Chapter One:
When Lark first saw the house, she was sure it was holding its breath.
It sat crouched at the edge of the woods like a predator, old timbers hunched and sagging under years of rot. The paint had long since peeled away, exposing gray, splintered wood beneath. Ivy strangled the porch columns and choked the windows, as if nature herself was trying to bury the thing. But the front door was open just slightly and that was enough for her to feel like it had been waiting.
“You’re sure this is the place?” she asked, glancing over at Marcus, who was fiddling with the camera strap around his neck.
“Yeah. This is the exact GPS marker. Look, it even matches the photo from the 1972 survey.” He pulled out a crumpled paper from his backpack and handed it to her.
The house in the photo looked no better than it did now. But back then, the surrounding woods were thinner. The trees had crept in over the decades, inch by inch, like they were reclaiming something that had slipped their grasp.
Lark didn’t want to go in. She didn’t want to even step onto the porch. Every instinct screamed at her to turn around, to get back in the car, and to leave this stretch of West Virginia behind. But she wasn’t about to let Marcus see her chicken out. Not after everything she’d said about wanting “real footage” for their horror podcast.
She forced a grin. “Ladies first, right?”
Marcus snorted. “Not a chance. You’ve got the flashlight.”
That was true. She clicked it on, and the beam sliced through the gloom like a knife. Dust danced in the light, disturbed by the mere opening of the door.
They stepped inside.
The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something else something metallic and sweet. Blood, maybe. Or rust. It was hard to tell in the dark. The floorboards groaned under their weight, and each step sounded like a protest. As if the house were warning them.
The living room was a mausoleum of forgotten lives. Furniture still sat in place, though time had not been kind. The armchairs were sagging, and the sofa had collapsed inward like a deflated lung. A fireplace dominated one wall, and above it, a framed photograph still clung to the nails.
It was a family portrait. A man and a woman, flanked by two children. All of them dressed in Sunday best, all of them staring directly into the camera with eyes too wide and smiles too tight.
Marcus raised his camera. The flash burst like lightning, illuminating the room for a single breath. Then darkness rushed back in.
“Did you hear that?” Lark whispered.
Marcus lowered the camera. “What?”
She turned, scanning the hallway that stretched off to their left. “It sounded like… whispering.”
“It’s probably just the wind. These places always creak and groan.” He tried to laugh, but it came out thin.
“No,” she said, voice low. “It was coming from the floor.”
They both looked down at the warped floorboards. The wood was old, yes, but something about the way the boards were spaced gave the impression of veins. And beneath them, something shifted. Just for a moment. A whisper again, barely perceptible like dry leaves scraping together underground.
Lark stepped back. Her heart thudded against her ribs like a prisoner beating on a cell wall.
“Let’s go upstairs,” Marcus said, trying to sound casual, but his voice cracked.
The staircase was narrow and steep, climbing into shadow like a ladder into a cave. Every step groaned like it was bearing more than just their weight. Lark kept the flashlight fixed on the top of the stairs, half-expecting something to peer down at them.
The upstairs hallway was a corridor of darkness. Doors lined either side, all closed except for one at the far end, which stood ajar. A breeze stirred from within, fluttering a strip of torn wallpaper.
They tried the first door. Locked.
The second creaked open to reveal a child’s bedroom. The air was colder here, and Lark’s breath fogged in front of her. A tiny bed sat under the window, draped with a moth-eaten quilt. On the floor, a porcelain doll lay on its side, its face cracked. One eye missing.
Suddenly, a scraping sound came from beneath the bed.
Lark aimed her flashlight. “Don’t you dare say it’s just a rat.”
Marcus didn’t say anything. He stepped forward and crouched low. He lifted the quilt slowly, inch by inch.
Nothing.
The space under the bed was empty. But the dust there had been disturbed. There were lines, like something had been dragged.
Then the whispering came again.
Louder this time.
Clearer.
And it was saying her name.
“Lark.”
She froze. The voice was unmistakable. It was her mother’s.
But her mother had died three years ago.
“Lark… come home. Come back…”
Marcus was staring at her, wide-eyed. “Did you hear that?”
She couldn’t speak.
“That was my dad’s voice,” he whispered. “But… he’s dead.”
The flashlight flickered. Once. Twice.
And then it went out.
Complete blackness swallowed them. A pressure filled the room, heavy and wet, like the walls themselves were closing in. Lark reached out, fumbling for Marcus’s arm, but her hand touched something cold.
Too cold.
Not skin.
It felt like bark.
The flashlight sputtered back to life.
The room was empty.
Marcus was gone.
All that remained was the doll, sitting upright now, it’s one good eye fixed on her.
And from beneath the floorboards, the roots stirred.
