Summer of 1987
Prologue
The house on Ridgewood Drive was never truly empty. It watched. It listened. It remembered.
For years, it had stood in silence, absorbing the echoes of those who had lived within its walls. The laughter of children once filled its halls, their tiny feet thudding across wooden floors. Parents murmured late into the night; their voices hushed but edged with worry. The walls had absorbed every whispered fear, every nervous glance cast over a shoulder.
Then, one day, silence came. The family was gone, vanished as if they had never existed. The dishes sat untouched in the sink; the beds still unmade. The clock on the wall continued to tick, though time had seemingly stopped. Dust settled over forgotten toys, encasing them in a thin veil of neglect.
But the house knew. It held the memories close, tucking them into its rotting bones. Shadows slithered in corners where light never reached. The air hung thick with something unseen, something waiting.
It was patient. It had always been patient.
Because houses do not forget.
The summer of 1987 was unseasonably hot, even for Ridgewood Drive. The asphalt shimmered under the punishing sun, cicadas droned like broken sirens, and the air smelled of hot pavement and dying grass. The houses in the neighborhood all looked the same—brick ranch-style homes with neatly trimmed hedges and chain-link fences—but one house stood out: 1228 Ridgewood. The Marshall house.
It had been empty for years, the windows dusted with grime, the front yard a mess of overgrown weeds and sun-bleached toys left behind by children who no longer lived there. The mailbox leaned at an odd angle, its rusted flag frozen in mid-signal.
Tommy Grayson was thirteen that summer. Too old for cartoons, too young for girls. Boredom hit like a fever, and there was only one cure: adventure. His best friend, Will Carter, had dared him to go inside the Marshall house. "A hundred bucks says you won’t last an hour in there," Will had said, a cocky grin stretching across his freckled face. Tommy didn’t have a hundred bucks, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to back down.
Just before sunset, Tommy stood at the edge of the Marshall property, sneakers crunching on dry grass. The house loomed ahead, its peeling paint curling like dead skin. A breeze whistled through the broken slats of the front porch, and the cicadas fell silent. He swallowed hard and stepped forward.
The door creaked open, unlocked. The air inside was stale, thick with the scent of dust, rot, and something sickly sweet, like spoiled fruit. Tommy wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts and took a step inside. The floor groaned under his weight.
The living room was frozen in time. Magazines from 1981 lay fanned out on the coffee table, a glass of water sat evaporated to a crusty film, and an old Zenith television stood in the corner, its screen a black void. Family portraits lined the walls—smiling parents, a boy around Tommy’s age, and a little girl with pigtails. Their faces were faded, their eyes too dark.
Tommy ventured deeper into the house, his heartbeat drumming in his ears. A grandfather clock in the hallway still ticked, though the pendulum had long since stopped swinging. A low hum buzzed through the walls, like a forgotten radio signal barely clinging to a station.
Then, he heard it.
A giggle.
Tommy froze. It had come from upstairs.
His breath hitched, his body screaming to run, but his feet carried him forward. The staircase groaned as he climbed, each step feeling like an invitation into something wrong. The upstairs hallway was dim, lit only by the bleeding orange light of the setting sun. A door at the end of the hall stood open just a crack, the darkness inside absolute.
Then, the voice. A whisper, soft and lilting.
"Tommy… you finally came."
Ice spread through his veins. His name. Someone had said his name.
The door creaked wider.
Inside, the room was empty except for an old toy chest, its lid half-open like a yawning mouth. The air was colder here, damp. Tommy took a cautious step inside.
The walls were covered in scribbles—crude drawings of children, their faces featureless, their hands raised as if waving. Words scratched deep into the paint read HELP US over and over again.
A shuffling noise came from the toy chest. Something moved inside.
Tommy’s breath came in shallow gasps. Slowly, he reached out and lifted the lid.
Inside was a single Polaroid photograph. He picked it up with trembling fingers.
It was him. Standing in this very room. But… it wasn’t from today. His clothes were different—older. And behind him, just over his shoulder, was a girl with pigtails, her head tilted unnaturally to one side, her mouth stretched into a too-wide grin.
A chill clawed up his spine. He spun around—
The door slammed shut.
The whisper came again, closer now. "You came back."
The walls groaned, the room darkening as shadows lengthened unnaturally. The whisper turned into laughter, high-pitched and echoing. Tommy pounded on the door, his screams swallowed by the house itself.
Outside, Will Carter waited by the curb, checking his watch. The sun had set, the cicadas starting up again.
"Dumbass chickened out," he muttered, shaking his head.
The Marshall house stood silent, its windows reflecting nothing but darkness.
And in the upstairs bedroom, the Polaroid in the toy chest changed.
Now, it showed two figures.
Tommy.
And Will.
Waiting.
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