I drove through the night, the dark mountain roads a blur outside my windows. My hands were locked on the steering wheel, my knuckles white. I didn't stop, didn't slow down, didn't dare to look in the rearview mirror. The memory of those frantic scratches on the wall—*It knows my name*—played on a loop in my mind, a terrifying echo of my great-aunt's despair. The metallic taste was a constant now, a foul reminder that I was connected to that place, to that thing, in a way I couldn't sever.
I didn't go home. The thought of my empty, silent apartment was unbearable. Instead, I drove straight to Uncle Dan's house, the sky lightening to a pale, sickly grey by the time I pulled into his driveway. He was awake, sitting at the kitchen table with a cold cup of coffee, the graduation photo sitting in front of him like an accusation. He looked up as I stumbled in, my clothes damp and dirty, my face a mask of exhaustion and terror. He didn't ask any questions. He just pushed the cup of coffee toward me.
I told him everything. The drive, the green house, the oppressive silence, the footsteps on the stairs. And the wall. I described the etched dates, the progression of terror, the final, chilling confession. When I finished, the kitchen was silent. The morning sun streamed through the window, feeling mockingly cheerful.
"It knows our names," I whispered, the words tasting like ash. "That's what it wants. That's the final step."
Uncle Dan's face was grim. "We have to get everyone together. We have to tell them what we know."
He started making calls. Not on the group chat, but individual, landline calls, his voice low and serious. He didn't give details, just said it was an emergency, that we had information about Carol, that they needed to come now. One by one, they arrived. Liza, her eyes puffy and scared. My other cousins, Mark and Sarah, looking confused and anxious. My parents, having just returned from their cruise, their faces etched with concern and jet lag. They had been pulled from their normal lives into our nightmare.
We gathered in the living room, a somber, frightened group. Uncle Dan stood before them, holding the graduation photo. He didn't start with the recent horrors. He started with the story his grandmother had told him, the old folktale of The Watcher. He spoke of a presence that favored our bloodline, a shadow that appeared before loss. They listened, some with skepticism, others with dawning dread.
Then I took over. I showed them the photos I had printed. I pointed out the shadow in my seventh birthday picture, in the high school bleachers, on the beach at sunset. I showed them the photo from the fair, the shadowy hand on Aunt Carol's shoulder. I watched as their own memories were rewritten, as they realized this thing had been a part of our family tapestry all along, a thread of darkness woven through our happiest moments.
The room was deathly quiet when I finished. The weight of the truth was crushing.
"And the house," I said, my voice barely audible. "In Crestwood. Great-Aunt Silvia… she left a record. It starts with seeing it. Then hearing it. Then it… touches you." I couldn't bring myself to look at Liza. "And then, the last thing. It learns your name."
My mother gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "The dream… Silvia was pointing at the wall."
"It wasn't a dream, Mom," I said softly. "It was a warning. A message."
The discussion that followed was a chaotic mix of fear, denial, and frantic planning. Should we all stay together? Should we leave town? Could a priest help? The rational world had no answers for this. We were navigating uncharted, terrifying waters.
In the midst of the noise, I felt a sudden, sharp headache, a piercing pain behind my eyes. The metallic taste in my mouth intensified, becoming so overpowering I felt dizzy. I stood up, mumbling that I needed air, and walked out onto Uncle Dan's back porch, leaning heavily on the railing, gulping in the cool morning air.
That's when I heard it. Not through my ears, but inside my head, a sound like radio static tuning, a frequency being found. And then, cutting through the static, a single, clear, guttural syllable. It wasn't a voice I recognized. It was ancient and cold, devoid of anything human.
It spoke a name. My name.
The sound wasn't heard; it was felt, a vibration that started in my skull and resonated through my entire body, a brand of pure ice. I doubled over, my stomach heaving, the world spinning around me. The pain behind my eyes flared, a white-hot agony.
It wasn't a warning anymore. The observation was over. The contact had been made long ago, in a thousand photographed moments.
Now, it knew my name. The final step was complete. The pattern had reached its end, and I was trapped inside it.