The Girl I Buried

Mara didn't sleep. She tried—curled up on the sagging couch in the living room, a quilt pulled tight around her shoulders—but every creak of the house jolted her awake.

The attic phone lingered in her mind, its ring replaying like a stuck record. She'd left it up there, untouched, the receiver dangling off the hook where she'd dropped it.

By midnight, she'd convinced herself it was nothing. A glitch in her head, stress from being back in this place. She'd check it in the morning, prove it was dead, and move on.

The clock on the mantle ticked past 2 a.m., its hands sluggish in the dim glow of a single lamp. Mara stared at the ceiling, tracing cracks that spiderwebbed through the plaster.

The house was too quiet now, the kind of silence that pressed against her eardrums.

She shifted, the couch springs groaning beneath her, and reached for her phone to check the time. No signal. Typical for this nowhere town, cut off from the world by hills and bad wiring.

Then it rang again.

The sound sliced through the stillness, sharp and unmistakable. Mara froze, her breath catching in her throat.

It was coming from the attic—the same shrill, insistent chime, echoing down the stairs like a summons. She sat up, the quilt sliding to the floor, her pulse hammering. Not again. Not now.

She grabbed her flashlight and crept to the base of the stairs, peering up into the black rectangle where the attic ladder hung.

The ringing stopped, then started again, louder, as if impatient. Her rational side screamed to ignore it—pack her bag, drive back to the city, leave this haunted heap behind.

But her feet moved anyway, drawn upward by something she couldn't name.

The attic was colder than before, the air biting at her bare arms. Her flashlight beam found the phone, still sitting where she'd left it, the receiver swaying slightly like it'd been nudged.

She swallowed, her mouth dry, and picked it up mid-ring. The silence on the other end lasted a heartbeat too long.

"Hello?" she said, voice trembling.

"Mara?" The reply was small, shaky, a girl's voice on the edge of tears. "Is that you?"

Mara's stomach dropped. "Who is this? How do you know my name?"

"It's Ellie. I—I don't have much time. He's outside, trying to get in." The girl's words tumbled out, fast and breathless. "I'm in the house. Your house. But it's… it's 1999."

"What?" Mara's grip tightened on the receiver. "That's not possible. What are you talking about?"

"Please, just listen!" Ellie's voice cracked. "He's got a mask, like burlap, with stitches. He's been watching me through the windows. I locked the doors, but he's breaking the glass—I can hear it downstairs. You have to help me!"

Mara's head spun. 1999. She'd been sixteen then, living here with her grandmother after her mom died. But she didn't remember any Ellie, no masked man, no break-ins.

"This doesn't make sense," she said, more to herself than the girl. "Are you in trouble now? Where are you really?"

"I'm here!" Ellie snapped, desperation cutting through. "In the attic, hiding behind the trunk. He's coming—I saw him in the yard, holding a knife. Please, Mara, do something!"

Mara's flashlight darted to the trunk, its lid still ajar from earlier. Empty. No one was there.

"Look, I don't know what's happening, but I'm standing in the attic right now, and it's 2025. There's no one else here."

A sob broke through the static. "2025? No, that's… that's not right. You have to believe me. He's—" A muffled crash interrupted her, loud enough that Mara flinched. Ellie whispered, "Oh God, he's inside. The kitchen window—I told you it was loose!"

Mara's breath hitched. She'd noticed a window latch in the kitchen earlier, rusted and unhooked, but she hadn't thought much of it. "Ellie, stay calm. Tell me what to do."

"Lock it!" Ellie hissed. "Go downstairs, lock the window, please! He'll get in if you don't!"

The line went dead, the dial tone buzzing in Mara's ear. She stood there, the attic pressing in around her, the flashlight trembling in her hand.

This was insane—a kid playing a prank, some sick joke. But that crash, the terror in Ellie's voice… it felt real. Too real.

She bolted down the ladder, nearly tripping on the last rung, and ran to the kitchen. The window above the sink hung open, its latch dangling uselessly.

Cold air poured in, carrying the scent of wet earth and pine. Mara slammed it shut, twisting the latch until it clicked, her hands shaking.

She stepped back, staring at the glass, half-expecting a face to appear on the other side.

Nothing. Just the dark yard beyond, fog curling through the trees. She let out a shaky laugh, nerves fraying. "Stupid," she muttered. "It's nothing."

But as she turned away, something caught her eye—a faint smear on the windowpane. Mud, streaked like fingers had brushed against it.

She leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass, and saw it: a single, deliberate mark, like a tally scratched into the dirt.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, startling her. She fumbled it out, but the screen was blank—no call, no signal.

Upstairs, the rotary phone stayed silent. Whatever Ellie was—or wasn't—Mara couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just changed something she didn't understand.

And outside, in the fog, the shadows seemed to shift just a little too slowly.