The train rolled into Ashwick under a sky the color of ash, the horizon veiled in rain. Sheriff Samuel Reeves stepped off with his hat pulled low, the brim catching the drizzle that never quite turned to storm. The air smelled of pine and iron—like the town itself was exhaling after holding its breath too long.
It had been five days since California. Five days since Henry Warren's trembling voice had cracked through the stale air of that nursing home, whispering things no sane man should have remembered. Reeves had replayed the conversation a hundred times on the drive back north, and no matter how he sliced it, the meaning didn't change.
The house is calling again.
He hadn't told Miller. The deputy had enough sleepless nights already. And besides, how did you explain something like that without sounding like you'd lost your grip?
The sheriff's office sat quiet when he arrived, the old radiator ticking faintly in the corner. Miller looked up from his desk, surprise flashing across his face. "You're back early, Sheriff. Thought you'd be gone a week."
"Didn't see a reason to stay longer," Reeves said, hanging his coat. "Anything happen while I was gone?"
"Quiet," Miller said, then hesitated. "Too quiet, if you ask me."
Reeves gave a short nod. "Good. Let's keep it that way."
But peace in Ashwick was always temporary.
By midmorning, Reeves found himself drawn back to the Warren property. He told himself it was routine follow-up—another sweep, more photos, maybe something they'd missed. But deep down, he knew it was the voice of the old man that brought him back.
The woods were thicker than he remembered, swollen with fog that clung low to the ground. His boots sank into the damp soil as he followed the overgrown trail, the air colder here than in town.
When the Warren house came into view, he stopped.
The structure hadn't changed in the two weeks since he'd last been here, but something about it felt different. The air around it hummed faintly—so low he almost mistook it for wind.
He drew a slow breath, his hand instinctively resting on the butt of his revolver.
Inside, the air was stale and heavy with dust. The carvings they'd found on the floor were still there, now chalked and catalogued by the forensics team. But near the fireplace, something new caught his eye—a footprint, faint but fresh, pressed into the layer of dust.
Reeves crouched beside it. The shape was wrong. Too narrow, too long.
"Miller," he muttered, pulling his radio. "You at the office?"
"Yeah, Sheriff."
"Send someone up to the Warren place. Looks like we've had company."
"Anyone we know?"
Reeves glanced toward the staircase, where shadows pooled thick as tar. "Doubt it."
He waited, listening. The silence pressed in—so deep it had texture. Then, somewhere upstairs, a board creaked.
He rose, every nerve on edge. "If someone's here," he called, voice steady, "you'd better come out now."
No answer.
He climbed slowly, flashlight cutting through the dark. The upper floor smelled of rot and old rain. Rooms stood open, hollow and stripped bare by time.
Then his light landed on something that didn't belong—a fresh sheet of paper pinned to the far wall.
He approached cautiously. The handwriting was faint but deliberate, scrawled in dark ink:
"It doesn't stop with her."
Reeves tore the paper down, eyes scanning the edges. The ink was still slightly wet. Whoever had left it had been here today.
He turned sharply toward the staircase—nothing but the groan of the wind and the whisper of branches outside.
When Miller arrived twenty minutes later with two deputies, they swept the house top to bottom, but no one was found. Only the note remained.
"Someone's playing games," Miller said grimly.
Reeves pocketed the paper. "Maybe," he said. "But they're playing on ground that's already cursed."
That evening, back at the station, Reeves spread the note across his desk. It doesn't stop with her.
Her. Elias Warren.
He opened the old case file again, flipping through yellowed police reports and brittle photographs. The original coroner's report was missing half its pages, but one line remained intact:
"Subject found seated upright in parlor. Cause undetermined. Heart absent."
The sheriff exhaled slowly. He'd read it dozens of times, but it hit differently now, after seeing Henry Warren's eyes—eyes that had looked not fearful, but resigned.
Miller entered, carrying two steaming cups of coffee. "Lab got back on those burned papers," he said. "Said the ink predates modern production. Could be early 1900s, maybe older. Whatever was written at that house—it's not new."
Reeves accepted the cup without a word.
Miller frowned. "Sheriff, can I ask something?"
"Go ahead."
"You think Henry Warren's right? That… whatever happened back then is starting again?"
Reeves looked down at the note on his desk, the handwriting still glistening faintly under the lamplight. "I think," he said quietly, "something old doesn't stay buried in this town for long."
He stood, pacing to the window. The mist had thickened outside, swallowing the streetlights one by one. Somewhere beyond the glass, a low hum drifted through the air—the same sound he'd heard near the Warren property.
He rubbed his jaw, unease settling deep in his chest. "Tell the coroner to check if there were any unreported deaths in the last forty-eight hours," he said finally. "Anything suspicious. Even animals."
"Animals?"
"Just do it."
Miller nodded and left.
Reeves stayed by the window, watching the fog pulse faintly with the rhythm of unseen light.
And for a fleeting moment—so brief he almost doubted it—he thought he heard it again.
A whisper, soft as breath, threading through the mist.
"Samuel."
His name.
He froze, every muscle tensing, hand instinctively gripping his holster. But the voice was gone, leaving behind only the sound of the wind.
He stepped back from the glass, pulse hammering, and sank into his chair. The air in the room felt colder now.
He reached for his pen and scrawled a single line across the margin of his notebook:
"The house remembers."
Then he closed the file, extinguished the light, and let the darkness of Ashwick swallow the rest of the night.