The House That Waited

It had stood on the hill long before Evelyn was born, and it was still there when she returned after twenty-three years.

The locals never went near it. Children dared each other to touch the rusted gate. Teenagers whispered about the windows glowing at night. But Evelyn knew the truth—or so she thought.

Her parents had died in that house.

Everyone said it was an accident: a fire sparked by faulty wiring. She had been five years old and barely remembered anything, just flashes of smoke, the red-hot metal of the doorknob, and someone—something—pulling her from the flames.

She’d grown up in foster homes, in cities far away. But the letter came on her twenty-eighth birthday: You’ve inherited the property at 42 Merrow Lane. The name of the town made her stomach twist. But something pulled her back—curiosity, or maybe guilt. Maybe it was just the chance to fill in the blanks.

The house was still standing. Not charred or crumbling like she expected. The paint was peeling, the porch sagged a little, but otherwise it looked... untouched. Like it had waited for her.

The key slid into the lock like it had never been removed. The door creaked open with a sigh.

Inside, dust blanketed everything. Furniture stood where it had decades ago. A child’s coat—hers—hung by the door. On the table, a photo of her family, slightly warped but whole.

That night, she decided to sleep there. Just one night, she told herself. Closure.

She woke to the sound of footsteps.

Not creaking floorboards or the groaning of old walls—actual footsteps. Steady. Deliberate. Upstairs.

Heart hammering, Evelyn crept to the base of the staircase. The air was colder. She gripped the banister. "Hello?" she called.

Silence.

Then, a faint whisper: "Evie."

Her childhood nickname. No one had called her that in years.

The flashlight trembled in her hand as she climbed the stairs. Dust flew as her feet disturbed decades of stillness. She reached the landing and turned left—toward her old bedroom.

The door was ajar. The light flickered. She pushed it open.

And saw herself.

A little girl. Curled on the bed. Crying softly. Wearing the same coat that hung by the door downstairs.

Evelyn froze. Her mind screamed that this was impossible.

The girl looked up.

"You came back," she whispered.

Evelyn backed away, stumbling. She turned and ran, tripping down the stairs. She didn’t stop until she was outside, gulping in the night air.

She didn’t sleep. At dawn, she returned to town and asked about the fire. The clerk at the records office blinked at her.

“There was no fire,” she said. “Your parents died in a car crash. You were sent away because there were... issues.”

“Issues?”

“Nightmares. You said your house was haunted. You kept screaming about the fire. But there was no fire, Miss.”

Evelyn stood in silence.

She returned to the house that evening. She had to know.

Inside, she went to the fireplace. The bricks felt cold—too cold. She ran her fingers along them and heard a click.

A panel slid open.

Inside was a small box. Inside the box, a journal. Her mother’s.

She sat down and read.

> “Evie says she sees a girl in her room. I thought it was imaginary—until I saw her too. She looks just like Evie. And she says things she couldn't possibly know. I think… I think she’s us. A version of us from… another time. Or something else entirely.”



> “The house is alive. It remembers everything. It shows us things. It keeps us.”



> “We tried to leave. The doors wouldn't open. The phone went dead. I don't think we’re alone here.”



Evelyn dropped the journal.

The door slammed shut behind her.

The fireplace flared to life.

And upstairs, the child’s voice called again.

“Come play, Evie. Stay with us.”

The house had waited.

And now, it would never let her leave.