It has been a few days since my parents decided to move towards the family mansion that they had inherited, far away from the city.
I didn’t want to come. No one asked me.
The mansion is… strange.
Everything is too large. The ceilings stretch higher than they should, the doors feel taller than necessary, and the corridors… they feel scary to walk through.
My mother says I’ll get used to it. "It's just old architecture,” says my father.
But there’s a feeling here.
Like being watched by someone who doesn’t want you to notice.
The first night, I couldn’t sleep.
---
The wind moved through the halls, blowing through cracks I couldn’t see. I kept my eyes shut, trying to convince myself it was just that.
Then I heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft and careful.
Not outside my room but... Inside.
I sat up so quickly my vision blurred. The room was empty. The door was still closed.
But the sound had stopped the moment I moved.
---
It kept happening.
Every night.
Small things at first.
A door I knew I had closed was slightly open in the morning.
The mirror in my room was fogged from the inside, as if someone had been breathing against it.
And once… I found a strand of hair on my pillow.
It was too light to be mine.
I started noticing something else. The house felt as if it didn't belong only to us.
---
I found her room by accident.
At least, I think it was her room.
It was at the end of the longest corridor, the one that always felt colder than the rest. The door was smaller than the others, almost child-sized.
Inside, everything was covered in dust except one thing.
A small wooden chair.
It was clean as if someone still used it.
On the wall above it, faint and almost erased with time, were markings.
Scratches.
No… not scratches.
Lines, like someone had been counting days.
“Mom,” I asked later, trying to sound casual, “did someone live here before us?”
She hesitated: “Your grandfather’s brother had a daughter. A long time ago.”
“What happened to her?”
“She died.”
---
That night, I didn’t sleep at all.
I sat in my bed, staring at the door.
Waiting.
Around 2 a.m., it happened again.
Footsteps.
They were closer this time.
Slow and deliberate.
They stopped right outside my door.
I held my breath.
The handle didn’t turn.
Instead, something else happened.
A soft sound.
Like fingers… brushing against the wood.
Then—
I heard a voice.
So faint I almost thought I imagined it.
“…you came back.”
My throat went dry.
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” I whispered.
Silence.
Then the voice again.
Closer.
Right against the door.
“…you left me.”
My chest tightened. “I didn’t—this is the first time I’ve been here.”
Another longer pause this time.
she said quietly—
“…you look like her.”
The handle moved.
Just a little.
Not really opening.
I should have run, but something kept me there.
Something heavier than fear.
“…what’s your name?” I asked.
For a moment, there was nothing.
“…I don’t remember.”
The door creaked open.
Just enough.
And I saw her. It was a girl about my age or maybe younger.
It was hard to tell.
Her face was pale—not in a ghostly way, but in a faded way, like an old photograph losing its color. Her eyes…
She was trying to recognize me.
“You left me outside,” she said softly.
“I didn’t,” I said, my voice shaking. “I swear, I didn’t.”
She tilted her head.
“…it was cold,” she continued. “I waited. I thought you would come back.”
Something twisted in my chest.
“What happened to you?” I asked.
She didn’t answer.
Instead, she stepped closer.
I noticed then—
Her feet were dirty.
Covered in dried earth.
As if she had been… buried.
“…you came back,” she repeated.
This time, it sounded more like relief.
---
The next morning, my parents told me not to wander outside the back grounds.
“There’s an old well,” my father said. “It’s dangerous.”
I didn’t ask anything.
I already knew.
That night, I left my door open.
I sat awake, waiting.
She came again, quieter this time. Less cautious.
She stood in the doorway, watching me.
She looked... lonely.
“I won’t leave you,” I said.
The words came out before I could stop them.
It felt like something I had already said before.
Long ago.
To someone else.
She smiled.
“No… you won’t.”
