Chapter 4: Footsteps in an Empty Room

Night returned to Blackwood without ceremony.

Ethan stood at the foot of the hill, staring up at the house as darkness gathered around it. A single upstairs window reflected the moon, pale and distant. He didn’t remember leaving any lights on—but the reflection bothered him all the same.

The photograph weighed heavily in his pocket.

Every step up the path felt like a mistake he could still turn back from. The trees whispered as the wind passed through them, branches scraping together like fingers. When he reached the porch, the front door stood exactly as he’d left it that morning.

Unlocked.

He hesitated, then pushed it open.

The house smelled different at night. Sharper. Colder. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick and unmoving. Ethan flipped the light switch.

Nothing happened.

He tried again. Still nothing.

The power must have been cut at some point over the years, he realized. Another thing no one had thought to mention.

Using his phone as a flashlight, he stepped inside. The beam carved narrow paths through the darkness, illuminating dust in the air like falling snow. Each footstep echoed too loudly.

He locked the door behind him.

The sound traveled farther than it should have.

Ethan moved room by room, checking windows, corners, closets—anything that might hide movement or intent. Everything was empty. Silent. Too orderly.

Upstairs, his bedroom remained untouched. The unused door at the end of the hall was still closed, its handle dull with age.

He stood before it longer than necessary.

Not yet, he told himself.

Back downstairs, he set the photograph on the kitchen counter. The three boys stared back at him, frozen in a moment before everything went wrong. He turned it face down.

That was when he heard it.

A soft thud above him.

Ethan froze.

The sound came again—slow, deliberate. Footsteps.

His heart hammered as he angled his phone upward, the beam trembling slightly. The noise was coming from the hallway upstairs. From the direction of his room.

“That’s impossible,” he whispered.

He hadn’t heard the stairs creak. No door open. No sign of anyone entering.

The footsteps stopped.

Silence pressed in, heavy and absolute.

“Hello?” His voice sounded small in the dark.

No answer.

He backed toward the kitchen drawer and pulled out the largest knife he could find. The metal felt cold, solid in his hand. Slowly, carefully, he climbed the stairs.

Each step groaned under his weight, but no other sounds followed. At the top, the hallway stretched before him, swallowed in darkness. His phone light revealed closed doors. Stillness.

Except—

His bedroom door was open again.

It hadn’t been when he checked earlier.

Ethan approached, pulse roaring in his ears. The room lay empty. Bed undisturbed. Window closed.

Then he saw it.

The photograph lay on the bed.

Face up.

He hadn’t brought it upstairs.

A chill crawled down his spine. He turned slowly, scanning the room.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

Nothing answered.

He took one step back—and the floorboard behind him creaked.

Ethan spun around, knife raised.

The room was empty.

The footsteps came again.

This time, they were closer.

Not upstairs.

Behind him.

The sound traveled down the hallway, slow and measured, as if someone were pacing just out of sight. Ethan backed into the room, breathing shallowly, every sense screaming.

Then the footsteps stopped.

A whisper brushed his ear.

“You remember now.”

Ethan stumbled backward, nearly dropping the knife. He whirled around.

No one stood there.

The air felt colder, heavier, as if the house itself were holding its breath. His phone flickered, light dimming, then stabilizing.

On the wall opposite him, something had been scratched into the peeling paint.

Not deep. Not violent.

Careful.

3:17

Ethan’s legs gave out, and he sank onto the edge of the bed, staring at the numbers. His mind raced, grasping at fragments—rain, shouting, a watch slipping into water, time stopping all at once.

The footsteps did not return.

But Ethan knew with terrible certainty that he was no longer alone.

The house at Blackwood Hill had begun to speak.

And it was only getting started