Whose that boy?

It had been a long time since I felt this way—like a ghost inside my own skin. Powerless. Suspended. Helpless to change anything in a life I never asked for. But maybe that's just the curse of growing up too fast. My resentment toward my mother runs deeper than even I care to admit. She is the architect of our ruin, the conductor of every discordant note that's played since the divorce. It's her fault my father's no longer with us—though not dead, he might as well be, carved from our lives by her relentless pride and need for control. That woman would rather be despised by her children than lose face. That's just who she is.

Now, the only person I can truly rely on is my little brother, Sam. Thirteen, but mature beyond his years. We're only three years apart, but most days, we feel like twins separated by a flicker of time. He's the type to charm a room with a crooked smile and untamable curiosity, while I'm the shadow beside him, quiet and cautious, more at home with books than people. I prefer rainy windows and thick novels, the safety of silence. Still, despite our differences, our bond is iron-forged.

I turn in my seat to look at him curled up in the back of the car, his forehead pressed to the cold window. The dark forest rushes past in streaks of pine and shadow. His black hair tousles with the wind, and in the shifting light, his pale blue eyes catch the sun like bits of broken glass—so beautiful, but always a little haunted. I know that look. He wears it like a mask. It's the same one I see in the mirror.

I avert my eyes from my mother's face. Just the sight of her drains me, like staring too long into a flame—too bright, too painful, too hollow.

As we pass the weather-worn sign that reads Welcome to Wisconsin, I mumble, "I didn't know we were heading to Wisconsin."

"What did you say?" she snaps, her voice always tinged with that razor-thin edge of condescension.

I sigh, already bracing for her reaction. "I said I didn't know we were heading to Wisconsin."

She clicks her tongue. "It wasn't exactly the plan," she mutters, flicking her cigarette ash out the window. "Your father mentioned some crumbling old estate up here—thought it'd save me money on housing. The least he could do after everything."

There it is. The money. She never fails to bring it up. She didn't love my father—she loved his bank account. Her betrayal was slow and venomous. For years, while he traveled for work, she stayed behind and numbed herself with drugs, with other men, with anything but responsibility. And then, when the time was right, she filed for divorce. A mysterious bag of heroin appeared in my father's briefcase on the day of the custody hearing. He never stood a chance. I know she planted it. My father abhorred drugs; he was the only constant light in our collapsing home.

I learned early how to shield Sam from her chaos. While other kids played outside, I was cleaning up broken beer bottles and wiping away lines of cocaine from the kitchen counter. She taught me to lie, to cover up bruises—hers and mine—and to keep quiet. And I did. I did everything she asked. I wish I hadn't.

The woods outside stretch endlessly, black trees rising like watchmen. I close my eyes and let the sound of the wind and the whirring wheels lull me into uneasy rest.

–

–

–

The car jerks to a stop, jolting me awake. I push my long brown hair—dark as dried blood—out of my face and stare through the windshield.

A house looms before us. If one could call it a house.

The mansion is monstrous—three stories high, built from weathered timber and gray stone, tucked into the woods like something forgotten. Its windows are mostly boarded up, but the glass that remains glints dully like watching eyes. The architecture is old, but oddly elegant: towering gables, sharp eaves, and curling wrought iron that climbs up the porch like vines. Moss crawls along the stones. Blackbirds scatter from the rooftop as if we've disturbed something ancient.

I step out, my heavy boots crunching on the gravel. The air here is different—colder, heavier, like it's been holding its breath for a century.

My skin prickles beneath my oversized flannel. I've always dressed like a relic from a grunge album cover—ripped jeans, dark layers, silver jewelry that clinks when I walk. My eyes, a dark gray-green, scan the woods beyond the house, where twisted branches claw at the sky like bony fingers. There's something...unnerving about how quiet it is.

My phone buzzes—six missed messages. I ignore them.

Behind me, Sam jumps out of the car and inhales sharply, then beams. "This place looks sick," he says, wide-eyed.

I smirk despite myself. "You mean it looks haunted."

"Exactly!" he grins, swinging his duffel over his shoulder.

We take each other's hands and walk toward the front porch. My mother trails behind, her heels clicking on the cracked path.

"You have GOT to be fucking kidding me!" she screams.

I don't flinch. Of course she expected more. Gold chandeliers, maybe. Not this gothic ruin rising out of the woods like a half-buried secret.

"Hey, buddy," I whisper, trying to keep Sam calm. "What do you think of the house?"

He gives a little shrug. "I think it's cool. Kinda like the ones in horror movies."

Exactly. I squeeze his hand tighter.

The steps moan as we ascend. My mother wrestles with the old key, then throws the door open with an angry shove. The smell hits me immediately—old wood, mothballs, something faintly metallic and sweet, like rust. Sam pulls me inside, eyes wide with wonder.

The house is... preserved. That's the only way I can describe it. Not ruined, not modernized—just untouched. Velvet-draped furniture, dark mahogany floors, oil paintings of pale strangers who all look like they're watching you. The chandeliers still hold candle-shaped bulbs. Dust motes float like tiny ghosts in the morning light.

My mother's lip curls in disgust. "I need to make a call," she hisses, storming out and slamming the door.

The noise makes Sam flinch.

"Don't worry," I murmur, ruffling his hair. "Let her scream into the void. We've got a house to explore."

–

–

–

The next morning, I wake to the sound of distant thunder, though the sky is clear. My alarm reads 10:30 AM. I stretch slowly, pushing the tangle of blankets off me. The room I claimed is bathed in soft, cold light. The windows are tall and arched, their glass slightly fogged from the night. The walls are a pale slate-gray, and antique furniture crowds the space—an armoire, a fainting couch, a standing mirror with a dark frame that warps my reflection slightly. I've draped my leather jacket over the bedpost, and my dragon slippers—gifts from Dad—wait by the door like sentinels.

My skin is pale in the mirror, made paler by the gloom of the house. My cheekbones sharp, eyes tired. Dark makeup smudged beneath my lashes makes me look half-dead. But it's me.

The pang of homesickness is sudden and fierce. Not for the place, but for my father. For his warm voice and quiet comfort. I brush a tear from my cheek just as footsteps pound down the hallway.

Sam bursts in, hair wild, eyes electric. "KAT! You'll never believe what I saw!"

I smile, already knowing. "You found something in the woods."

He freezes, jaw slack. "How did you...?"

"Thirteen years of knowing you, dumbass." I laugh, tousling his hair. "Just don't bring it inside unless you want Mom to implode."

He grins and bolts away.

I stand for a moment, the smile lingering—warm, but faint. I hope he stays happy. I hope he never learns how dark things can get.

I pull on a pair of black shorts and an old band tee, slip into my slippers, and head downstairs. The house waits, watching.

Today feels like the kind of day where something is going to happen.

And in a house like this, something always does.

The staircase creaks beneath my feet as I descend, each groan of the wood sounding louder than it should in the vast silence. The air down here is colder than it was last night, touched with damp. The foyer is empty, the morning light filtered through stained glass windows high above, casting fractured colors onto the black-and-white checkered floor. It should've been beautiful. It isn't. The reds look like blood. The blues like bruises.

I spot my mother in the sitting room—already on her third cigarette, though the clock hasn't struck eleven. She's wrapped in one of her silk robes, the hem dragging across the dusty rug as she paces in front of the cold fireplace. She doesn't acknowledge me, and I'm grateful. Her presence dims every room she enters.

I slip past the sitting room into the hallway beyond, calling quietly for Sam.

"Sam?" No answer.

The house is a maze. Narrow halls twist in unnatural ways, doors appear where they shouldn't, and mirrors hang at strange heights, like they were placed for people much taller than any of us. My reflection flickers in one—just a flash of movement—and I swear it lingers half a second too long. I shake it off. This house is just old. Drafty. Haunted by logic, not spirits.

But the feeling crawling up my spine says otherwise.

I find Sam in the drawing room at the back of the house. He's crouched by a tall, arched window, his breath fogging the glass as he stares into the woods.

"What are you looking at?" I ask, stepping carefully over the peeling carpet.

He doesn't look at me. "There's something in the trees."

My stomach tightens. "A deer?"

"No," he says, quiet but certain. "It was tall. like a person. They were just walking around the woods."

A chill blooms in my chest.

"Are you sure?"

He nods. "I thought it was a shadow, but then it moved toward me. Like it saw me watching it."

I kneel beside him, staring into the woods. Nothing moves. The trees are black silhouettes, hunched and silent.

"You probably saw a trick of the light," I say, gently. "The wind can make trees look alive."

He frowns, unconvinced.

"I'm not lying, Kat."

"I know you're not," I say, brushing hair from his forehead. "But even if there is something out there, we're safe in here. Okay?"

He nods reluctantly, and I stand, eyes drifting again to the forest.

And that's when I see it.

At first, I think it's just a branch shifting in the breeze, but then the shape becomes clearer—tall, narrow, unmoving. Too smooth. Too still.

It's watching.

But the second I blink, it's gone.

Later, when Sam is busy exploring the east wing with his flashlight and too much courage, I retreat to the library.

It's the only place in the house that feels warm. Dust coats everything—shelves, velvet chairs, the bones of forgotten candles—but the room hums with presence. Not threat. Something older. Like memory.

The shelves reach all the way to the ceiling, and ladders on brass rails wait patiently in the corners. Most of the books are in leather bindings, cracked with time, titles faded to near-nothing. Some are written in Latin. Others in languages I don't recognize. I run my fingers along their spines, half-expecting one to bite me.

I stop at a thick, wine-colored tome with no title. Just an embossed symbol on the cover—an eye, encircled by thorns. Something about it makes my pulse tick faster. I open it slowly.

The pages are filled with illustrations—elegant, grotesque. People with mouths stitched shut. Trees with veins like arteries. Symbols drawn in red ink that looks too real. Notes scrawled in the margins in different hands.

I shut the book and return it carefully to its place. It lands on the shelf with a soft thump, but the sound echoes strangely in the room, as if the walls have swallowed it whole.

The Hollowed Ones.

I whisper the name in my mind, letting the weight of it sink in. It sounds like a nightmare whispered into a child's ear—but why does something about it tug at me? Not just fear—recognition. As if part of me already knew it was out there. Or he was out there.

I leave the library and make my way back upstairs. Sam's footsteps echo faintly down the east corridor—he's safe, for now. I drift into my room and let the old brass lock click behind me. For a moment, the stormy morning light through the tall windows washes everything in silver. I sit on the edge of my bed, my dragon slippers brushing against the cold hardwood floor.

And that's when I see it again.

Movement. Just past the treeline.

I rise slowly and step toward the window. My fingers brush the glass.

There—between two pines—is the same tall figure Sam described.

But this time, it doesn't vanish.

He steps forward.

The gloom of the woods clings to him like a second skin, and at first, he seems more shadow than boy. But the closer he gets to the edge of the trees, the more detail I can make out. He's lean, tall for his age—maybe sixteen, seventeen? His clothes are ragged, sleeves torn, pants muddy and worn. Dark hair falls around his face in uneven tufts, and his skin—though streaked with dirt—is pale beneath it. Not ghostly. Human. His eyes, even from this distance, are striking—light, unnatural, silvery. Like the winter moon.

He stops at the very edge of the trees, right where sunlight begins to touch the earth.

And he stares at me.

Not threateningly. Not even curiously. He just watches.

I don't know how long we remain that way, frozen between glass and forest. Something about him calls to me—not in fear, but in the way a secret calls, begging to be understood.

But then the sound of my mother's voice—sharp, venomous—rises downstairs, and he vanishes like mist retreating into the trees.

I press my hand to the window, breath shallow.

He was real.

That night, I dream of the woods.

I dream of wandering between trees so ancient they breathe. Of cold hands brushing my fingertips. Of whispering winds that speak my name, but in a voice I've never heard before. A voice I think belongs to him.

When I wake, my room is flooded in moonlight.

And sitting on the floor by my bed is a small bundle of leaves, woven into the shape of a raven.

I stare at it, heartbeat thundering.

I didn't bring it here.

Neither did Sam.

And I locked the door.

-

-

The next morning arrives swaddled in fog. The mist clings to the mansion's windows, curling around the glass like pale fingers trying to get in. But inside, the warmth of the kitchen distracts me from the chill beyond.

Sam sits at the old oak table, legs bouncing, hands cupped around a chipped mug of cocoa. His hoodie is too big—one of Dad's old ones—and it swallows him in comforting fabric. The smell of toasted bread and melting butter fills the air, and for a moment, I almost forget where we are.

Almost.

"I found this little trail yesterday," Sam says between gulps. "It runs behind the shed and into the woods. We should go check it out later. Maybe it leads to a stream or something."

I raise an eyebrow, pretending to chew on the idea. "A haunted forest trail behind an abandoned shed? Sounds super safe."

He smirks. "You're just scared."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Bite me."

"You'd like that."

I burst out laughing, and the tension in my shoulders finally eases. It feels good—normal. We haven't had a morning like this in a long time. Not since the divorce. Not since we were yanked away from everything we knew and dropped into this weird, creaking house with its long halls and whispering windows.

Mom enters the kitchen then, dressed like she's heading to brunch in the city, not living in a crumbling estate hours from anywhere. Her heels clack too loud against the floor, like she's trying to drown out the silence. She eyes the cocoa, the toast, the half-unpacked boxes, and then us.

Her mouth thins. "What, no one thought to make me breakfast?"

Sam stiffens, but I shoot him a quick look, silently begging him not to react. "We didn't know you were up," I say, forcing a polite tone.

Mom sighs like the weight of the world has been shoved on her back. "Whatever. I'm going into town later. I need real coffee and maybe a massage. This house is already giving me migraines."

She disappears into the hallway, her perfume lingering behind like smoke. I hear her muttering about phone service, antique plumbing, and how "this dump better be worth it."

Sam finishes his cocoa and nudges my arm. "I'm gonna finish organizing my room."

"Need help?"

"Nah. But... you could come hang out after."

I smile. "Yeah. I'd like that."

He nods and trots upstairs, leaving me alone with the crumbs and quiet.

I gather our dishes and begin rinsing them in the deep farmhouse sink. The water is colder than it should be. It runs clear for a moment, then tinges faintly brown, like something rusted deep in the pipes. I wrinkle my nose, scrub the mug faster, and tell myself it's nothing.

Just old plumbing.

Just settling dust.

Just an overactive imagination.

And the leaf-raven on my nightstand? Probably Sam messing around. Maybe he found it in the woods and thought it was cool. Maybe it just looks like a raven.

I dry my hands and turn toward the hallway.

A shadow flits past the corner of my vision, just beyond the cracked cellar door.

I freeze. My skin prickles.

But I force myself to laugh softly under my breath.

Get a grip, Kat. It's just a house. Just wind. Just shadows.

I walk away, determined to leave the strange things in the dark corners where they belong—for now.

Sam's laughter echoes faintly from upstairs, and I let it pull me back into the warmth of the moment. For him, I'll pretend things are fine.

Even if they aren't.

-

After lunch, the air turns crisp, the fog thinning but never quite disappearing. The woods surrounding the mansion are silent — not lifeless, just... waiting.

I tug on an oversized hoodie and lace up my boots while Sam stuffs snacks into his backpack. His excitement is contagious, even if part of me wants to stay inside where things are familiar — or at least less unpredictable.

"Ready?" he says, eyes shining.

"As I'll ever be."

We slip through the back door and make our way around the old shed. The structure leans slightly, like it's tired of standing, and the wood is weathered to a ghostly gray. Behind it, just like Sam said, is a barely-there path — overgrown, trampled only by deer hooves and maybe one too-curious child.

The trees rise above us like cathedral spires, their bare branches tangled and black against the sky. Everything smells of damp earth and moss, like the forest has been steeping in its own memory.

"It's not as creepy as I thought it'd be," Sam says, leading the way. "I mean, it's kind of awesome. Peaceful."

I nod, glancing sideways at the deeper shadows between the trees. "Peaceful" isn't the word I'd use. There's something old about these woods, something too still, like the forest is holding its breath.

Still, I follow him.

We talk about nothing for a while — old video games, stupid jokes, memories of Dad taking us camping near Lake Geneva. The nostalgia hits like a wave, bittersweet and sharp.

As we round a bend, Sam gasps. "Look!"

He points to a small clearing, where a fallen log lies draped in moss and mushrooms. At the base of the log is a ring of pale white stones — almost perfect in shape and placement.

"A fairy circle," he whispers, dropping his bag and approaching it.

"Or a snake pit," I say, though my voice comes out quieter than I meant. I don't like the way the circle is so... clean. So untouched.

Sam kneels beside it, his breath fogging in the air. "It's weird, right? Like someone made it."

"Animals don't arrange rocks in perfect circles."

"Exactly. Do you think someone lives out here?"

I don't answer. I don't want to encourage that thought. But the idea needles its way into my brain anyway.

There's a sudden rustling behind us — not wind, not squirrels. Something bigger.

We both whip around.

Nothing.

Just the trees. Still. Watching.

Sam clutches his backpack straps. "Maybe we should go."

"Yeah," I say, and try to keep the edge out of my voice. "Race you back?"

His eyes light up. "You're on!"

He bolts ahead, laughing, and I chase after him. The trees blur past, and for a few moments, we're just two kids in the woods again, not refugees from a broken home, not survivors of secrets. Just siblings, running wild beneath an ancient sky.

By the time we reach the edge of the woods, we're out of breath and giggling. The mansion looms behind us, its shadow stretching long across the lawn.

I glance back once, just before stepping inside.

A figure — faint, motionless — stands where the trail vanishes into the trees. Not tall. Lean. Watching.

My heart skips.

I blink, and it's gone.

"Everything okay?" Sam asks.

"Yeah," I lie, pushing the door closed behind us. "Just thought I saw a deer."

Inside, the house is warm again, dimming gold with the evening sun. I help Sam put together dinner — nothing fancy, just grilled cheese and soup — and we curl up on the dusty couch with a movie playing quietly.

Mom's holed up in her room, still sulking or sleeping off whatever pills she didn't think I'd notice her taking earlier. I tuck a blanket around Sam's shoulders as he dozes off against my side.

My gaze drifts to the window.

Out past the trees.

To where something, or someone, is waiting.

Still watching.

Still silent.

And for the first time, I wonder not just who it is... but why they haven't come closer.

Yet.