I never meant to come back here. The Silent House looms ahead, its windows dark eyes, its door slightly ajar—as if waiting. My sister died three years ago, but last night, I heard her on the voicemail: 'Come home. I’m waiting.' No signal, no source. Just her voice, clear as breath.

Now, standing at the threshold, wind howling through dead trees, I feel it—the pull. Not fear. Recognition.

The floorboards groan as I step inside. Dust swirls in moonlight, forming shapes. Letters. My name.

Then, from upstairs: soft footsteps. A giggle. Hers.

My chest tightens. Logically, this is impossible. But my heart? It believes.

A whisper brushes my ear: 'You came back.'

I freeze. 'Who’s there?'

Silence. Then, faintly: 'Don’t you know me?'

The staircase creaks. Something moves in the dark.

Do I run? Call out? Or climb the stairs and face whatever wears her voice?