Still, unease crawls up my spine.
I reach for the glove compartment and pull out my old knife, running my thumb over the familiar grooves in the handle. No one is here, I remind myself. Best of all, no one knows I’m here.
No one but me.
I step out of the truck. The air is crisp, tinged with damp earth and pine. I inhale deeply, grounding myself in the scent of home—if it can still be called that.
My fingers tighten around the keys as I ascend the porch steps. The wood groans beneath my weight, brittle with age. The front door sticks when I push it, the lock stiff from disuse. For a brief second, I think maybe I shouldn’t go inside. Maybe I should turn around, get back in the car, and?—
No.
I shove harder, and the door swings open with a reluctant creak.
The scent of dust and time greets me first. The air inside is stale, carrying the faintest trace of something I can’t place—something sharp, metallic. The house is cold, as if the walls have forgotten what warmth feels like.
I step inside, my body on high alert. The old wooden floorboards creak under my weight, the sound echoing through the cavernous silence.
The living room is just as I left it.
The stone fireplace stands untouched, the furniture draped in white sheets like shrouds. A thin layer of dust coats every surface, dulling the once-rich mahogany of the banisters and bookshelves.
It’s like walking into a preserved memory.
I move through the house with careful steps, my fingers trailing over familiar edges. The kitchen, with its deep farmhouse sink and open shelving, looks frozen in time. A single coffee cup sits on the counter, exactly where I left it the night I had to run away.
I shake off the thought and move toward the staircase, my footfalls heavier than I want them to be. Every sound in this house feels louder now, too exposed. My skin prickles as if I’m being watched, though I know it’s impossible.
Still, I reach for the knife tucked at my hip.
The second floor is worse. The doors to the bedrooms gape open.
My old room is at the end of the hall.
I hesitate before pushing open the door.
The bed is still there, the same old comforter rumpled as if waiting for me to slip beneath it, as if I never left. A breath shudders through me as I step to the window. The view spills out over the darkened fields, past the barn, toward the tree line.
Nothing stirs.
Silent. Still. Safe.
I tell myself that again. I am safe here.
But I don’t believe it.
Something just doesn’t feel right. I leave the bedroom door open as I make my way back downstairs, my fingers skimming the wooden railings. The house creaks around me, the wind rattling against the old glass panes.
In the kitchen, I open the cabinets, checking for anything salvageable. A few canned goods remain, expired but intact. I make a mental note to restock, to bring this place back to life.
A thump echoes from the back of the house.
I freeze.
My grip tightens around the knife. The sound came from outside—near the barn.
I move slowly, silently, crossing the kitchen to the back door. The porch light is dead, but the moon offers enough illumination to see the yard.
Nothing moves.
