She pushed tentatively against the dilapidated screen door. The cheap plastic frame flexed against her hand before giving way and opening inwards with a slow creak. The noise was a loud screech in the stillness of the old house, echoing along the narrow entrance hall.

Nervous, she shone her torch through the opening, the yellow cone of light highlighting the floating motes of dust as it swept across the interior. It bounced off a broken mirror at the end of the hallway, flaring briefly and leaving afterimages in her vision. She blinked, the bright lines still visible behind her eyelids.

She cursed, but continued on, pushing the door open fully and slipping inside. She closed it gently behind her, and turned to look around slowly. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper, peeling and discoloured. Dark mould massed in the corners and trailed along the seams. The bare floorboards settled disturbingly as her weight fell on them. She paused, her breath catching.

It felt like they were going to give away beneath her. She shook her head angrily and stepped forward. She was on the ground floor, what did she think would happen.

A disturbing silence had settled over her when she crossed the threshold. It was late, and in this corner of the neighbourhood, traffic was distant and infrequent. The house lay at the end of a cul-de-sac, a detached two-storey, with a wide stretch of garden to the front. Even still, the silence was deeper than she expected.

Barely daring to breathe, she continued to move slowly, shining her torch along the walls, wondering what lay behind the dust covered frames hanging from the walls. Several had fallen from their hooks over the years and lay broken on the floor, the frames twisted, and glass broken. Whatever had once been inside was long gone, chewed up by rodents or stained beyond recognition by the oppressive dampness that hung in the air.

She wanted to reach out and wipe the dust from some of the frames as she passed, curious to see what lay behind the glass, but she stopped herself from reaching out. She felt uneasy when she looked at the frames too closely. She cursed her hesitation, they were just old pictures, nothing to be scared of.

That kind of thing was just silly superstitious nonsense. The house wasn’t haunted. All of the stories and rumours were were just that. Stories. A trick of acoustics and reflections. All natural phenomena. Anyone could see the broken glass that lay scattered on the ground, a prime candidate for catching reflections and shadows and making it look like someone else was there.

She had said as much to her friends as they sat around the previous night, telling ghost stories around the firepit in her parent’s backyard. Nothing to be concerned about. Most of them had laughed at her matter-of-fact comments. Booing her good-naturedly for ruining the fun of a good story.

But several of her friends, who had been in the house themselves remained quiet. They had sat in silence while the others laughed, casting uneasy glances at each other across the flickering flames.

They had unusually subdued during the story, staring at the drinks in their hands, looking as if they wanted to anywhere else. The storyteller hadn’t ventured into the house themselves, claiming rather modestly that they weren’t brave enough to dare the wrath of whatever supernatural entity haunted the building.

She had noticed the silent look pass between the other two at that declaration, a strange expression somewhere between disgust and annoyance. They were both clearly unimpressed and uncomfortable with the story.

One of of the others had jokingly dared her to enter the house herself, if she didn’t believe in all of the stories. Most of the small group had joined in, coaxing her to accept. They’d been drinking for a few hours at that point, enjoying a crisp November evening, so she had accepted the dare, boastfully saying that she would prove them all wrong. She would enter the old house, climb up to the attic and shine her torch out the small round window at the top of the house.

She was beginning to regret her words. She still thought all the stories were just a bunch of made-up nonsense, but the inside of the house was legitimately creepy, and she hadn’t even reached the end of the entrance hall. Whatever about ghosts and malevolent spirits, she had no idea who else might be in the house. Vagrants? Junkies? There was no telling who might be watching her now.

Definitely not any ghosts though. That was just nonsense.

She passed a few doors, leading off to either side of the hallway, and pointedly ignored them. She could see the staircase at the far end of the hall, and she wanted to be of there as quickly as possible. Disturbing any undesirables that might be using the deserted house wasn’t part of her plan.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she passed the doors. Part of her half-expected them to creak open, the unseen occupants coming to see who was disturbing their secret activities.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she passed the last door and reached the end of the hall.

She still felt watchful eyes on her though, and she shivered a little as a small draught blew through a broken window and caressed her back. The November wind was bitter, and she felt goosebumps rise where it had touched her.

She looked up the stairs, shining the torch ahead, inspecting the bare wooden steps for cracks and weaknesses. They looked solid enough to her, nothing standing out in the shadows cast by the light. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was alone. There was no one else here. All she had to do was find her way to the top floor and prove her idiot friends wrong. There was nothing to it.

Why did she feel so reluctant to continue then. Her mind told her that everything was alright. It was just an old, empty house. Nothing to be afraid of. Sure the atmosphere was creepy, and the silence disquieting, but that was just the way things were in empty places. It wasn’t much different than walking through a graveyard.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t the best analogy. But it was the same principle.

Deserted places had their own strange quality, and this was not the first abandoned building she had been in. She remembered sneaking into an old, abandoned lumber yard a few years before. Her and a couple of friends had been looking for a place to smoke a few cigarettes they had bummed off one of the older kids in their school.

That place had been creepy too, in its own way. The stacks of forgotten lumber and disused machinery lying covered in dust and cobwebs. There had been a pile of broken bottles in one corner, some of them looked recent, and the sickly smell of stale alcohol had hung in the air.

This was exactly the same, except that this time she was alone. And it was a house not an abandoned yard. Nothing to worry about. She was even beginning to doubt her friends, who claimed to have been here before, had actually entered the building. So far she had seen no signs that the dust in the hallway had ever been disturbed.

That was a comforting thought, and she replayed it over and over in her mind. That meant there probably wasn’t anyone hiding in one of the rooms either. Probably.

Unless they had come in through the back door.

She shivered at the thought.

She wasn’t about to be taunted and teased after her bold claim however, and she steeled herself to move on. She raised her right foot and placed it on the first step of the staircase.

She put some of her weight down, testing the old wood. It seemed nice and solid, it barely even creaked as she shifted her weight. As she moved her left foot to start up the stairs something caught the corner of her eye. Her head swivelled involuntarily, and she groaned at the reflex.

There was another frame hanging on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. It was more elaborate than the others, the frame looked well made, the wood carved into a twisting web of scroll work and filigrees. If she had seen it anywhere else, she would probably have thought it pretty, if a bit old fashioned. But in the silence of the old house, it just looked creepy. Clumps of dust lay in the carved designs, and a long spider web stretched from the upper left corner to the ceiling. Like the others, the glass was covered in dust, rendered opaque by the thick coating.

Unlike the others, which she had easily ignored, this one called to her curiosity. Maybe it was the frame, so different from the plain wood of the others. She couldn’t help wondering what was so important about the picture beneath all the dust that had called for the elaborate mounting. Her world seem to stretch out and fill with the dull grey of the dust.

What was behind it?

She flinched with a start when she realised that her fingers were centimetres away from the glass, seemingly moving of their own accord. It was like watching a movie. Her hand moving closer and closer to the surface. She didn’t want to disturb anything and she tried to pull back, but she found that she was no longer in control of her body. Her fingers inched closer to the dusty glass with agonising slowness. They touched the surface, gritty with years of dirt and grime, and cold with the chill of early winter.

She tried to rationalise it as just her nerves but when her fingers touched the surface, she felt a jolt, as if a small electric current had just run through her; a brief tingling sensation, spreading from her fingertips, down her arm and then through her body.

Her hand continued to disobey her, wiping at the layer of dirt on the glass, smearing the grime across the smooth surface. Underneath the layers of dust, a portrait of a woman stared out at her. She jumped back with the shock, her fingers finally losing contact with the picture frame. It seemed like the girls stare was directed at her.

She felt another soft jolt as she locked eyes with the picture, an afterimage of the woman floating in her peripheral vision as she looked away.

Come to me…

She nearly bolted for the door at the soft whisper, but she stopped herself halfway through her turn. It was just the wind surely. A trick of the mind. A combination of the tension she felt in her shoulders and the heavy silence of the old house.

She forced out a laugh, dry and flat. It sounded about as enthusiastic as she now felt about her endeavour. Chiding herself for her silliness, she turned back to the stairs and plodded up the old steps with stubborn determination.

She would prove her friends wrong and she was not about to lose face after her prideful boasting, even if it had been mostly fuelled by a cheap bottle of wine.

The upstairs landing was much the same as the entrance hall. Dusty and damp, with mildew creeping along the worn wallpaper. The same cloying smell of decay infused the air. One of the bedroom doors lay ajar, hanging from one hinge. Cold air blew into the landing from the room, the chill settling into her bones despite the heavy coat she wore.

Emboldened by her stubbornness, she slipped through the door, careful to avoid touching it. The remaining hinge looked strained and she was afraid it would collapse if she so much as brushed against it.

A bed stood on the opposite side of the room by the window; an imposing cast iron monstrosity. The springs long rusted away and collapsed. The filthy, stained mattress lying in the tangle.

There was a large wardrobe against the wall opposite the bed, its panelled doors lying half covered in dust and cobwebs on the floor. Inside she saw a moth eaten tangle of fabrics.

There was a door next to that leading into an adjoining bathroom. She moved to enter, but caught sight of herself in the large mirror above the yellowed sink. For a brief instant she thought she saw someone else in the reflection. Not behind her or in front of her, but instead of her. But it was just for an instant, and was gone before she could blink.

Stupid house, stupid dare, stupid friends.

She continued to mutter to herself as she left the room, perhaps a bit too quickly, but who was to know.

She turned back down the landing, looking for access to the attic. There were a few more closed doors to the sides but she had no intention of opening them. Her nerves were frayed enough as it was. She just wanted to get to the top of the house and finish what she had come to do. She was growing frustrated though, a bad companion to the anxiety gnawing away in her chest. Part of her had hoped that the access to the attic would just be a hatch in the ceiling, nothing she could reach. It would have given her a good excuse for a quick exit.

Her luck wouldn’t allow for that of course, would it?

She stared gloomily towards the doorway at the end of the hall. Another ugly, heavy looking, panelled thing. She hoped that it was locked as she approached it, but the tarnished brass knob turned surprisingly easy in her hand.

Invitingly, she thought. As if doors could have feelings and intentions.

The door swung outwards with a groan, and a gust of cold air swept past her, carrying with it a musty odour, different from the dampness that pervaded the rest of the house.

Her brain screamed at her to run, but she stood fast, staring up the narrow, enclosed flight of stairs. She hadn’t come this far to chicken out now. Not to mention the damage to her reputation. She was no-nonsense and all business. The one to act first if there was an accident. She wasn’t about to have that tarnished by an old, ramshackle house. No matter how creepy.

She started up the steps, her hands trailing along the damp wallpaper, bracing herself for rotten steps. But they held firm, seemingly more solid than everything else in the building.

She stood on the top step, the twin to the door below closed before her. It wouldn’t be long now. Just a few more minutes and this would all just be a bad memory.

She reached for the doorknob and flinched back as a buzz of static pricked at her fingers. She shook out her wrist, it felt jarred and numb.

Come…

‘Fuck this shit!’

The curse was a whisper, as she reached for the door handle again and pushed open the door impulsively.

The Attic!

The musty smell was worse now that she was up there, and she spat reflexively as the powdery odour settled in her mouth. She’d better not get an infection from this, or those stupid friends of hers would be coughing up for the doctor’s bill.

She stepped through the door and looked around the small attic space. It was smaller than she imagined, the slope of the roof cutting off much of the room. The round window at the front of the house was just ahead of her. The pale moonlight outside beamed lazily through the dusty air. She had expected more, her imagination coloured by films and books. There were no huge trunks or chests, or racks of old clothes. A few empty cardboard boxes lay to one side, torn and crumpled.

The rest of the space was empty. And it felt…vacuous?. She took a deep breath, as if to reassure herself that there was still air to breathe, then walked directly towards the window, her torch sending shadows from the rafters bouncing across the small space.

Her torch flickered as she reached the wall, and she looked down as she slapped her hand against the rubber.

She twisted the battery cover tight, and the flickering stopped. Her out breath was loud in the silence, as she realised she had been holding it since she stepped into the room. She looked up at the window, and used the sleeve of her coat to wipe away the dust.

She caught her reflection in the glass and flinched.

That wasn’t her was it?

Her skin looked pallid, and dark circles encircled her eyes. Her hair hung in a twisted mess across her shoulders.

But she’d had it tied up hadn’t she?

She rubbed a hand on her temple at a sudden throbbing pain. She looked back at her reflection, now blurred and indistinct as her vision doubled.

That was her wasn’t it?

How could she not know. Confusion twisted her brain in a knot and terror erupted in her stomach.

Wasn’t it?

The pain in her head lessened, and the reflection shifted back into focus.

Yes. Of course it was. Who else would it be?

This was her house. Who else could it possibly be?

She looked out of the attic window at the glowing streetlights. A smile curled her lips. It had been so long since she was last outside.