5. FIVE
FIVE
LENORE
The kitchen window overlooked the garden—what used to be a garden, anyway. Roses still clung to life out there, the last stubborn bloom in a yard slowly giving in to rot. Mom had planted them herself. Roses don’t live forever, she’d said, but the memory of them does. And she was right.
Even after I left, I held on to those roses like they were the only thing this place had ever given me. Wherever I went, I remembered them—red against the green, her hands buried in soil, the way her hair caught the sunlight. I remembered that time with her. And everything that came after.
Two different worlds.
I missed her.
I set the glass in the sink and walked to the door on the right—the one that led out to the garden. My hand wrapped around the doorknob, and I pushed it open.
The air outside hit differently. Heavier.
Every flower in the yard had wilted, browned, and collapsed into itself, all except the roses. They stood proud, untouched by weather, and time as well... like the house still remembered what she loved. What I loved.
To the right, the ground looked disturbed—patches of grass dug up and piled like someone had started digging and stopped halfway through. To the left stood the old wooden pavilion. Once my favorite spot to read. Now it looked like something left behind by the years.
Funny how some things stay the same, even when we don’t.
I turned back toward the house. As I stepped inside, something moved in the corner of my eye—a shadow moving too fast, too quietly.
I froze.
My heartbeat crashed in my chest. My breath locked up. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even move.
Then footsteps faded.
No. No, this can’t be real.
My thoughts scrambled. Was someone here? Was I being watched? Was I even alone?
I stayed frozen to the floor, fear holding me still. But somewhere deep down, my body knew it had to move.
Move. Just move.
One foot forward. Then the other. I kept going, one step at a time until the living room came into view.
That’s when the phone rang.
The sound split the silence like glass. Echoes ran down the hallway, into the walls, under my skin. Cold sweat slid down my temple. My hands trembled.
The phone sat on the wall, the long white cord twisted like a snake coiled too tight. I picked up the receiver, my voice barely there.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Just breathing—slow, too close.
My grip tightened. “Who is this?”
The breath shifted into a melody.
A lullaby.
The same one I used to sing to myself when I couldn’t sleep.
My stomach dropped. My knees buckled. Everything inside me sank.
It wasn’t possible.
The voice on the line was warped like it had been pulled from underwater—muffled, twisted. But it was him .
“Missed me, little sister?”
Click.
Silence.
It was his voice. It was him.
But the line had gone dead. The silence that followed felt louder than the ring.
The phone slipped from my hand. My heart thundered in my chest. I pressed my hands to my face, trying to wake myself up. Trying to figure out if this was a nightmare or if I was still somehow awake.
Then I heard footsteps above me. Running. Then… crawling.
I turned, breath catching, and ran for the stairs. Every step was a betrayal—my legs stumbling, my balance tipping. Fear made my body disobey. I didn’t know if it was him. Or if something else had come in his shape to haunt me.
A sudden gust of air brushed my back like it was pointing.
Toward the bathroom.
I didn’t want to go. But something pulled me.
The door was ajar.
I stepped slowly to the right, peeking through the narrow crack. And there, lying on the floor tiles, was a doll. One of those old ones—thread hair, porcelain face, cracked where one eye used to be.
Then a voice said softly. Playful.
“Come and find me…”
A giggle.
“Come and find me.”
I reached to close the door.
But the doll’s head twisted. Snapped toward me.
It looked at me.
I gasped, slammed the door shut, and ran.
Down the stairs, fast, panic bursting through my chest like fire. But as I hit the bottom step, hands clamped down on my shoulders.
I screamed and spun around, but no one was there.
My body shook. Pulse screaming in my ears, breath ragged. But I kept running. Two steps at a time. I threw the front door open and sprinted out—
But the world spun.
And I was back inside the house.
“What the fuck?” I shouted, turning, trying the door again—grabbing the handle, pulling—running again.
But every time I crossed the threshold, the world twisted.
And I was back inside.
This house wasn’t just haunted—it was haunting me .
I was shaking, uncontrollably. I tried again, sprinting toward the door, but it was useless. And then, I saw it.
At the top of the stairs.
The doll.
It tilted its head.
“I can see you,” it whispered. “I can see you.”
Giggling followed, high-pitched and wrong.
I scrambled for my phone, hands shaking, nearly dropping it. My trembling finger found Troy in my contacts.
He answered almost instantly.
“T-Troy,” I whispered, voice barely there. “I…”
A sob ripped out of me.
“Can you come get me?”
“What the fuck?” he barked. “I had to open the coffee shop by myself today—where the hell are you?”
“Please,” I begged, voice cracking. “Someone’s here. I—I think they’re trying to get me.”
“Get you?” he sounded more confused now than angry. “Where are you?”
“I’ll send you the address.” My hands barely worked. I dropped a pin and sent it through the trembling fog of panic.
“…Massachusetts?” he asked, voice softening into concern. Then a sigh. “Okay. I’m coming.”
The call ended.
The battery icon blinked red.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket and pressed my spine to the wall, trying to stay upright. My lip quivered.
I drifted back into the kitchen like a ghost of myself, trying to piece it together.
How did I even get here?
The kitchen was colder than before.
I didn’t remember leaving the back door open, but there it was—ajar, just barely, like someone had slipped through quietly.
I sat at the edge of the wooden chair, arms wrapped around myself. The table in front of me still had that old lace cloth Mom used to be obsessed with. It was stained now, dark at the corners, maybe wine, maybe time. I let my fingers trace it, grounding myself in texture, in memory.
I kept hearing the voice in my head.
“Missed me, little sister?”
It had been two years.
Two years since I left.
Two years since the house stopped being a home and became something else.
I should have never come back.
I stared out at the garden. The roses still looked so beautiful. And just beyond them, beneath the twisted branches, there was something. A shape. Small. Watching.
I blinked.
Gone.
My phone buzzed once in my pocket—battery low: 2%. No messages. No signal.
I stood up and walked to the sink. My hands trembled as I turned the faucet, letting water pour over them like it could somehow wash off the past. The pipes groaned behind the walls like something alive was dragging itself through them.
And then I saw it.
In the fogged-up window above the sink—a reflection. A man, standing behind me. His head tilted slightly like he was curious. His skin was pale, almost grey. Lips chapped. Eyes dark and wide.
But when I spun around, he wasn’t there.
I backed away slowly, the breath in my chest tight, my limbs stiff.
The silence in the house shifted. It was no longer empty. It was watching .
And then there was music, the same lullaby started to play.
Soft at first. Then louder.
Coming from upstairs.
That damn melody.
I moved toward the stairs without realizing it. Halfway up, I paused. The hallway at the top was washed in that same yellow light.
The music led me to the end of the hall.
My old bedroom.
The door was wide open.
I couldn’t move.
But something— something —was pulling me in. Like it wanted me inside. Needed me.
The room was silent except for the soft song of a music box. It sat neatly on the bed, its lid open.
But the figure from it was gone.
In her place was a thumb. Pale. Severed. Twistingin slow, jerky turns to the rhythm of the tune.
I slapped my palms to my mouth, nausea rising fast and sharp. I staggered back a step, eyes locked on the thing—on it . And just beside it, a folded piece of paper rested on the edge of the bed.
A note.
I reached out with trembling fingers, brushing it lightly before picking it up.
My name.
Written in his handwriting.
My breath caught. I unfolded it slowly, hands shaking.
One line.
“You buried me, but I’m still here.”
My knees buckled.
Buried him?
No. That wasn’t true. I didn’t. I wasn’t even here. I didn’t go to the—
His body was never found.
“Dorian,” I whispered.
The room started to shift around me.
Everything looked the same but felt wrong. The rocking chair in the corner moved slightly, creaking, though there was no breeze. Just like it used to when he sat in it, taunting me in silence, staring out the window with that faraway look. But he wasn’t here. Not anymore.
And yet I felt eyes on me.
A pull, like a thread winding tighter around my throat.
I backed out of the room slowly, keeping my gaze locked on the chair like it might leap at me if I turned.
The hallway seemed darker now, narrower.
The wallpaper was peeling at the seams like something had been scratching at it from the inside.
I passed a mirror— my reflection wasn’t quite right.
My face looked… older. Tired. Like someone who’d been here much longer than I had.
Then—
A whisper. Right in my ear.
“You were never supposed to leave.”
My eyes closed, and I was back in June 2013.
It was a summer night.
I was sitting on the back steps, barefoot, legs curled to my chest. The moon was high, bathing the yard in that silvery glow that made everything look like it was waiting to be remembered.
He lit a cigarette beside me, the flame briefly lighting his face—those sharp cheekbones, the haunted eyes, always too old for his age. He didn’t look at me at first, just exhaled smoke into the night like it was something he’d been trying to get rid of for years.
“You’re up late,” he said.
“I could say the same about you,” I replied.
He smiled, almost bitter. “I’m always up late.”
We sat in silence for a while. Just the two of us. That kind of silence that wasn’t awkward—it was heavy . Like there were a hundred things unsaid hanging in the air, and neither of us dared break them.
“I hate this house,” I said, finally.
He turned to me, eyes catching mine. “No, you don’t.”
And I didn’t.
I hated everything before he came. Not after.
He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered there, warm. Familiar.
“I won’t always be here, you know.”
“I know.”
“You’ll forget me.”
“No, I won’t.”
His hand dropped back to his lap, and he laughed—quiet, sharp. “You think you won’t, but you will. You’ll grow up. Move on. Find someone else to talk to at 2 a.m.”
“I don’t want to find someone else.”
He looked at me then.
Looked at me.
He was twenty-five. I was seventeen. Too old to be innocent, too young to understand the world in his eyes.
“I’m not a good person,” he said, like it was a confession. “If you ever really knew me, you’d run.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You say that now.”
I don’t know who moved first, or if either of us did. But suddenly the space between us was gone . His knee brushed mine. His eyes dropped to my lips.
And then—
He stood.
Fast. Like something inside him snapped.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“Why?”
He didn’t answer.
He just walked away, back into the house, the door closing behind him louder than it should’ve been.
And I sat there.
Seventeen.
Barefoot.
Waiting for answers I never got, yet asking myself so many questions, questions that no one had answers for.