The Haunting of the Woodhouse

Chris stood in the old, creaking woodhouse, eyes fixed on his phone screen. The messages had all been sent after midnight—every single one. This was the point that matched Ryan's account perfectly, but it was also what terrified Chris the most.

How could a corpse, sealed inside the wall of this house, send text messages every night?

A supernatural event? If it was a vengeful spirit, how were the grave robbers still alive after desecrating the body?

"Someone's behind this," Chris muttered, piecing together the clues in his mind. He was starting to get a clear picture. "The person using the deceased's phone to message Ryan every night must be the one who killed his fiancée. And that same person is the real culprit behind the massacre five years ago."

Chris's heart pounded as he stared at the phone in his hand. "I think I know who the murderer is," he said to himself.

Ryan, the distressed man who had approached Chris, had been ostracized by the tenants in his apartment building. The landlord had tried to chase him away every time they crossed paths. He was the only person Chris had seen tonight who didn't live in the building, but who was always nearby. This proximity was no coincidence.

"The landlord told me there was nowhere to stay within miles of here, yet Ryan has nowhere else to go. He must be hiding out in this very woodhouse," Chris thought, pacing as the pieces clicked together.

"If Ryan is the owner of this woodhouse," Chris whispered to himself, "it all makes sense. The poor man, still searching for his missing wife every day, is actually her killer."

The realization hit Chris like a ton of bricks. He had spoken to a murderer, tried to understand him, tried to help him. The very thought made his throat tighten, and his palms grew sweaty.

Chris couldn't shake the unsettling theory forming in his mind. "He must've been driven mad by something. Collecting his fiancée's clothes, texting himself from her phone—it's possible he's harboring another personality. When he falls asleep, this other side of him takes over."

As Chris scrolled through Ryan's phone, hoping to uncover more clues, something on the screen made his heart skip a beat. A blurry reflection appeared—a girl, no older than seventeen or eighteen, dressed in a bloodstained school uniform.

Chris rubbed his eyes, shaking off the fear. Was it stress playing tricks on him, or had he just seen a ghost?

Suddenly, a cold breeze grazed the back of his neck, sending a shiver down his spine. He spun around, his heart pounding in his chest. The woodhouse felt like a freezer, the temperature dropping rapidly.

The door, which had been shut tight, now stood ajar. Just two meters away, Ryan was standing silently, his eyes bloodshot and wild. He slowly raised a heavy axe in his hands, the gleam of the blade reflecting the pale moonlight.

Time seemed to stand still. Neither man moved.

"So close..." Ryan's voice was guttural, nothing like the man Chris had spoken to earlier. His tone was animalistic, primal, filled with suppressed rage.

Chris tightened his grip on the hammer in his hand, the only thing between him and the axe. For a fleeting moment, he was grateful for the ghostly figure he had seen in the phone reflection. If not for that, Ryan would've struck him down already.

"Such a pity," Ryan snarled, stepping forward.

Chris held the hammer up in defense. "Don't do anything rash. You saw what was on the phone, didn't you?"

He had no idea what Ryan planned next, but Chris was on high alert.

Ryan's face broke into a twisted smile. "It's no big deal, really." He looked revitalized, his earlier exhaustion completely gone. He seemed elated, a different man altogether. "From the moment you entered the apartment and spoke to me, I told you—my wife is hidden somewhere in that building. Did I lie?"

He lifted the axe and casually pointed it at a pile of clothes on the floor—clothes that had once belonged to his fiancée.

"After all, I was the one who sealed her into the wall," Ryan said with a strange calmness.

His voice wavered, growing increasingly erratic. His grip on the axe tightened as if the memory brought him both joy and pain. "She was the one who wanted to leave! I was only trying to keep her close. I had no choice but to make sure she stayed!"

Ryan's sudden shift in tone set off alarms in Chris's mind. It didn't matter what he said—nothing could justify murder. The facts were clear: Ryan had killed her.

Chris discreetly slipped the phone with the fiancée's fingerprints into his pocket. He kept his eyes locked on the woodhouse door, weighing his options for escape.

Ryan, meanwhile, seemed to be caught in his own twisted logic. "I'm not a likable guy," Ryan muttered. "Everyone says that about me. Even if they don't, I know what they're thinking."

Chris wasn't just dealing with a murderer; Ryan's mental state was severely unstable. His words had a disturbing, detached quality, as though he was in a conversation with himself, trapped in a spiral of his own making.

Chris adjusted his stance, angling himself toward the door. He quickly ran through three or four possible escape plans in his mind. Distract him, lure him closer, make a run for it. But the woodhouse was small. None of the plans seemed likely to succeed.

Ryan's voice grew sharper, his agitation palpable. His unstable condition was getting worse by the second.

The longer Chris stayed, the more dangerous the situation became. Deciding to act, he tensed every muscle in his body, waiting for the right moment. As Ryan's mood reached a fever pitch and he began swinging the axe wildly, Chris launched himself at him, sprinting forward with all the force he could muster.

It was a desperate move—risky, even reckless—but Chris knew it was his best shot. As he charged, he aimed directly at Ryan's head, his hammer raised.

In the dark, Ryan reacted just a fraction of a second too late. Chris's hammer struck true with a sickening thud. A flash of warmth spread through his wrist as the impact landed. Before Ryan could recover, Chris kicked him hard in the stomach, sending him reeling. Without wasting another second, Chris bolted for the door, throwing it open and sprinting into the forest.

The trees closed in around him, but Chris had no time to take in the scenery. He ran with everything he had, tearing through the dense woods. The farther he went, the sparser the trees became. His heart pounded as his vision widened, finally breaking through to an open clearing.

But the danger wasn't over. He could still hear movement behind him—snapping twigs, the shuffle of footsteps following closely. Ryan wasn't far behind. Chris glanced over his shoulder, catching glimpses of a swaying flashlight beam through the trees.

He didn't stop running, not for a second. His lungs burned, but he pushed through the exhaustion, his legs pumping furiously. It wasn't until he reached a paved road, a clear sign of civilization, that the noises from the woods finally faded.

Breathing heavily, Chris paused by the roadside, eyes scanning his surroundings. "They're gone," he muttered to himself.

Just as he caught his breath, a sound pierced the night—the wail of police sirens. Chris squinted into the distance, spotting flashing red and blue lights as several patrol cars approached at high speed.

"I made it," Chris gasped, relief flooding his body. He stepped into the road, waving his arms to flag down the police. "It was me! I'm the one who called!" he shouted, his voice cracking with emotion. "I found the killer from the massacre five years ago!"