When twelve-year-old Rowan moved into Willow House, she expected creaky floors and dusty corners. Old houses were supposed to be like that. What she didn’t expect was the extra room.

It wasn’t on the floor plan. Her mom had shown her the blueprints — three bedrooms upstairs, one bathroom, a hallway. But when Rowan opened a door she thought was a closet, she found a narrow staircase leading up.

“Mom?” she called. No answer.

The stairs groaned under her feet as she climbed. At the top was a small attic room with a single window and a wooden chair facing the wall. Dust coated everything except the chair, which looked recently used.

Rowan stepped closer. A cold breeze brushed her neck.

Then she saw it — faint writing scratched into the wall above the chair.

DON’T SIT.

Her breath caught. The air felt heavy, like someone was standing right behind her.

A whisper brushed her ear.

“Too late.”

Rowan backed away from the whisper, her heartbeat thudding in her ears. The attic room felt colder now, like the air itself was holding its breath. She turned toward the staircase, ready to run back down—when something scraped behind her.

The wooden chair had moved.

Just an inch. Just enough to make a sound. But Rowan knew it hadn’t been that close to the wall before.

She swallowed hard. “Hello?” Her voice came out thin and shaky.

No answer. Only the soft creak of the old house settling… or pretending to.

Rowan forced herself to look around the room more carefully. Dust lay thick on the floor, except for a faint trail leading from the window to the chair. Like someone had walked there recently. Or paced.

She stepped closer to the window. Outside, the yard looked normal—brown winter grass, the old swing set, the neighbor’s dog sleeping in the sun. Nothing strange.

But when she turned back, the chair was facing her.

Rowan froze. Her breath caught in her throat. The chair hadn’t just moved—it had turned.

A soft tapping sound began behind her. Tap. Tap. Tap. Slow and steady, like someone drumming their fingers on the wall.

Rowan spun around.

Nothing there.

The tapping stopped.

Then, from the far corner of the attic, a whisper drifted out again—clearer this time, almost like a voice trying to form words.

“Don’t… stay…”

Rowan didn’t wait to hear the rest. She bolted down the stairs, nearly tripping as she reached the hallway. The door slammed shut behind her with a sharp crack that echoed through the house.

Her mom poked her head out of the kitchen. “Everything okay?”

Rowan tried to catch her breath. “There’s… there’s an extra room.”

Her mom frowned. “What are you talking about? There’s no extra room upstairs.”

Rowan stared at her, the cold from the attic still clinging to her skin.

She knew what she’d seen.

And she knew she wasn’t alone in that house.

Rowan barely slept that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the attic chair turning toward her, its wooden legs scraping across the floor. By morning, she wasn’t sure if she’d dreamed half of it or if it had really happened. But the slam of the attic door… that part she remembered too clearly.

She walked down the hallway, rubbing her eyes. The house felt normal again—warm, bright, full of the smell of toast. Her mom hummed in the kitchen. Sunlight spilled across the floor.

But when Rowan passed the attic door, she stopped.

The door was open.

Just a crack, but open.

She hadn’t opened it. Her mom didn’t even know it existed. A chill crept up her arms. She nudged the door shut with her foot and hurried downstairs.

Strange things begin

All day, little things felt off.

By afternoon, Rowan couldn’t pretend anymore. Something in the house was watching her.

The footsteps

That night, she lay awake listening to the house settle. Creaks, groans, the usual old‑house noises. But then she heard something different.

Footsteps.

Slow, soft, careful footsteps moving down the upstairs hallway.

Rowan sat up in bed, heart pounding. The footsteps stopped right outside her door. She held her breath.

The doorknob turned.

Just a tiny movement. A test. Like someone—or something—was checking if it was locked.

Rowan whispered, “Go away.”

The doorknob stilled.

Silence stretched out, long and heavy. Then the footsteps retreated, heading back toward the attic.

Rowan waited until she couldn’t hear anything at all. Then she slipped out of bed, grabbed her flashlight, and cracked her door open.

The hallway was empty.

But at the far end, the attic door stood wide open.

And on the floor, leading toward it, were faint dusty footprints—small, like a child’s.

Rowan woke up with the uneasy feeling that someone had been watching her sleep. Morning light spilled across her room, soft and harmless, but the air still felt wrong—like the house was holding its breath again.

She pulled on her hoodie and stepped into the hallway. The attic door was closed now. Completely. No footprints. No cold draft. No sign anything had happened at all.

But Rowan knew better.

The face she saw

At school, she couldn’t focus. Every time she blinked, she saw the same image: a pale face in the hallway mirror, standing behind her for just a heartbeat. The eyes had been wide, dark, and sad—like someone trying to warn her.

When she got home, she dropped her backpack and walked straight to the mirror. Her reflection stared back, normal and alone. She leaned closer.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The mirror stayed still.

But then, in the corner of the glass, something flickered. A shape. A shadow. A small figure standing at the top of the stairs.

Rowan spun around.

No one was there.

The old photograph

Her mom was sorting boxes in the living room. “Hey, Rowan,” she said, holding up a dusty frame. “Look what I found in the basement. Must’ve been left by the previous owners.”

Rowan froze.

Inside the frame was a faded photograph of Willow House from decades ago. In the upstairs window—her window—stood a little girl with dark eyes and a white dress.

The same eyes Rowan had seen in the mirror.

“Who is that?” Rowan asked, her voice barely steady.

Her mom shrugged. “No idea. The realtor said the house was empty for years.”

Rowan stared at the girl in the photo. The girl stared back, expression unreadable.

But Rowan noticed something else—something she hadn’t seen at first.

Behind the girl, in the shadows of the room, was the outline of a wooden chair.

The same chair from the attic.

The message

That night, Rowan couldn’t stop thinking about the girl. She climbed the stairs slowly, flashlight in hand. The attic door was closed again, but a thin slip of paper lay on the floor beneath it.

Rowan crouched and picked it up.

The paper was old, edges yellowed, handwriting shaky.

DON’T LET HIM OUT.

Rowan’s breath caught.

Him?

Before she could think, a soft knock came from the other side of the attic door.

One knock.

Then another.

Then a whisper, low and urgent:

“Please… hurry…”

Rowan pressed her ear to the attic door. The knocking had stopped, but the whisper still echoed in her mind—Please… hurry… It didn’t sound angry. It sounded scared.

She slid the old note into her pocket and stepped back. The hallway lights flickered once, then steadied. The house felt tense, like it was waiting to see what she would do.

The door won’t open

Rowan grabbed the doorknob and twisted.

It didn’t budge.

She tried again, harder. Nothing. The door felt like it was glued shut, or like something on the other side was holding it closed.

“Let me in,” she whispered.

Silence.

Then a soft scrape, like someone dragging their hand across the wood from the inside.

Rowan’s skin prickled. She backed away slowly.

The girl appears

She turned to go downstairs—and froze.

A girl stood at the end of the hallway.

The same girl from the photograph. Pale skin. Dark eyes. White dress. She wasn’t transparent like a ghost in a movie; she looked almost real, except for the way the light didn’t quite touch her.

The girl lifted her hand and pointed at the attic door.

Rowan swallowed. “Is he in there?”

The girl nodded once.

“Who is he?”

The girl’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her face twisted with fear. She pointed again—this time at Rowan’s pocket.

The note.

Rowan pulled it out. “Don’t let him out,” she read aloud.

The girl shook her head violently, then pointed at the door again, more urgently.

Rowan stared at her. “You want me to open it?”

The girl nodded.

Rowan’s heart hammered. “But the note says—”

Before she could finish, the girl vanished. Not like she faded—more like she blinked out, as if someone had turned off a light.

The crack in the door

The hallway went cold.

The attic door creaked.

Just a tiny movement. A crack, no wider than a finger. But from the darkness behind it, Rowan heard breathing.

Slow.

Deep.

Not a child’s.

Rowan stepped back, gripping her flashlight so tightly her knuckles hurt. The breathing grew louder, closer to the gap.

Then a voice—low, rough, and nothing like the girl’s—whispered through the crack:

“Let me out.”

Rowan stumbled backward. “No.”

The breathing stopped.

Then the voice spoke again, softer this time, almost gentle:

“She lied to you.”

The attic door shuddered, as if something inside had pressed its weight against it.

Rowan’s pulse raced. She didn’t know who to trust—the girl who couldn’t speak, or the thing behind the door that definitely could.

But she knew one thing:

Whatever was in that attic wasn’t supposed to be free.

Rowan didn’t sleep. She sat on her bed with her knees pulled to her chest, flashlight in hand, staring at the hallway. Every creak made her jump. Every shadow looked like it might move.

By morning, she had made a decision: she needed answers. Not from the thing behind the attic door—but from the girl.

The mirror calls her back

After school, Rowan walked straight to the hallway mirror. The glass looked normal, but she felt watched again, the same prickling sensation on her neck.

She whispered, “I know you’re there. Please… I need to talk to you.”

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the mirror fogged over, as if someone had breathed on the other side. Slowly, letters formed in the mist:

DON’T TRUST HIM.

Rowan’s heart pounded. “Who is he?”

The fog shifted. New words appeared:

HE PRETENDS.

Rowan swallowed. “Pretends to be what?”

The mirror cleared suddenly, and the girl appeared—not behind Rowan this time, but inside the reflection itself. Her dark eyes were wide with fear. She lifted her hand and pointed upward, toward the attic.

Then she mouthed a single word.

RUN.

The house reacts

A loud thud shook the ceiling. Dust drifted down from the attic door. Rowan backed away from the mirror, her pulse racing.

Another thud. Then another. Something heavy was moving around above her, pacing, dragging, testing the floorboards.

The girl in the mirror shook her head violently, mouthing the same word again.

RUN.

Rowan turned toward the stairs—but the attic door creaked open behind her.

Just an inch.

Just enough for a sliver of darkness to spill into the hallway.

A voice drifted out, soft and coaxing:

“Rowan… please… help me…”

It sounded like a child now. Small. Weak. Afraid.

But Rowan remembered the girl’s warning: He pretends.

She stepped back, gripping her flashlight. “You’re not a kid.”

The voice paused.

Then it laughed—a low, wrong sound that didn’t match the small footsteps she’d heard before.

The attic door opened another inch.

The girl appears again

The girl from the mirror appeared at Rowan’s side, not in the reflection this time but in the hallway itself. Her form flickered like a candle flame, but her expression was fierce.

She grabbed Rowan’s wrist—cold as ice—and pulled her back.

The attic door slammed shut so hard the walls shook.

Rowan gasped. “What is he?”

The girl’s voice finally came, faint and trembling, like it hadn’t been used in years.

“He’s not supposed to be here.”

Rowan stared at her. “Then why is he?”

The girl looked toward the attic, her eyes filling with fear.

“Because someone let him in once.”

She turned back to Rowan.

“And he wants you to do it again.”

The girl’s warning echoed in Rowan’s mind long after her flickering form faded from the hallway. The house felt different now—more awake, more aware of her. Every floorboard creak sounded like a step. Every shadow felt like it was leaning closer.

Rowan knew she needed answers, and she needed them fast.

Searching the House’s Past

Her mom was in the kitchen again, sorting through another stack of old papers left behind by the previous owners. Rowan hovered nearby, pretending to look for a snack while scanning the documents.

One folder caught her eye: WILLOW HOUSE — INCIDENT REPORTS.

Her mom noticed her staring. “Creepy, right? I was going to toss those. Probably just old maintenance stuff.”

Rowan swallowed. “Can I see them?”

“Sure, just don’t freak yourself out.”

Rowan carried the folder to the living room and opened it. Inside were yellowed pages, handwritten notes, and a few photographs. Most were boring—plumbing issues, roof repairs—but then she found a page titled:

Missing Child — 1989

Her breath hitched.

The photo attached showed the same girl she’d seen in the mirror. Same dark eyes. Same white dress.

Her name was written underneath:

Elara Whitlock — Age 10

Rowan whispered the name. “Elara…”

The air in the room shifted, like someone had just exhaled behind her.

The Boy in the Attic

Another page was clipped behind Elara’s. This one was older, the ink faded:

Behavioral Report — Foster Child: Nathaniel

Rowan’s stomach twisted.

A boy.

A boy who had lived in the house long before Elara.

The notes were short but unsettling:

At the bottom, a final line was scribbled in hurried handwriting:

Removed from home for safety. Door sealed. Do not reopen.

Rowan’s hands shook. Nathaniel. Was he the one behind the door? Or had something else been pretending to be him?

A cold breeze brushed her neck.

Rowan turned.

Elara stood in the doorway, silent and pale, her eyes fixed on the folder.

Elara Speaks Again

Rowan held up the page. “Is he Nathaniel?”

Elara shook her head slowly.

Rowan’s heart pounded. “Then who is he?”

Elara lifted her hand and pointed at the attic ceiling above them. Her voice came out in a whisper so faint Rowan had to lean in to hear it.

“He wasn’t a child.”

Rowan’s breath caught. “Then why does he sound like one?”

Elara’s expression tightened with fear.

“He uses their voices.”

A loud thud shook the ceiling. Then another. The attic door upstairs rattled violently, as if something was slamming against it from the inside.

Elara grabbed Rowan’s wrist again—ice cold, trembling.

“Don’t listen to him,” she whispered. “He learns from whoever he touches.”

The attic door slammed again, harder this time. Dust rained down from the ceiling.

Elara’s eyes widened.

“He knows you’re reading about him.”

The attic thudded again, harder than before, and Rowan felt the vibration through the floorboards. Elara’s grip tightened on her wrist, her cold fingers trembling. Rowan had never seen the ghost-girl look this frightened.

“Elara,” Rowan whispered, “what does he want?”

Elara shook her head. “Not want. Need.”

Rowan’s stomach twisted. “Need what?”

Elara looked up toward the attic, her voice barely a breath. “A door. A voice. A name.”

Before Rowan could ask more, the house went silent—too silent. The refrigerator hum stopped. The heater clicked off. Even the wind outside seemed to hold still.

Then, from the attic, the creature spoke.

Not in a whisper this time.

In a voice that sounded exactly like Rowan’s.

“Rowan… let me out.”

Rowan’s blood ran cold. “He’s copying me.”

Elara nodded. “He learns fast.”

The voice shifted, becoming deeper, older, wrong. “Rowan… I know you can hear me.”

Rowan backed away from the stairs. “How does he know my name?”

Elara’s eyes filled with fear. “Because you answered him.”

Rowan’s breath caught. She remembered the night she’d whispered through the door—You’re not a kid. She hadn’t said her name, but she had spoken to him. A connection.

The creature slammed against the attic door. The walls shook.

Elara stepped in front of Rowan, her flickering form growing brighter, as if she were trying to shield her. “He can’t come out unless you open it. But he can reach you. Through sound. Through mirrors. Through dreams.”

Rowan’s heart pounded. “Then how do I stop him?”

Elara hesitated, then pointed to the folder Rowan had been reading. “Nathaniel tried. But he didn’t know the rules.”

“Rules?” Rowan whispered.

Elara nodded. “Every house with a door like this has rules. You must learn them before he does.”

The attic door rattled violently, as if something inside was clawing at it.

Rowan swallowed hard. “Where do I find the rules?”

Elara lifted her hand and pointed—not at the attic, not at the folder, but toward the basement door.

Rowan stared. “Down there?”

Elara’s voice trembled. “That’s where they hid the book.”

A loud crack echoed from upstairs. The attic doorframe splintered.

Elara’s form flickered wildly. “Hurry.”

Rowan grabbed a flashlight, her pulse racing, and stepped toward the basement door.

Behind her, the creature whispered in her exact voice again:

“Rowan… I’m coming.”

Rowan stood at the top of the basement stairs, gripping her flashlight so tightly her fingers ached. The basement door was half-open, breathing out a cold draft that smelled like dust and old wood. Behind her, the ceiling groaned as something heavy shifted in the attic.

Elara hovered near the doorway, her form dimmer than before. “He’s getting stronger,” she whispered. “You don’t have much time.”

Rowan swallowed hard and stepped down the first stair.

The Descent

The basement was darker than she expected—so dark her flashlight beam seemed to get swallowed by the shadows. The stairs creaked under her weight, each step echoing like a warning.

Halfway down, she heard it.

A soft tapping.

Not from the attic this time.

From the basement itself.

Rowan froze. “Elara…?”

But when she turned, the ghost-girl was gone.

The tapping continued—slow, steady, coming from somewhere deep in the basement. Rowan forced herself to keep moving until her feet touched the cold cement floor.

Her flashlight flickered.

“Not now,” she whispered.

It steadied.

The Shelf in the Corner

The basement was cluttered with old boxes, broken furniture, and dusty tools. But one thing stood out: a tall wooden shelf in the far corner, covered in cobwebs. Something about it felt wrong—like it didn’t belong to the house.

The tapping grew louder as she approached.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Rowan reached out and brushed away the cobwebs. Behind them, she found a small wooden box with a metal latch. The box was carved with strange symbols—circles, lines, shapes that almost looked like eyes.

Her heart pounded. “This has to be it.”

She lifted the box.

The tapping stopped.

The Book

Rowan opened the box. Inside lay a thin, leather-bound book, its cover cracked with age. The title was written in faded ink:

Rules for the Door Between

She flipped it open. The first page held a list written in shaky handwriting:

Rowan’s stomach twisted. It already knew her voice. It already knew her name.

She turned the page.

A final rule was written alone at the bottom:

The guardian is the one who was taken.

Rowan’s breath caught. “Elara…”

A loud crash exploded above her—wood splintering, something breaking free.

Rowan slammed the book shut.

The creature had broken part of the attic door.

And now it knew exactly where she was.

Rowan clutched the rulebook to her chest and backed away from the shelf. The basement felt different now—like the shadows were leaning in, listening. Above her, the creature dragged something heavy across the attic floor, each scrape echoing through the house like a warning.

She took a shaky breath and started toward the stairs.

Halfway up, the lights flickered.

Then they went out.

Rowan froze in the darkness. Her flashlight beam jittered as her hand trembled. Something moved behind her—soft, slow, like fabric brushing the floor.

“Elara?” Rowan whispered.

A cold hand touched her shoulder.

But when she turned, no one was there.

The Basement Door Slams

Rowan bolted up the stairs. As soon as she reached the top, the basement door slammed shut behind her with a force that rattled the walls.

She spun around, heart pounding. The door was sealed tight.

“Elara?” she called again.

The ghost-girl appeared beside her, flickering like a candle in a storm. “He knows you found the book.”

Rowan held it up. “Then tell me how to use it.”

Elara shook her head. “You must read it. I can’t.”

“Why not?”

Elara’s eyes dimmed. “Because I didn’t follow the rules.”

A loud crack echoed from upstairs. Rowan flinched.

“He’s breaking the door,” she whispered.

Elara nodded. “He’s almost free.”

The Rule They Didn’t Want Her to See

Rowan flipped through the book, scanning the pages. Most rules warned her what not to do. But she needed something she could do.

Then she found it.

A page near the back, written in darker ink:

To seal the door again, the guardian must stand between the living and the taken.

Rowan looked up. “Guardian… that’s you, right?”

Elara hesitated. “Yes. But I can’t do it alone.”

“What do you need?”

Elara pointed at Rowan’s chest—at her heartbeat. “You. Your voice. Your strength.”

Rowan’s stomach twisted. “But the rules say not to speak to him.”

Elara nodded. “Not to him. But you can speak to the door.”

Another crack thundered from upstairs. Dust drifted down from the ceiling.

Rowan swallowed hard. “Then we have to go now.”

Elara’s form flickered brighter, steadier. “Be brave.”

Together, they turned toward the stairs leading up to the attic.

And behind them, from the darkness of the basement door, the creature whispered in Rowan’s voice:

“You’re too late.”

The hallway felt colder with every step Rowan took. The air grew heavier, thicker, like the house itself was holding its breath. Elara floated beside her, dim but determined.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Rowan froze.

The attic door was cracked open.

Not wide—just enough to show darkness inside. But the darkness wasn’t still. It pulsed, like something breathing.

Rowan’s voice shook. “He’s almost out.”

Elara nodded. “We must close it before he learns your face.”

Rowan remembered the rule: If it learns your face… run.

She tightened her grip on the book. “Tell me what to do.”

Elara pointed to the crack in the door. “Stand there. Speak the words on the page.”

Rowan flipped to the sealing ritual. The words were written in a language she didn’t recognize—sharp, curling symbols that seemed to shift on the page.

“I can’t read this,” she whispered.

“You can,” Elara said softly. “The house will help you.”

Rowan took a deep breath and stepped toward the door.

The darkness inside shifted.

A small hand—too small—reached through the crack.

Rowan stumbled back. “Nathaniel?”

A child’s voice answered, trembling. “Please… help me…”

Elara grabbed Rowan’s arm. “That’s not him.”

The hand twisted, the fingers bending wrong, stretching too far.

Rowan’s stomach lurched. “Okay. Okay. I’m ready.”

She lifted the book.

And the creature whispered her name again—this time in a perfect copy of her mother’s voice.

“Rowan… open the door.”

Rowan squeezed her eyes shut and began to read.

The house groaned.

The darkness recoiled.

The door slammed shut.

But the creature screamed—a sound that shook the walls and made Rowan’s knees buckle.

Elara steadied her. “Keep going!”

Rowan forced herself to read louder, her voice shaking but steadying with each word.

The door glowed.

The house trembled.

And the creature’s voice twisted into something ancient and furious.

Then—

Silence.

Rowan collapsed to her knees, gasping. The attic door was sealed again, glowing faintly like a cooling ember. Elara hovered beside her, brighter than Rowan had ever seen her.

“You did it,” Elara whispered.

Rowan wiped her eyes. “Is he gone?”

“For now.”

Rowan’s stomach tightened. “For now?”

Elara floated closer. “He always tries again. That’s why the guardian must stay.”

Rowan frowned. “Stay where?”

Elara looked at the attic door. “Here. Between the worlds.”

Rowan’s breath caught. “Elara… how long have you been guarding it?”

Elara’s expression softened with sadness. “Since the day I opened it.”

Rowan’s heart twisted. “You didn’t know the rules.”

Elara shook her head. “I was alone. Like Nathaniel. Like the others.”

Rowan’s voice cracked. “What happens to you now?”

Elara looked at the glowing door. “I stay. Until someone else opens it.”

Rowan grabbed her hand—cold, flickering. “I won’t let that happen.”

Elara smiled faintly. “You’re stronger than I was.”

A soft rumble echoed behind the door.

Rowan stiffened. “He’s still there.”

Elara nodded. “He always will be.”

Rowan flipped through the book again, desperate for something—anything—that could help Elara. Near the very back, she found a page she hadn’t noticed before.

A final rule, written in tiny, cramped handwriting:

A guardian may be freed only if another takes their place.

Rowan’s breath caught. “No. No way. I’m not leaving you here.”

Elara shook her head. “You can’t take my place. You’re alive.”

“Then how do I free you?”

Elara hesitated. “There is one way. But it’s dangerous.”

Rowan’s heart pounded. “Tell me.”

Elara pointed to the door. “You must speak his true name.”

Rowan froze. “He has a name?”

“All things do,” Elara whispered. “But if you speak it wrong… he will hear you.”

Rowan swallowed hard. “Where do I find it?”

Elara pointed to the basement. “In the book’s missing pages.”

Rowan’s stomach twisted. “Missing?”

Elara nodded. “Someone tore them out.”

A deep thud shook the attic door.

Rowan stood. “Then I’ll find them.”

Elara’s eyes widened. “Rowan—”

But Rowan was already running.