The House on Wrenhill Lane

When Emily Moore moved into 17 Wrenhill Lane, she thought it would be a fresh start.

The house was quiet, tucked away at the end of a narrow road surrounded by tall trees. After her divorce, all she wanted was peace—no more shouting, no more anxiety. Just space to think, to breathe, and to be alone.

The first week was fine. She unpacked, set up her books, lit her candles, and cooked simple meals. Her new job at the town library started in two weeks, giving her plenty of time to settle in.

But by the second week, little things started to feel off.

It began with the teacups. Emily owned a matching set of four—a housewarming gift from her sister. One morning, she found only three in the cabinet. She searched everywhere, even under the sink. Nothing. But the next day, all four were back.

Then came the bedroom light.

She was sure she turned it off before bed. But when she woke up at 3:12 a.m., the room was glowing faintly. She blamed her nerves, maybe insomnia, or the stress of change. But it happened again. And again.

By the fourth time, she started writing everything down.

“Turned off bedroom light – 10:43 PM.”

She placed sticky notes on switches, cabinets, even the fridge. She wanted proof of what she was doing—because her memory, lately, felt slippery. As if parts of her day were quietly erased.

One night, she found the note on her bedroom light had vanished.

On a gray Thursday, she called her sister. “I think I’m losing my mind,” she whispered.

“You’re just stressed, Em,” Rachel said gently. “New place, new start. Your brain is catching up.”

But Emily wasn’t convinced.

She began to hear sounds in the attic. Slow, dragging steps. Not rats—footsteps. Once, she went up with a flashlight. Nothing but dust and a rocking chair.

But the chair was rocking.

She installed a camera on her phone—cheap, motion-detecting. The next morning, she opened the app and froze.

There was a file from 2:46 a.m.

The footage showed her—walking into the attic.

Alone. Barefoot. Eyes wide open.

But she didn’t remember any of it.

She went to a doctor.

Early-onset memory loss? Stress-related sleepwalking?

They offered pills. She didn’t take them.

Instead, she moved her bed downstairs. She stopped locking her doors. She needed quick exits.

But the house... it didn’t want her to leave.

One afternoon, she returned from a grocery run to find her front door already unlocked.

Inside, everything looked untouched—except for the mirror above the fireplace.

Someone had written in her lipstick:

“STOP MOVING THINGS.”

She called the police.

They searched. No signs of a break-in. No prints. No leads.

The officer, kind but dismissive, said, “Sometimes, people write things themselves and forget.”

But Emily remembered clearly—she had locked that door.

Then one night, she woke up to the smell of smoke.

She rushed into the kitchen. The stove was on. A tea kettle boiled dry, burning hot. She hadn’t used it in days.

The same night, she found her journal in the trash—ripped to pieces. Only one page remained:

“He’s inside.”

The next morning, her phone camera app had been deleted.

Emily knew she had two options: stay and be consumed by fear… or run.

But when she went to the front door, the locks were changed. The keys no longer worked.

She broke a window and fled barefoot into the woods.

Three days later, the real estate agent visited the property. A neighbor had reported screams.

The house was empty. The fireplace mirror had been wiped clean. No trace of Emily.

But in the attic, sitting in the rocking chair, was a worn-out teddy bear and a child’s drawing in crayon.

A woman’s face.

Next to it, the words: “She forgot again.”