Rain pelted the windshield as the Sullivan family's car wound its way through the backroads of a sleepy New England town. Ryan sat silently in the backseat, his headphones resting around his neck but no music playing. His eyes were blank, fixed on the blurring trees. In the front, his parents exchanged worried glances. They didn't speak of it, but the silence screamed of what they'd lost.
"I think he'll like it here," Mark Sullivan said quietly to his wife, Jenna, his hands gripping the wheel tighter than necessary.
"He needs this," she whispered back, her voice cracked and worn. "We need this."
After Lily died, everything had changed. Ryan stopped smiling, stopped talking, stopped being a boy. His younger sister had been his only friend—his anchor. Since her drowning accident a year ago, Ryan had become a ghost himself, drifting through life. They'd moved three times in the past year, each school a fresh start that soured quickly. Ryan never made friends. He was the strange boy, the sad boy. Easy prey for cruelty.
The car finally pulled up to the new house: a grand, aged Victorian perched on a hill, half-shrouded by mist. Its black iron gates groaned open as if exhaling a long-held breath. The house loomed like a shadow, its windows like eyes, watching.
Inside, dust hung in the air like spores. The floors creaked with every step. The walls were adorned with fading wallpaper and ancient portraits with cracked eyes. Ryan wandered through the house in silence while his parents carried in boxes.
"What do you think?" Jenna asked, trying to force a smile.
"It's fine," Ryan muttered.
They unpacked in silence.
---
The next day, Ryan began school at a nearby high school. It took only hours for him to become the target.
In the lunchroom, a boy named Jake shoved past him, knocking his tray to the floor. Laughter followed.
"Watch it, freak," Jake sneered.
Ryan said nothing. He picked up his tray and walked to an empty table. Alone.
---
That evening, after dinner, the house groaned and creaked in the wind. Ryan sat on the stairs, staring at an old family photo his mom had unpacked—the one with Lily's bright smile.
"You okay, honey?" Jenna asked gently.
He nodded, but didn't look at her.
In the kitchen, Jenna spoke in hushed tones to Mark.
"He's not okay. We can't keep pretending."
"I'm trying, Jenna. He's not a case I can solve. He's our son. I don't know how to reach him anymore."
Mark poured himself a drink and sighed. "I just want him to be happy again. Lily would've hated this."
A thud echoed from upstairs.
"Ryan?" Jenna called.
---
Ryan had wandered into the basement, following a cold draft. Dust motes danced in the flickering light of a single hanging bulb. Something had called to him—not in words, but in a feeling. A pull.
In the far corner of the basement, half-covered by rotting crates, he found an old, narrow door. It wasn't in the blueprints they'd looked at. Its frame was warped, the wood splintered black with age. Runes carved into the frame twisted unnaturally, seeming to squirm under the light.
He turned the handle.
The door creaked open to reveal a narrow, descending stone staircase, swallowing all light. The air grew cold. Rotten. Something moved in the dark.
Whispers.
Ryan... Ryan...
He stepped inside.
The door slammed shut behind him.
He turned, panic rising, banging on the door. The whispers grew louder.
A figure stood at the base of the stairs. A girl. Pale skin, tangled hair, empty eyes filled with sorrow—and something else.
Hatred.
Her mouth opened far too wide.
Ryan screamed.
The darkness swallowed him.
He fell, his scream echoing into silence.
He did not hear the door slowly creak open again.
---