Chapter 3: Strange Noises in the Night

The night had fallen swiftly, as it always seemed to in that strange, forgotten corner of the world where the house on Hawthorn Street stood. The evening sky, tinged with shades of bruised purple and fading gold, seemed to stretch endlessly above the trees, as if time itself had slowed to a crawl. Sophie sat at the window, gazing out into the yard, her eyes unfocused as the shadows grew longer and deeper. The hawthorn trees outside loomed like sentinels, their twisted limbs reaching toward the sky, their leaves rustling in the soft night breeze.

It was a night like any other, or so Sophie tried to convince herself. The house was still, its eerie quiet broken only by the occasional creak of wood settling or the distant hum of insects in the yard. But even the smallest sounds, in this house, seemed amplified, stretched out like the deep echoes of some long-lost memory.

Her hand rested on the sill, her fingers tracing the worn, chipped paint as her thoughts wandered, tangled with the memories she had tried to bury. The past had followed her here, seeped into the walls of the house, and in the silence of the night, it threatened to overwhelm her. Sophie hadn't expected peace when she moved into the house, but she had hoped for some semblance of quiet—a place where the noise of her past could fade away. Yet the house, with its whispered secrets and forgotten stories, seemed only to magnify the silence. It held the kind of stillness that suffocated, that pressed against your chest until you couldn't breathe.

Sophie had tried, unsuccessfully, to shake off the weight of the house's unsettling presence. She had explored every room, every corner, hoping that the more she acquainted herself with the space, the more familiar it would become. But the house refused to be understood. It was a living thing, breathing with an ancient pulse, its shadows flickering in the corners of her vision, its walls murmuring secrets in a language she could not yet comprehend.

That night, as the darkness deepened and the last vestiges of daylight faded into the blackness, Sophie had gone to bed early, hoping to quiet her restless mind. The bed, though old and creaky, had offered some comfort, the covers wrapping around her like a fragile cocoon. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep, but the restlessness within her refused to let go.

The house seemed to hum with a low, constant vibration, the walls seeming to tremble with every shift in the air. Sophie's eyelids fluttered, fighting against the encroaching fatigue, when the first sound broke the silence.

A soft, deliberate scrape.

It was so faint at first that Sophie thought it might be a figment of her imagination, the product of her overactive mind, exhausted and worn from days of tension and fear. But the sound came again, closer this time, scraping against the walls like nails dragged across the surface of stone. Sophie's body stiffened, her breath hitching as she lay in the dark, wide-eyed and listening.

She told herself it was nothing. Just the house settling, just the wind pushing against the siding, the soft groans of an old structure still stubbornly standing. But the scrape came again, and this time, it was followed by a soft thump, as though something had fallen—something heavy, something that should not have been there at all. The sounds were subtle, barely audible against the stillness of the night, but Sophie felt them in her bones, deep and unsettling, like a secret being whispered in the dark.

Sophie pulled the covers tighter around her, closing her eyes and clenching her fists, trying to ignore the rising sense of dread that crept into her chest. Her mind raced, grasping at explanations, rational thoughts that could explain the noises away. The house was old, after all. Houses made noises. Wood groaned, pipes rattled, and floorboards shifted. Nothing to be afraid of, nothing at all.

But then the sounds came again—louder now. A scraping, followed by the unmistakable sound of something heavy dragging across the floor. It was coming from upstairs, from the very room Sophie had felt drawn to since her first night in the house—the room where the floorboards had shifted, where the whispers had begun. The scraping was followed by a long, drawn-out creak, as though something large and heavy had been moved, or perhaps dragged, across the floor.

Sophie's breath quickened. There was no wind tonight. The house was still—too still. Her heart beat erratically in her chest, the sound of it thudding in her ears as she sat up in bed, her eyes wide and straining in the dark. She had to know what it was. She had to face it, whatever it was.

The room was pitch black, save for the faintest sliver of moonlight that crept through the cracks in the curtains, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor. Sophie's hands shook as she reached for the lamp on her nightstand, her fingers trembling as she turned the switch. The soft, yellow light flickered to life, casting a pale glow over the room, and for a moment, everything seemed normal. The shadows that had once seemed so oppressive now appeared harmless, their shapes stretching lazily across the walls.

But the noise persisted.

A low thump, followed by a soft scraping, like a chair being dragged across the floor.

Sophie's pulse raced. She could not ignore it anymore. She had to investigate. The house—*this house*—was not going to let her rest. Not tonight.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet touching the cold floor with a soft thud. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she swallowed hard, trying to calm her racing thoughts. She stood there for a moment, staring into the darkness beyond the faint pool of light cast by the lamp. There was no turning back now. The house had already found a way into her, and there was no escaping it.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Sophie stepped toward the door. The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet, each step sending a shiver through her spine. As she opened the door, the house seemed to breathe—a soft, groaning exhale that seemed to echo down the hallway. The air was thick, heavy with the stillness that clung to the walls. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of the air, was amplified in the silence that surrounded her.

Sophie walked cautiously down the hallway, her hand brushing the walls for support as she made her way toward the stairs. The noises grew louder with each step she took. The scraping was more persistent now, the dragging sound more defined. She was sure now—there was something in the house, something that was moving. Something that did not belong.

She reached the top of the stairs and hesitated, her hand gripping the railing as her eyes darted nervously from one shadowed corner to another. The house felt alive, its every creak and groan amplified in the stillness, like the quiet exhalation of a breath held too long. And then, just as Sophie began to ascend the stairs, the thumping sound came again, this time from the room at the end of the hallway.

It was unmistakable—a heavy, deliberate sound, as though someone, or something, was moving through the room with purpose. The air grew colder as Sophie made her way down the hall, each step drawing her closer to the source of the noise. She could feel it now—whatever it was, it was waiting for her, just beyond the door.

Her hand shook as she reached for the knob. She paused for a moment, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps, her mind reeling with the possibilities. But there was no going back now. She had to know what was happening in this house. She had to know what she had walked into.

With a sharp turn of the knob, Sophie opened the door.

The room was empty.

But the air was thick, charged, as though something had just been there, something that had moved and now was gone, leaving behind only the echo of its presence. The floorboards, which had creaked and groaned only moments before, were silent now. The room itself felt frozen in time, as if the very air held its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Sophie stepped inside, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet beneath her. She moved slowly, her eyes scanning the room, but there was nothing—nothing to explain the sounds, the presence that had unsettled her so deeply. It was just an old room, with peeling wallpaper and a crooked chair in the corner. The silence here was almost more oppressive than the noises she had heard.

But just as she turned to leave, she caught sight of something. A small, faded object, lying on the floor near the corner of the room. It was a piece of paper, crumpled and yellowed with age. She bent down to pick it up, her fingers trembling as she unfurled it.

The paper was old, worn, but the words were still legible.

*"It is not the house that waits. It is the one who comes for you."*

Sophie's heart stilled in her chest as the words burned into her mind.

*It is not the house.*

*It is the one who comes for you.*

And as she looked around the empty room, the silence—*the broken silence*—settled over her like a heavy cloak. There was something here. Something that had been waiting for her.

But she did not yet know what it was.