Chapter 3: The House at Blackwood Hill

The house breathed.

That was the first thought that came to Ethan as he lay awake in his childhood bedroom, staring at the cracked ceiling. Each groan of the old wood sounded deliberate, timed with the slow rise and fall of the wind outside. The walls seemed to listen.

Sleep came in fragments—thin, uneasy pieces that dissolved the moment he touched them. When dawn finally arrived, it did so reluctantly, gray light seeping through the curtains like smoke.

Ethan sat up and rubbed his face. His phone lay on the nightstand, dark and silent. No new messages. No missed calls. The single bar of signal from the night before was gone.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and froze.

The door was open.

He was certain he had closed it.

For several seconds, he didn’t move. He listened instead, breath held, ears straining for any sound beyond the steady ticking of his pulse. Nothing. No footsteps. No voices.

You’re imagining it, he told himself.

Still, he stood carefully and crossed the room. The hallway beyond the door was empty, washed in dull morning light. At the far end stood the unused door—the one that had always remained shut.

It was still closed.

Relief came slowly, but it didn’t stay.

Downstairs, the kitchen greeted him with cold air and the smell of dust. Ethan searched for signs of intrusion—moved furniture, disturbed objects, anything—but everything appeared exactly as he had left it.

Almost.

The drawer beneath the counter was slightly open.

His breath caught.

That was where he had put the letter.

He approached slowly, each step measured. The house creaked under him, protesting, warning. When he reached the drawer, he pulled it open.

The letter was gone.

In its place lay something else.

A photograph.

Ethan picked it up with shaking fingers. The image was faded, corners worn, but unmistakable. Three boys stood at the edge of the river, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera.

Ethan was one of them.

The boy on his left was Mark Holloway—tall, reckless, always laughing. The boy on his right was smaller, darker-haired, his smile uncertain.

Lucas.

The name struck like a bruise.

Lucas Reed had been thirteen when he disappeared.

Ethan dropped the photograph onto the counter and stepped back, chest tightening. He hadn’t seen this picture in years. He didn’t even remember where it had been taken. But he knew one thing with absolute certainty.

That photograph had not been in the house last night.

Someone had been here.

Someone had wanted him to see it.

The front door slammed.

Ethan spun around, heart racing, but the house stood empty. The sound echoed through the halls, vibrating against the walls like a warning shot.

“No,” he whispered. “No.”

He grabbed his coat and left the house without locking the door, the photograph clutched tightly in his hand.

Outside, the fog had thinned but not vanished. It clung low to the ground, curling around his boots as he walked downhill toward town. His mind replayed the image again and again—three boys, smiling, unaware of what was coming.

Lucas had vanished two weeks later.

The official story had been simple: he fell into the river and drowned. No body had ever been recovered, but Blackwood had accepted the explanation quickly. Too quickly.

At the sheriff’s office, a new sign hung crookedly above the door: BLACKWOOD POLICE DEPARTMENT. The building itself hadn’t changed. Same brick. Same narrow windows.

Inside, the smell of stale coffee and paper hit him immediately.

A man sat behind the front desk, head bent over a file. He looked up slowly.

Recognition flickered across his face.

“Well,” the man said. “I’ll be damned.”

Ethan swallowed. “Sheriff Cole.”

“Deputy now,” Cole replied, standing. “Sheriff retired last year. Heart trouble.” He studied Ethan closely. “Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

“I didn’t think so either.”

Cole gestured toward a chair. “What brings you back?”

Ethan hesitated. Every instinct told him not to say the truth. Not yet.

“I’m staying in my old house,” he said instead. “Someone’s been inside.”

Cole’s expression changed—subtle, but real.

“Any signs of forced entry?”

“No.”

“Anything missing?”

Ethan pulled the photograph from his pocket and placed it on the desk.

Cole’s jaw tightened.

“I didn’t know this was still around,” Cole said quietly.

“I didn’t either,” Ethan replied. “But someone wanted me to.”

Silence stretched between them. Finally, Cole pushed the photo back.

“Some things are better left alone,” he said.

Ethan met his gaze. “That’s what this town told itself when Lucas disappeared.”

Cole didn’t deny it.

“You should leave,” he said instead. “Blackwood hasn’t changed. And it doesn’t forgive.”

Ethan stood.

“I’m not here to be forgiven,” he said. “I’m here for the truth.”

Outside, the river roared louder than before.

From the hill, the house watched.

And somewhere in Blackwood, someone smiled, knowing the past had begun to move again.