The first time I heard my name whispered from inside the house, I was still standing outside the gate.

“Nora.”

I froze.

The suitcase in my hand slipped slightly, and for more than 5 seconds, I couldn’t move.

The compound was so silent that even the wind seemed to have disappeared.

I slowly looked behind me.

The road was empty.

“Nora.”

This time, the voice was louder.

It came from inside the house.

I stared at the building in front of me.

It was supposed to be empty.

I was told that repeatedly.

The lawyer had said it.

My mother had said it.

Even the taxi driver who brought me here had said it.

Nobody lived in the house.

Nobody had lived there for almost twenty years.

Yet someone had just called my name.

I tightened my grip around the suitcase handle.

“Hello?”

There was no answer.

I almost laughed at myself.

Maybe I was imagining things.

It had been a long journey. I had barely slept the previous night, and the three-hour drive from the city had left me exhausted.

I looked at the old mansion again.

It stood behind a tall, rusted gate, surrounded by overgrown grass and trees whose branches stretched across the roof like crooked fingers.

The house was too big.

Too big for one person.

It had three floors, faded cream walls, tall windows covered with dust, and a wide veranda running across the front.

The strangest thing about it was that every window had been painted black from the inside.

I had seen pictures of the house before coming here, but the pictures hadn’t prepared me for what it felt like to stand in front of it.

There was something wrong with the place.

Something I couldn’t explain.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the envelope the lawyer had given me.

The paper was old and yellow.

My name was written across the front.

Nora Anderson

Underneath was the address.

The same address as the house.

I had received the envelope three days earlier.

At first, I thought it was some kind of mistake.

My grandmother died two weeks ago, but I had never known her well. She lived in this town for as long as I could remember, while my mother and I had lived in Manchester.

I had visited her only a handful of times as a child.

After my mother and grandmother had a terrible argument when I was seven, we stopped visiting altogether.

My mother never explained what the argument was about.

Whenever I asked, she would simply say:

“Your grandmother was sick.”

I had always believed her.

Until the lawyer called.

He told me my grandmother had left something for me.

Not money.

Not jewelry.

A house.

This house.

I had laughed when he first told me.

“I think you have the wrong person.”

“I don’t,” he replied.

“My grandmother didn’t own any house.”

“She did.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she left it to you.”

Then he told me something that made my stomach turn.

The house had been registered in my name twenty-four hours after my grandmother died.

Not transferred.

Not sold.

Registered.

As though she had been waiting for her death before giving it to me.

And then came the letter.

The lawyer had found it inside a locked drawer in my grandmother’s bedroom.

He said the letter had my name on it.

He also said there was one instruction written at the bottom.

Do not open this letter until you are standing at the house.

I had thought it was ridiculous.

Now, standing in front of the house, I wasn’t so sure.

I looked at the envelope again.

My hands were shaking.

I tore it open.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

There were only four sentences.

I read them once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

Nora,

If you are reading this, then I am dead.

Do not leave the house after midnight.

And whatever you hear calling your name, do not answer.

I stared at the words.

A cold feeling crawled up my spine.

I looked toward the house.

Nothing moved.

I looked back at the letter.

Then I heard it.

“Nora.”

My heart slammed against my ribs.

The voice had come from upstairs.

I dropped the letter.

For a moment, I considered leaving.

I could call the lawyer.

I could get another hotel.

I could return to Manchester and pretend none of this had happened.

But then something caught my attention.

One of the black-painted windows on the second floor was slowly opening.

My breathing stopped.

The window moved upward.

Very slowly.

And behind it

Someone was standing there.

I couldn’t see the person’s face.

Only a dark silhouette.

I stepped backward.

The figure raised one hand.

Then it pointed directly at me.

I ran.

I grabbed the gate and pulled.

It didn’t move.

“Come on.”

I pulled again.

Nothing.

The figure was still standing at the window.

I could feel it watching me.

“Open!”

I kicked the gate.

Nothing happened.

Then suddenly, I heard the sound of metal scraping behind me.

I turned.

The front door of the house had opened.

Just a few inches.

Darkness filled the doorway.

I stopped breathing.

A voice came from inside.

Not a whisper this time.

A child’s voice.

“Why did you take so long?”

I stared at the doorway.

My mind went completely blank.

The child continued.

“Grandma said you would come.”

I couldn’t move.

“How do you know my grandmother?”

Silence.

Then the child answered.

“She told me everything about you.”

My stomach twisted.

“Who are you?”

The door opened another inch.

I could see the darkness inside the house.

“Come inside.”

I shook my head.

“No.”

The child giggled.

It was an innocent sound.

But there was something deeply wrong about it.

“Grandma said you would say that.”

The door opened completely.

The hallway was dark.

I couldn’t see anyone.

Then something rolled out of the doorway.

A small red ball.

It stopped directly in front of my feet.

I stared at it.

There was writing on it.

Black ink.

My name.

NORA.

I stepped backward.

The ball rolled forward.

I stepped back again.

It rolled toward me.

“Nora.”

The child’s voice came from inside.

“Come and play.”

I turned toward the gate.

It was open.

I almost cried from relief.

I grabbed my suitcase and ran.

I didn’t look back.

I made it halfway down the road before I realized something.

I had left my phone inside the house.

I stopped.

“No.”

I reached into my pocket.

Empty.

I must have dropped it when I ran.

I looked back.

The house stood at the end of the road.

The upstairs window was still open.

The silhouette was gone.

I should have kept walking.

Instead, I turned around.

Maybe it was because I needed my phone.

Maybe because I didn’t want to admit that I was scared.

Or maybe something else was pulling me back.

I walked toward the house.

The gate was still open.

The front door was still wide open.

I stepped inside.

The smell hit me immediately.

Dust.

Mold.

And something else.

Something metallic.

Like blood.

I held my breath.

“Hello?”

No answer.

I took one step forward.

The door slammed shut behind me.

I spun around.

I grabbed the handle.

It wouldn’t open.

“Okay.”

I whispered to myself.

“Stay calm.”

I pulled harder.

Nothing.

Then I heard footsteps upstairs.

Slow footsteps.

One.

Two.

Three.

I looked toward the staircase.

The footsteps stopped.

“Nora.”

I closed my eyes.

Grandmother’s warning flashed through my mind.

Whatever you hear calling your name, do not answer.

I didn’t.

The house became silent.

Then I heard another sound.

A phone ringing.

My phone.

It was coming from upstairs.

I stared at the staircase.

The ringing continued.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

I slowly walked toward the stairs.

Every instinct in my body screamed at me to leave.

But the front door wouldn’t open.

So I climbed.

The first floor was empty.

The second floor was darker.

The ringing was coming from the end of the hallway.

I walked toward it.

The phone rang again.

I reached the door.

It was slightly open.

I pushed it.

The room was completely dark.

My phone was lying on a wooden table in the middle of the room.

I rushed toward it.

The moment I picked it up, the screen lit up.

There was one missed call.

From my own number.

I frowned.

That was impossible.

My phone couldn’t call itself.

Then another call came through.

The screen displayed:

“Incoming call, Nora Anderson”

I stared at it.

My finger hovered over the answer button.

Then the phone vibrated again.

A message appeared.

I opened it.

There was only one sentence.

DON’T TURN AROUND.

My entire body went cold.

I could hear breathing behind me.

Slow.

Heavy.

Very close.

I didn’t move.

The phone vibrated again.

Another message appeared.

SHE KNOWS YOU’RE HERE.

The breathing stopped.

I slowly turned around.

Nobody was there.

I looked at the doorway.

Empty.

The hallway was empty too.

I let out a shaky breath.

Then I noticed something on the wall.

A photograph.

I walked closer.

It was an old family photograph.

My grandmother was standing in the middle.

Beside her were several people I didn’t recognize.

I looked at their faces.

Then I froze.

There was a little girl standing in the front row.

She looked about six years old.

She had my eyes.

My nose.

My face.

I stepped closer.

“No.”

My hands began to tremble.

That couldn’t be me.

I had never been here as a child.

My mother had never brought me here.

At least, that’s what she had always told me.

I looked at the date written beneath the photograph.

2008.

I was six years old.

I stared at the little girl.

Then I noticed something else.

There was another person standing behind her.

Someone whose face had been scratched completely out of the photograph.

Underneath the damaged face, someone had written a name.

I wiped the dust away.

My heart stopped.

The name was:

Nora Anderson

But I was the little girl standing in the front.

Which meant there were two of me in the photograph.

And suddenly, from somewhere deep inside the house, a child began to laugh.

Then came the whisper.

“Nora…”

I turned toward the sound.

The voice was no longer coming from upstairs.

It was coming from directly behind me.

And this time, it sounded exactly like my own voice.

“Welcome home.”