The house had been torn down, the land reclaimed. It felt as though time had swallowed the terror, the nightmare that had once lived in its walls. Emmanuel and Clara were far away now, rebuilding their lives in a small town by the coast, away from the shadows, away from the memories.
But the memories followed.
Emmanuel woke up to the sound of a door creaking in the middle of the night. His heart raced, and he reached for the lamp beside his bed. The room was empty. Clara was asleep beside him, her breathing steady and calm.
He shook his head, trying to push the fear down.
It had to be nothing. Nothing.
The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. But it was just the wind.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. It was getting easier to forget the nights of darkness and terror. Easier to live in the light. But sometimes, just sometimes, he felt it that weight pressing against his chest. A reminder.
Clara stirred beside him. "Everything okay?"
He nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Just… an old dream."
She rubbed his back. "It's been weeks, Emmanuel. Whatever it was, it's gone. We're okay."
He didn't answer. He simply turned to her, pulled her close, and closed his eyes again.
But the door creaked again.
This time, Clara heard it too.
She sat up, her eyes wide. "What was that?"
Emmanuel frowned, looking around the room. The door to their bedroom stood slightly ajar. He could have sworn it was locked before they went to sleep.
A whisper floated through the air.
"Emmanuel… Clara…"
They both turned toward the voice, not understanding it but feeling it deep in their bones.
The whisper came again, this time louder. More familiar.
"You can't hide forever."
Emmanuel's blood turned cold.
The door, half open, began to swing wider on its own. The light in the hallway flickered as though fighting against the darkness.
"I thought we..." Clara's voice trembled.
Emmanuel was already up, his heart pounding as the familiar sensation gripped his throat. The feeling that had never truly left, only buried beneath the surface. The feeling of being watched. Of being followed.
He grabbed Clara's hand, pulling her toward the door.
"We have to go," he said, voice strained.
They ran out into the hallway, only to find it empty. No shadows. No figures standing there in wait.
But then they heard it.
The soft, unrelenting creak of the floorboards behind them. A whisper they couldn't outrun.
"It's not over."