cracks and blanketed in moss. On its edge, she noticed a faint, almost imperceptible etching of a symbol—a sigil, maybe—worn smooth by time. She made a note to sketch it later in her journal.

Her boots crunched against the gravel as she approached the porch steps. The warped wood creaked beneath her weight, each sound sharp and jarring in the stillness. She hesitated at the door, her fingers brushing against the tarnished brass of the doorknob. It was cold—unreasonably so, as though it had been waiting for her touch. A chill ran up her spine, and she glanced over her shoulder. The town of Willow Street felt impossibly far away, its quaint cottages and wary inhabitants hidden behind the thick curtain of trees. She was alone here. And yet, she couldn’t shake the sensation that she was being watched.

“Get it together, Bennett,” she muttered, her voice steadier than she felt. Tightening her grip on the doorknob, she twisted and pushed. The door groaned open, revealing a dim interior that seemed to breathe out an air of decay.

The scent hit her first—a pungent mix of mildew, damp wood, and something faintly metallic, like rusted iron. Clara stepped inside, her boots sticking slightly to the warped floorboards. Dust floated thick in the air, illuminated by the weak light filtering through stained-glass windows. The intricate patterns of roses and ivy in the glass were dulled by grime, their colors muted like forgotten memories.

She reached for her phone and tapped the flashlight app, the beam cutting through the darkness. The entryway was grand in its decay. A sweeping staircase curved to the second floor, its banister splintered and its once-luxurious runner now threadbare and moth-eaten.

Clara’s light swept across the walls, revealing faded wallpaper adorned with intricate floral patterns. The flowers seemed to wilt the longer she looked, curling inward as though recoiling from her presence. She blinked and glanced away, blaming the dim light and her frayed nerves.

The air grew heavier as she ventured further into the house, her steps slow and deliberate. A grandfather clock stood against the far wall, its hands frozen at twelve o’clock. Though the pendulum hung still, Clara swore she heard a faint ticking, so soft it could have been her imagination.

Pausing in what must have once been the parlor, she scanned the room. Its former grandeur was reduced to a skeletal echo. A crystal chandelier hung precariously from the ceiling, its dusty prisms swaying faintly as though disturbed by unseen hands. The fireplace, framed in cracked marble, was cold and empty, its mantle stained with soot and time.

As her flashlight beam jittered across the walls, a sudden chill prickled the back of her neck. She turned abruptly, her heart thudding in her chest. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw movement—a shadow slipping just out of sight.

Her breath came shallow and fast, misting in the frigid air. “It’s nothing,” she told herself aloud, the tremor in her voice betraying the lie. “Just your mind playing tricks.”

But the house didn’t feel empty.

Clara pulled her Vision Journal from her satchel, her fingers trembling as she flipped to a blank page. She jotted down her impressions in quick, jagged lines:

Oppressive atmosphere—palpable weight

Shadow movement—unconfirmed

Unnatural cold—parlor temperature drop

Her pen hovered as she struggled to articulate the sensation that had settled over her, a feeling she couldn’t rationalize. It wasn’t just fear. It was something deeper, more invasive, as though the house were aware of her. Watching her.

A whisper, faint and fleeting, brushed her ears. Clara froze, her pen poised mid-word. The sound came again, this time from the staircase.

“Hello?” she called, her voice echoing faintly in the cavernous silence. She wasn’t sure why she said it—curiosity, fear, or the desperate hope that her imagination was running wild. The only reply was the soft groan of the floorboards beneath her boots.

She tightened her grip on her flashlight and approached the base of the staircase. Her rational mind screamed at her to leave, but something stronger—a stubborn determination, or perhaps the nagging pull of déjà vu—kept her feet moving.

The stairs groaned in protest as she ascended, each step amplifying the unease coiling in her chest. Midway up, her foot caught on something, and she stumbled, catching herself on the banister. She looked down to find a broken porcelain doll lying on the step. Its delicate face was shattered, leaving only a single, staring eye.

Clara swallowed hard, stepping over the doll and continuing her ascent. The second floor was darker than the first, the boarded-up windows allowing only thin slivers of gray light to seep through.

As she moved down a narrow hallway, the whispers returned, louder now. They swirled around her, overlapping and incomprehensible, dozens of voices speaking at once. She pressed her free hand to her ear, as though that could silence them.

Her flashlight flickered, the beam dimming and brightening erratically. She smacked the side of her phone, her frustration mingling with fear.

“Not now,” she hissed through gritted teeth.

The whispers grew to a crescendo, a cacophony that made her head pound. Stumbling into a room at the end of the hall, she slammed the door shut behind her. The silence that followed was suffocating, the absence of sound almost worse than the whispers.

She leaned against the door, her breathing ragged. Her flashlight steadied, illuminating what appeared to be a bedroom. The bed was still made, the once-elegant quilt now faded and moth-eaten. A vanity sat against the wall, its mirror cracked and clouded with age.

Clara’s gaze was drawn to the mirror. Its fractured surface distorted her reflection, splintering her image into shards. For a moment, another face appeared among the cracks—a pale woman with hollow eyes and unkempt dark hair. Clara blinked, and the face was gone.

Her hands shook as she scribbled in her Vision Journal:

Whispers—intensified, still unintelligible

Flashlight malfunction—possible interference

Mirror—female figure spotted briefly

She closed the journal and clutched it to her chest, her pulse racing. She had come here for answers, but the house was giving her something else entirely.

A faint creak drew her attention to the corner of the room. The shadows there seemed denser, darker than they should have been. Her flashlight beam faltered as she aimed it toward the corner, the light swallowed by the blackness.

And then, just for a moment, she saw it—a figure, tall and shrouded, standing impossibly still.

Clara’s breath caught, her body frozen in place. The figure lingered for a heartbeat longer, its presence almost tangible, before melting into the shadows.

The house had made its introduction.