Rain pounded against the window, the wind howling to drown out the screams. It went exactly as planned; nobody suspected a thing. They stepped outside, the rhythmic drumming of the storm washing over the blood staining their hands, faces, and clothes.

Methodically, they stripped. They washed the fabric until the fibers were raw and scrubbed the house until the air smelled of nothing but bleach and mountain rain. The perfect murder. The perfect crime scene. They had their alibi; they had their excuse. It was done. The house was finally theirs.

No evidence. No blood. No DNA. Only the silence remained.

They were fine with that.

The smell of rain and blood woke her up again. This was the third night this had happened. Her skin was still warm from fingers that were only felt in a dream. For once, she felt at peace.

Elara was only twenty seven. A freelance digital forensicist. She bought her new home at a mind blowing $25,000. It was in bad shape, the weather - beaten three-room Victorian two and a half baths. It was perfect. It was her third night here in Sunnybrooks, New Jersey, and she was going to make the best of it.

She forced herself out of her bed and opened the blinds to her floor to ceiling windows allowing light to fill the room. Dark oak beams and cedar floor boards gave the run down room a spacious feel. Her worn blue slippers placed neatly in a corner begged for a break. Elara sighed, the floor was cold, but the slippers looked warm. She put them on silently, promising herself to buy new ones when she got the chance.

She stood there watching the mountain view. Sunnybrooks was a suburban area only twelve miles from New York. Its most breathtaking feature was the rolling hills, small cliffsides and rocky ridges in the horizon, painting the town vibrant colours of yellow, orange, blue, and purple.

The kettle hissed, pulling Elara out of her head. A chipped mug, milk, coffee beans and her cat were the only familiar objects in the kitchen. Everything else was foreign.

As Elara fed her cat she pulled out her tablet and started to research the house. Her mind pulled her back to the dream.

Who was that? Why was he there? Elara had had dreams such as this before, normally loved ones who had passed, dead people warning her of dangers. But this, this one was different. Familiar. Like she knew him forever, but didn’t quite remember where she met him.

“Who are you?” she mumbled taking a sip from her coffee. The slight tap from her tablet screen echoing in the soft light filled room. “What do you need?”

A sharp knock pierced through the house, interrupting her morning. “I’m coming!” She called. She jogged to the door opening it to find a breathtakingly stunning man standing on her porch.

Julian was thirty-two, Korean, strong broad shoulders showing years of work and manual labour. His obsidian eyes pierced through Elara’s, his jet black hair pulled back in a tiny bunny puff. He wore a black fitted shirt, and tan canvas cargo pants.

“Hi,” Elara’s heart pounded inside her chest.

“Hi,” Julian smiled, sticking out his hand, “You’re the crazy girl who bought the haunted house? Elara Vance, digital forensics analyst?"

She blushed softly, shaking his hand, “Yep. And you’re Julian Vane, the local architect. Right?”

“You can say that, but around here, I’m the person people call when they need to fix plumbing, electrical, or keep their house from falling in on itself.”

Elara smiled, “Um, I’m sorry, do you want to come inside?” Julian's cheerful demeanor faltered, briefly, a shift unnoticeable to people with an untrained eye; Elara saw it.

“Or we could go for a coffee and discuss the flooring plans there.” Julian nodded in agreement. They walked into a small pastry shop called Cover Story. They took the booth nearest to the door, they sat in awkward silence that stretched for what felt like years. The waitress came and took their orders. Julian ordered a straight black coffee and a Texan-style omelet and Elara ordered a pumpkin caramel spice macchiato and French toast.

“You said the house was haunted?” Elara asked as she took a sip of her drink.

“Yeah,” Julian pushed his eggs around, “10 years ago, my friend Elias, was murdered.”

“Oh,” Elara looked down, sadness washing over her amber-brown eyes, “I’m sorry.”

Julian allowed a wry smile, “People who buy the house leave within a week, saying they hear footsteps at night, things moving around, blood on the floor. There was even a lady who went hysterical because knives were lined up in a smiley face on her wall.”

Elara’s eyes rose with interest, “Wow… that sounds intense.”

“One would think,” Julian’s phone buzzed as he stood flagging for a check, “I’m sorry, I have to go.” He gulped down his coffee, “Some other time, call me.” He gave her his card and left in a hurry.