The House on Ashwood Lane

The house smelled of dust and neglect. 77 Ashwood Lane had been empty for nearly two decades, and yet the moment the Whitlocks stepped inside, it felt like someone had been waiting.

“Needs some work,” Mr. Whitlock said, brushing his hand over the peeling wallpaper. He said it the way men said things when they wanted to hide unease with practicality.

“It’s perfect,” his wife whispered, though her eyes stayed on the grand staircase that loomed in the foyer. Each step creaked under its own weight, as if sighing from memory.

Their children scattered like mice through the corridors. Emily, the youngest at seven, vanished first. They found her in the upstairs bedroom at the far end of the hall, the one with the warped floorboards and a single cracked window.

“I want this one,” Emily declared, hugging the dusty bedframe.

Her mother frowned. “Sweetheart, it’s....” But Emily wasn’t listening. She was staring at the floor, at the spot where the wood had split just slightly. “Can I have something to open it with?” she asked. That night, after the boxes were stacked and the lamps plugged in, Emily stayed in her new room. She sat cross-legged with a butter knife she had stolen from the kitchen. Slowly, she pried at the gap in the boards.

Something glinted beneath. With one final push, the plank lifted. Dust billowed out like breath. Inside was a small brass key, dull with age but still cold against her fingers. She held it up, grinning, as if she’d found treasure. Her smile faltered when she realized the key was warm, like someone else had been holding it only moments before.

The first night in the house was restless. The walls groaned. The air whistled through unseen cracks. Somewhere in the basement, a pipe banged as though answering a question no one had asked.

But it was Emily who woke first. She heard it through the vent—soft at first, then clearer. A voice. Whispering. “Emily…” Her breath caught. She glanced at the vent. The whispers grew louder, crawling through the ducts, sliding across her walls.

“We’ve been waiting… We’ve been waiting for you.”

She clutched the brass key in her fist. The metal burned her skin. And then she heard it, footsteps. Not in the hallway. In the walls. She wanted to scream, but a shadow passed beneath her door. And for the first time since moving in, Emily realized the Whitlocks were not the only ones living at 77 Ashwood Lane.

To be continued…