Katrina stared out the car window, watching the trees rush past in gray-green blurs, like they were trying to erase everything she’d ever known. The sky looked tired, heavy with clouds that hadn't rained yet but wanted to.

  In the back seat, her little brother James was scribbling in his sketchbook again. That boy hadn’t looked up once since they left the city. Katrina glanced over at him. He was hunched over the pages, whispering to himself—something he’d been doing more and more lately.

  “Drawing monsters again?” she asked, half-joking.

  James didn’t answer. He just kept drawing, his pencil making quick, sharp lines like it was moving faster than his hand could follow.

  Their parents sat up front in stiff silence. Mom’s sunglasses were on, even though the clouds made everything dull. Dad’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Nobody had said anything in half an hour.

  “Almost there,” Dad muttered, mostly to himself.

  Almost where, Katrina thought.

  The GPS chirped, “In 500 feet, turn right onto Wicker Street.”

  The name alone made her stomach twist. Wicker—it sounded like something from a ghost story. And when they made the turn, she understood why.

  Wicker Street was a narrow dirt road cutting through trees that seemed too tall and too close together. Branches arched overhead like bony fingers trying to block out the sky.

  James finally looked up.

  “Cool,” he whispered.

  “Creepy,” Katrina whispered back.

  At the end of the road, the trees opened into a clearing—and there it was.

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  The house.

  It sat on a hill like it had been waiting for them. The roof sagged a little on one side. Vines crawled up the stone walls. The porch leaned in a way that made it look like the whole thing was sighing. Some of the shutters hung crooked, like tired eyelids.

  It was huge. Beautiful, in a broken, haunted kind of way. Like it had stories in its bones.

  Katrina didn’t want to hear them.

  “Here we are!” Dad said too cheerfully as he parked the car. “Home sweet home.”

  They got out slowly. Mom stretched, but her eyes never left the house. James was already heading toward the porch, his sketchbook clutched in one hand.

  Katrina stood still.

  The wind blew lightly, rustling the trees—but she heard nothing else. No birds. No bugs. Just quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Then she saw something in the upstairs window.

  Just a flicker. A shape. A shadow.

  When she blinked, it was gone.

  Inside the house, everything smelled like old wood and dust. The floor creaked like it hadn’t been stepped on in years. Their voices echoed even when they whispered.

  “Lights still work,” Dad said, flipping a switch. A dim chandelier flickered above them like it wasn’t sure it wanted to be alive.

  They explored the rooms one by one. There was a dusty dining room, a narrow staircase, a fireplace filled with ashes. A long hallway stretched past a line of doors. At the end, a narrow stairway led up to the third floor.

  “That’s off-limits for now,” Dad said quickly. “Old boards. Might not be safe.”

  Katrina squinted at him. Something in his voice sounded off.

  James had already picked a room. He threw his backpack on the bed and started sketching again like he’d lived there his whole life.

  Katrina chose the room across the hall—small, quiet, with a cracked mirror on the closet door. The crack ran from top to bottom like a scar.

  She sat on the bed and looked around. The shadows in the corners were darker than they should’ve been.

  Outside, the wind blew again.

  But the trees didn’t move.

  That night, Katrina couldn’t sleep.

  Her room was too still. Too dark.

  She turned over for the hundredth time and stared at the mirror on the closet. It glinted in the moonlight coming through the window.

  Then it moved.

  Just a flicker.

  She sat up, heart pounding.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  The sound came from the closet.

  Slow. Hollow.

  She grabbed her phone. No bars. Of course.

  Tap. Tap.

  She stood up, took a deep breath, and walked slowly to the closet door. Her fingers touched the handle.

  She yanked it open.

  Nothing. Just her clothes. Some boxes. A dusty old toy chest.

  She let out a shaky breath. Turned to look at the mirror—

  —and screamed.

  In the mirror, the closet door was still closed.