At night, Sarah often heard faint scratching behind that door. Sometimes a whisper—like someone calling her name. The sound grew louder each night, as if whatever was inside was desperate to be heard.

One stormy evening, lightning knocked out the power. Alone in the dark, Sarah lit a candle. She noticed something strange: the locked door was slightly open.

Her breath caught. She knew she had never touched it. The scratching had stopped. The whispering too.

Slowly, she stepped closer, holding the candle high. The gap revealed only blackness—so deep, it swallowed the light.

Then, a voice hissed from inside:

“You shouldn’t have looked.”

The candle blew out.

The house greeted her with silence. Dust coated the floor, and every step she took sent echoes through the empty hallways. Her flashlight beam caught torn wallpaper curling like old skin, and water stains that looked unsettlingly like faces.

At first, nothing happened. She wandered, trying to prove to herself that the stories were only stories. But then the front door slammed shut behind her. She ran to it—locked. The key she had placed in her pocket was gone.

The temperature dropped. Her breath fogged in the beam of her flashlight. From upstairs, she heard the sound of footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

“Hello?” she called, her voice cracking. No answer.

She climbed the staircase, each wooden step groaning under her weight. The footsteps stopped. She reached the hallway, lined with doors. She tried the first one—locked. The second—locked. At the third, she twisted the knob. It creaked open.

Inside was a child’s bedroom. Toys scattered on the floor, a rocking horse swaying though the air was still. On the wall, written in something dark and faded, were the words:
“LEAVE BEFORE MIDNIGHT.”

Emma’s heart pounded. She spun as the door slammed shut behind her. The rocking horse creaked faster, moving on its own. Then—laughter. High-pitched, childish, echoing around her.

The flashlight flickered. For a split second, she saw something in the corner. Small. Crouched. Watching her. By the time the light steadied, the corner was empty.

She bolted from the room, running blindly down the hall. But the hallway stretched longer than before, impossibly long, the doors multiplying. Behind her, footsteps—this time faster, chasing.

She sprinted until she tripped and fell, slamming against a door. It burst open, and she found herself in what looked like the same bedroom. The same toys. The same words on the wall. Only now, the writing was fresh. Wet. Dripping.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message lit up the screen:
“We see you. We’re almost there.”

The laughter grew louder, joined by whispers—hundreds of voices, speaking her name. The floorboards shook. From beneath the cracks, pale hands reached out, clawing for her ankles. She screamed and pulled free, racing toward the stairs.

The front door was open now, swinging slowly. Relief surged through her. She sprinted toward it—only to realize the world outside was gone. No street, no trees. Just darkness stretching forever.

She turned back, but the house was different. The walls were bleeding, the furniture twisted. A tall, shadowy figure stood at the bottom of the stairs, its face a blur of shifting shapes.

Emma staggered back. “What do you want from me?” she cried.

The figure tilted its head. The voices whispered in unison:
“You came to us. Now you stay.”

The door slammed shut.

And Hollow Lane gained another shadow in its windows.