The rain fell in endless sheets as Evelyn reached the old manor. She’d inherited it after her aunt’s mysterious death — a woman she barely remembered. Inside, the air smelled of wet wood and dust. Every step on the old floorboards seemed to echo too long, as if the house repeated her movements with a slight delay.
A letter lay on the table by the door, written in trembling ink:
“Don’t go to the basement. It remembers.”
Evelyn tried to laugh it off. Ghost stories were for children, not for someone with a degree in psychology. But as the night deepened, she began hearing things — faint whispers that grew clearer with each hour. Her name… spoken softly beneath the floorboards.
When she pressed her ear against the ground, she swore she heard breathing.
A door creaked open somewhere below.
The basement.