Down goes the Hare
The next morning brings a change in the air.
Sunlight spills through the mansion's tall windows, warm and golden, casting long beams across the old wooden floors. For the first time since arriving, the house feels less like a haunted relic and more like a forgotten treasure — full of stories rather than secrets. The creaks of the floorboards feel charming now instead of ominous. Even the air smells sweeter, touched with the scent of wildflowers from the woods.
I'm in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up and flour dusted on my cheeks. The smell of fresh pancakes fills the air, sizzling in a pan far too fancy for a place like this — silver-edged, old but beautifully kept.
Sam shuffles in, yawning, his hair sticking up wildly. He stops at the doorway, blinking in surprise.
"You're cooking?" he asks, rubbing one eye.
"Surprise," I say with a grin. "A peace offering for dragging you into the forest yesterday."
He walks over, sniffing dramatically. "This smells like... love. And possibly cinnamon."
"It's both."
I hand him a plate, and we sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor because the dining room is still half-covered in sheets and dust. It doesn't matter. It's the most normal we've felt in days.
Between bites, we talk about stupid things: Which movie monster we'd rather be eaten by, whether raccoons could win in a fight against zombies, who would win in a battle between a velociraptor and a werewolf. (Sam says werewolf. I say raptor. We nearly declare war.)
"Okay, okay," Sam says with a mouthful of pancake, "but seriously—if we clean up the attic, can we make it like, our secret base?"
I laugh. "You think I'm letting you crawl through dusty spider-infested corners unsupervised?"
"You'd be there too!"
"Still a no."
He leans against me, sighing happily. "I dunno... this place isn't so bad. It's quiet. The woods are cool. And you're not yelling at me like Mom."
I ruffle his hair gently, my smile softening. "I'd never yell at you, dummy."
He smiles back, but I see the way his eyes flicker toward the hallway — the one that leads to her room. Neither of us says it out loud, but the silence feels like a choice. One we've made together.
After breakfast, we throw open the tall windows and let the breeze roll in. Dust dances in the air like golden motes of magic. We turn on some old record player we found in the parlor, and Sam insists on trying to teach me a dance he saw in a YouTube video once. It's awkward, messy, and completely ridiculous — but it has us both howling with laughter as we trip over the ornate rug.
At one point, I twirl too fast, lose my balance, and crash onto the couch. Sam flops beside me, panting, both of us breathless with joy.
The world feels lighter.
Like we carved out this tiny moment just for ourselves, untouched by whatever shadows still lurk at the edges of the property. Here, with sunlight warming our skin and music echoing through the walls, we're just siblings again. Survivors, yes — but whole.
Sam looks over at me, eyes twinkling.
"Thanks for being here," he says quietly.
I blink, taken aback. "Of course I'm here."
"No, I mean... here. Like, with me. You could've given up, y'know. Like Mom did."
I wrap an arm around him and pull him close. "I'll never give up on you, Sam. No matter what."
For a long moment, we just sit there, side by side, the wind carrying the scent of pine and blooming wildflowers into our strange new home.
I smile at Sam's enthusiasm, grateful for this rare lightness between us. We linger in the living room, the dust motes swirling lazily in the shafts of afternoon sun that sneak past the boarded-up windows. Outside, the woods whisper quietly, leaves rustling like faint secrets, but in here, the silence feels less oppressive.
Sam pulls out a battered deck of cards from his backpack. "Wanna play?" he asks, already shuffling with practiced ease.
I nod, sliding onto the threadbare rug beside him. The cards are worn, corners curled and colors faded, but they make the room feel a little less empty. We play Go Fish, my competitive streak rising despite the simplicity of the game.
"Gotcha!" I tease, grinning when I collect another pair. Sam groans dramatically but laughs, and for a moment the dark weight of the house slips away.
"You know," he says, "this place kinda freaks me out, but not when you're around."
I pause, watching the light catch on his messy black hair, the bright glint in his blue eyes. "Yeah? Same here." I reach out and bump his shoulder gently.
We fall into an easy rhythm — playing cards, making ridiculous bets like who has the best monster scream, and sharing quiet stories about school and friends we barely talk about anymore.
Occasionally, the old house creaks and settles around us, groaning like a tired beast waking from a long sleep. But the sound doesn't scare me as much anymore. It feels more like a reminder — a memory of the life this place once held.
At one point, Sam leans back on his elbows and looks up at the high ceiling. "You think the woods are hiding stuff? Like monsters or ghosts?"
I laugh softly. "Maybe. But I'm pretty sure they'd be too scared of us to come out."
He snorts, then looks at me with that spark of mischief I love. "Promise me something?"
"Anything."
"That we stick together. No matter what creepy things happen."
I nod, squeezing his hand. "I promise."
For the first time in weeks, the house feels less like a prison and more like a fortress — a place where we can protect each other from whatever darkness tries to crawl in.
And as we sit there, laughing and talking, I realize maybe this strange, broken home can become something else. A new beginning. Together.
-
-
-
The next morning, I am Carrying a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a plate of eggs, perfectly soft and slightly runny, in the other, I made my way to the back porch. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath my steps, worn thin by time and neglect. Settling gingerly onto the porch swing, I was careful not to disturb the fragile chains that held it, their rust like brittle veins threading through the metal. The wooden canopy above sagged and peeled with rot, leaves and dust collecting in the corners like forgotten memories.
Despite its dilapidation, this was my sanctuary—the place where I could watch the birds flit through the overgrown garden and steal moments of peace away from the oppressive atmosphere inside the house. The tension had thickened since last night—the delayed U-Haul, the leaky pipes dripping a mournful rhythm—and my mother's mood had soured into a brooding silence. It was the new normal now. Rarely did she smile anymore.
Resting the plate on my lap, I took a tentative bite, savoring the warmth. But then a sudden thought jolted me—the missed messages blinking on my phone, buried in my back pocket. My fingers fumbled for the screen, and there it was: Dad has left 6 messages. A sinking weight settled in my stomach.
I opened them, eyes scanning quickly:
Dad:
May 30, 5:30 PM — Sweetheart, have you guys arrived?
May 30, 5:41 PM — Are you guys alright?
May 30,6:00 PM — Kat, answer your poor dad.
May 30,6:05 PM — Did she take away your phone?
May 30, 7:00 PM — I'm worried sick, Kat.
June 1, 12:00 AM — Goodnight, princess. I hope you're able to sleep alright.
Tears pricked my eyes. Dad had always been my rock—the one who never missed a single moment, who put everything else aside just to be there for me. Award ceremonies, theater performances, even the smallest victories—he showed up. We were inseparable. And Mom... well, Mom always felt like an intruder in that bond. Whenever I got hurt, Dad was the one rushing to my side. Mom? She strolled over, cold and dismissive, telling me to stop overreacting, then whispered into Dad's ear that everything was fine. To her, I wasn't a daughter—just a burden.
I remembered her words like daggers: "I wanted a girly daughter, a mini-me, but instead, I'm stuck with a girl who wants to be just like her fucking father." She spat them out every time we went shopping, trying to make me feel guilty for not fitting her mold.
She never understood me. Never saw me. And now, here I was—living with someone who felt like a stranger.
I set my empty plate down quietly and stared at the screen, fingers trembling as I typed:
Kat:
Good morning, Dad. I'm sorry I made you worry. I didn't have any reception until now. Please don't be too mad. I love you. — June 3, 10:00 AM
As soon as I pressed 'send', a sudden chill crawled up my spine, prickling the hairs on my arms. The air around me thickened, as if the shadows themselves had grown eyes. I scanned the yard, heart pounding, until the silence shattered—a bloodcurdling scream ripped through the woods behind the house.
My breath caught. "What the fuck..." I whispered.
Then it hit me—Sam.
Without thinking, I launched myself forward, plunging into the dark forest.
-
Thorns clawed at my skin as I pushed deeper, feet numbing with cold and pain. My heart thundered so loud it drowned out everything but the crunch of dead leaves and the ragged gasp of my own breath. The sharp sting in my chest blurred my vision, but I couldn't stop. Not until the dense trees gave way to a small clearing, the ground disturbed and bare beneath the gray sky.
I stopped, trembling, senses straining to catch the slightest sound. Silence pressed down, suffocating. Swallowing a shaky breath, I shouted, "SAM! SAM!" My voice echoed, startling a flock of birds into flight.
Tears pricked but before they fell, a faint reply cut through the quiet: "Kat!"
I bolted toward the voice, branches whipping at my face. The sharp ache in my chest dulled, replaced by numbness. I spotted him then—Sam, wide-eyed and trembling.
I caught him in my arms, relief flooding me even as panic clawed at my insides. "Are you okay? Why did you scream? Did someone hurt you?" I pressed, scanning his face.
"No," he whispered, confused.
I smacked the back of his head lightly. "Then why the hell were you screaming?"
He rubbed the sore spot and pointed to a patch of trampled grass. "Because of that."
I moved closer and recoiled as a sour stench hit me. On the ground lay a fresh kill—a hare, gutted and bloodied, crimson seeping into the earth. The intestines spilled in grotesque swirls, the stark brutality of death raw and immediate.
My stomach turned. "What the fuck happened here?"
Sam shrugged, unsettled. "I followed it... then lost sight, and when I got here... well..." He looked away, uneasy.
I swallowed hard, turning away and trying not to retch. Sam's worried eyes met mine. "Could an animal have done this?"
I shook my head. "I don't know."
We stood in silence, the forest closing in around us. After a moment, Sam brightened, "Maybe we could come back later, give it a proper burial. Investigate."
I squeezed his hand. "Yeah. Let's."
We turned back toward the house, more cautious than before.
-
The digging was slow and methodical beneath the skeletal branches. The soft scrape of metal against soil was the only sound besides the distant hoot of an owl slipping through the night.
"Okay, the hole's ready," I said, wiping sweat from my brow.
Sam stared blankly at the hare lying beside us.
"The intestines are gone..." he breathed, voice dropping.
A shiver raced up my spine. I looked again. The hollowed-out body was a red pit—nothing inside but emptiness.
Did someone... harvest them? The thought made my head spin. Sam and I exchanged a horrified glance.
The wind suddenly rose, whipping through the branches with angry groans. Shadows stretched longer, and the air turned colder, sharper. Our hearts pounded in unison as the trees creaked and moaned.
Our backs touched, grounding each other against the creeping dread.
Then—a snap. A twig breaking under unseen weight.
My head snapped toward the sound—a shadow flickered between the trees.
I blinked. It was gone.
I was starting to question my sanity.
Then came the scream again, piercing and raw.
Instinct took over. I hoisted Sam onto my shoulder and tore through the woods, the same terror flooding me as when I fled years ago—the night when a stranger had threatened my life with a knife, the cold metal grazing my throat, adrenaline fueling my desperate escape.
Now, I ran for Sam's life.
After what felt like an eternity, we burst through the trees and into the clearing by the house.
I fumbled with the keys, locked the door behind us, and leaned heavily against it, chest heaving.
My head pounded fiercely, pain in my ribs sharp and unforgiving.
I glanced at Sam—his wide eyes mirrored my own fear.
The house loomed silent around us, but I knew better.
Something was out there.
Watching.
-
The house felt impossibly still, as if it were holding its breath with us. The faint tick of an old clock somewhere down the hall was the only sound breaking the heavy silence. I glanced around, half-expecting shadows to peel off the walls and close in.
Sam clung to my side, his small hand gripping mine tightly. His eyes darted nervously toward the windows, as if expecting something to be lurking just beyond the glass.
I tried to steady my shaking hands as I moved toward the living room, pulling a faded throw blanket from the couch and wrapping it loosely around both of us. The warmth was thin comfort against the chill that lingered in my bones.
"Did you see what it was?" I finally asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Sam shook his head. "No. Just... a shadow. But it didn't look human."
I swallowed hard. "Neither did the way that rabbit died."
He nodded solemnly, eyes wide. "It's like something... from a nightmare."
I forced a laugh that came out hollow. "Yeah, great. Just what we need around here."
For a moment, we sat in silence, the quiet between us almost peaceful, like a fragile island in a storm.
Then Sam tugged my sleeve. "Kat... do you think it's one of those things? The ones from the stories Grandpa used to tell us?"
I felt a shiver run down my spine, though I told myself it was just the cold. Grandpa's stories had always been folklore—ghosts, spirits, forest creatures with eyes that glowed in the dark. But now, with the oppressive woods pressing close, those tales felt like warnings.
"Maybe," I said carefully. "But whether it's real or not, we have to be careful."
He nodded, burying his face in my jacket.
I wrapped my arm around him, feeling his trembling body against mine. "We'll get through this. Together."
The clock chimed midnight, its melancholy echo drifting through the old house like a lament. Outside, the wind howled, carrying with it whispers that seemed almost like voices.
I stood abruptly. "I'm going to check the doors and windows. Lock everything up tight."
Sam nodded but didn't move.
"Come with me," I said softly.
We moved through the dark halls, the floorboards groaning under our weight. I flicked on the hallway light, the harsh glow cutting through the shadows but doing little to ease my growing dread.
One by one, I checked every lock, every latch, securing them with trembling hands. The house creaked and sighed around us, as if resenting the intrusion.
When I finished, I turned to Sam, who was watching me with wide, fearful eyes.
"We're safe in here," I promised, though the words felt fragile.
He nodded, but the tension hadn't left his face.
I sat down next to him on the threadbare sofa, pulling him close. "We're going to figure this out. I promise."
Outside, the trees swayed violently, and a distant howl ripped through the night—a sound neither of us wanted to hear again.
But we held on to each other, the only light against the encroaching darkness.
-
The old house creaked again, but this time, it wasn't the wind or the settling timbers. The front door swung open with a hesitant groan, and the familiar sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway—uneven, heavy, uncertain.
I looked toward the entrance, heart thudding painfully in my chest. "That must be Mom."
Sam stayed close to me, his small frame pressed against mine as we both watched the hallway dimly lit by the fading porch light.
She appeared in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the cold night outside. Her hair was a tangled mess, damp and wild from the rain, strands plastered against her pale face. Her eyes, glassy and unfocused, darted around the room like she was seeing ghosts.
"Mom?" My voice cracked, barely more than a whisper.
She took a step inside, and the smell hit us—a sharp mixture of cheap alcohol, cigarette smoke, and something sour, like old regret.
Her lips trembled as she tried to smile, but it twisted into something strained, almost painful.
"I'm home," she said softly, the words barely reaching us.
Sam shifted uneasily. "Mom... where were you?"
Her eyes flickered with a flash of something—guilt? Fear?—before she turned away, heading toward the kitchen without another word.
I exchanged a worried glance with Sam, my chest tightening with an ache I couldn't shake. This wasn't just exhaustion; something darker was lurking beneath her surface.
I followed her cautiously, stopping just inside the kitchen doorway. She was rummaging through the cabinets, hands shaking as she pulled out a bottle of cheap whiskey.
"Mom," I said gently, "we were worried. We had a really scary night."
She didn't respond. Instead, she uncapped the bottle and took a long, shaky swig. The room seemed to tilt.
"Mom, please," I urged. "We need you."
Her shoulders sagged, and she finally looked at me, tears shimmering in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered, voice cracking. "I'm trying. I really am."
For a moment, I saw the woman I used to know—the one who used to hold me close and make the darkness seem less scary. But the shadows clung to her like a second skin, and I wasn't sure if she was slipping away or just hiding.
Sam came to stand beside me, his small hand slipping into mine.
"We'll get through this," I promised quietly, more to myself than to her.
Outside, the wind howled again, as if mourning the fragile peace inside.
She sank down onto the worn kitchen chair, the wood groaning beneath her weight. Her fingers trembled as she gripped the bottle, eyes fixed on the dark liquid inside like it held the answers—or maybe just a way to forget.
"Mom..." I knelt beside her, swallowing the lump in my throat. "We're scared. We need you to be here with us."
Her gaze flicked up, haunted and hollow. "I know," she whispered, voice barely steady. "But some nights... it's like the walls close in, and I can't breathe. The past keeps clawing its way back."
Sam sat quietly on the floor, his small frame tense but silent, watching her with wide, wary eyes.
"I'm so tired," she said, voice breaking. "Tired of fighting, tired of pretending."
A tear slipped down her cheek, and for a moment, the weight in the room felt almost unbearable.
"I don't want to lose you both," she admitted, voice cracking with raw honesty.
I reached out, brushing a stray hair from her face. "You're not alone. We're here. We'll face it together."
She nodded slowly, as if the words were a lifeline thrown into a stormy sea.
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the echo of something unseen, watching just beyond the shadows.
But inside the kitchen, in that fragile, quiet moment, we found a flicker of something more—hope.