Chapter One: I Drive When I’m Mad

I wasn’t running from anything dramatic.
No rainstorm. No screaming phone calls. No big moment.

I was just in a bad mood.

The kind where someone says one thing, one stupid, careless thing, and it sits wrong in your chest. Not enough to cry about. Just enough to make you drive without checking where you’re going.

I didn’t even notice the road narrowing at first. I was too busy replaying the conversation in my head, fixing it, rewriting it, winning an argument that no longer mattered. The trees closed in. The radio crackled and went quiet. My phone lost service somewhere between one sharp turn and the next.

Then the gas light came on.

Of course it did.

I pulled over when the car finally gave up, rolling to a stop like it had been waiting for permission. I sat there for a second, hands still on the wheel, staring into the dark. No other cars. No lights. No sound except the engine ticking as it cooled.

A single laugh turned into an ugly cry for a few minutes. Finally, I used my sleeve to dry my eyes and took a couple of deep breaths.

Because if this was the universe trying to teach me a lesson, it was on point. 

I grabbed my jacket and started walking.

That’s when I saw the house.

Castle, technically.

Or at least what passes for one when you’re alone on a forgotten road at night and your patience is already shot. Stone walls, tall windows, a gate that was definitely older than it had any right to be. It didn’t glow. It didn’t loom. 

It just existed, like it had been there long before I noticed and would still be there after I left.

I didn’t think haunted.

I thought someone rich and weird lives here.

I made my way up and was out of breath by the time I knocked.

The door opened almost immediately.

The man standing there was tall, pale, and dressed like a butler who’d stepped out of the wrong century. His posture was perfect. His face looked like it had forgotten how to change expressions.

He looked at me for a long second, then said,
“We were wondering when you’d arrive.”

I remember thinking, that’s an odd thing to say to a stranger.

But I was tired. And annoyed. And honestly, I’ve heard worse opening lines.

“I ran out of gas,” I said. “I don’t need much. Just a phone. Or gas. Or directions that don’t end in me getting murdered.” I laughed awkwardly, trying to break the tension. 

Nothing. 

“Of course,” he said, stepping aside.

The moment I stepped inside, the door closed behind me.

Not slammed. Not dramatic. Just closed. Soft. Final.

I turned around to say something to the butler, some half-joke about haunted hospitality, and he was gone.

Not walking away. Not standing farther back. Just gone.

I felt it then. A rush of air, as if the house had exhaled. The temperature dropped, not cold exactly, just stale. The lights dimmed, or maybe they hadn’t been bright to begin with, and I was only noticing now. Everything felt muted, like sound underwater.

The place didn’t feel lived in. Not recently. Not in a long time. The kind of untouched that doesn’t mean clean, just forgotten.

I stood there longer than I should have, trying to figure out what had changed. My head felt fuzzy, like I’d stood up too fast. Disoriented enough to be annoying, not enough to panic.

I decided I needed water.

Partly because of the walk. Partly because I was thirsty in the way you get when you’ve been annoyed and moving and pretending you’re fine. I am a curvy, well-rounded woman. I do not thrive on long, dramatic walks through the woods without hydration.

The kitchen wasn’t hard to find. Houses like this tend to funnel you where they want you to go. It was large and outdated, all stone counters and cabinets that had once been fancy. I turned on the faucet.

What came out wasn’t water.

It was thick and cloudy and wrong. The color of something you would absolutely not drink and definitely not give to an animal you cared about. I stared at it for a second, then shut the tap off.

“Okay,” I said out loud. “No.”

That was when I noticed the shadows.

They moved fast. Too fast to focus on. Small, low to the ground, darting at the edges of my vision. I turned, expecting to see rats or cats or something logical.

Nothing.

Then I heard giggling.

Not loud. Not echoing. Just the kind of soft, careless laughter kids make when they think they’re being sneaky. A toy went off somewhere down the hall. One of those old ones with a tinny sound that doesn’t quite hit the right note.

I followed it before I fully decided to.

The hallway was long and lined with doors. Too many doors. All different sizes, some newer than others, some warped like they’d been shut too long. The giggling moved ahead of me, always just out of reach. The shadows slipped in and out of rooms, quick as thoughts you don’t want to finish.

I stopped in the middle of the hall.

Every instinct I had told me this was the part where normal people leave. Where you turn around and say nope and go sit back in your broken-down car and rethink your life choices.

But I didn’t feel afraid.

I felt curious, like the night had already decided something about me.

One of the doors creaked open on its own.

Just enough to invite me in.

The door didn’t creak this time.
It opened fully.

A child was standing there.

Small. Quiet. A little girl, maybe. She didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just looked up at me like she already knew who I was and was mildly disappointed I’d taken so long.

Before I could say anything, she grabbed my hand.

Her grip was cold, but firm. Not violent. Just certain. She pulled me into the room with a strength that didn’t match her size.

The door slammed shut behind us.

Hard.

The sound hit my spine before my ears. The room exploded into noise all at once. Toys started going off like they’d been waiting for a signal. Car alarms. Sirens. Plastic voices shouting “Mama.” 

Baby cries layered on top of laughter, buttons clicking, wheels spinning, music that couldn’t decide what key it belonged in.

It was too much.

My chest tightened. My head buzzed. The walls felt closer than they had a second ago. I tried to cover my ears, but it didn’t help. 

The giggling came back. 

Surrounding me. 

Moving. 

I couldn’t see anyone, but I could feel them. 

Small shapes darting around my legs, brushing past me, laughing like this was a game I didn’t know the rules to.

“Okay,” I yelled, louder than I meant to. “That’s enough!”

Everything stopped.

The silence was immediate and heavy. My ears rang. My heart pounded in the sudden absence of sound. I stood there, breathing hard, waiting for something else to happen.

Nothing did.

I was alone.

Just me, standing in the middle of a room full of lifeless plastic, the door still closed, the air thick and still.

I looked at my hand.

It was empty.

And for the first time since I’d arrived, the thought crossed my mind that this house wasn’t trying to scare me.

It was trying to remember me.

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