The Girl I Buried

Mara didn't touch the photo album again. She left it on the floor, pages open, her younger self staring into nothing.

The thudding from the attic had stopped, but its echo lingered in her bones, a rhythm she couldn't shake.

She paced the dining room, the flashlight beam jittering across the walls, her mind circling Ellie's words. A masked man. 1999. The house.

It didn't add up—none of it did—but the mud on the window, the shape in the photo, the voice that sounded too much like her own… they clawed at her doubt, tearing holes she couldn't patch.

Dawn was still hours away, the windows black with night. She needed answers, something solid to hold onto, but the house offered nothing—just dust and shadows.

She grabbed her jacket and headed to the kitchen, figuring coffee might steady her nerves.

The pot hissed as it brewed, filling the air with a bitter scent that cut through the mildew.

She leaned against the counter, staring at the window she'd locked earlier.

The glass was clean now, no trace of the muddy smear, but her reflection looked wrong—pale, hollow-eyed, like the girl in the photos.

The phone rang upstairs.

Mara's shoulders tensed, the sound piercing the quiet like a needle. She set her mug down, untouched, and climbed the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

The attic hatch was still bolted, but the ringing seeped through, insistent, pulling her back.

She slid the bolt free and ascended, the cold biting deeper this time. The phone sat in its spot, receiver on the hook, trembling with each ring.

She answered before she could talk herself out of it. "Mara?" Ellie's voice was steadier now, but tight, like she was holding herself together by threads. "You're there. Good."

"Yeah, I'm here," Mara said, her tone clipped. "What's happening? Are you okay?"

"He's gone," Ellie said. "I think. I haven't heard him in a while—just the wind now. But I can't stay up here forever. He'll come back."

Mara glanced at the trunk, still unmoved. "Ellie, I need you to tell me more. Who is he? Why's he after you?"

"I don't know his name," Ellie said, frustration leaking through. "He's just… there. Outside, always watching. Tonight was the first time he tried to get in. I saw his knife—old, rusty, like something from the shed. Mara, he's not normal. The way he moves, it's wrong."

"Wrong how?" Mara pressed, though part of her didn't want the answer.

"Too quiet," Ellie whispered. "Like he's not all there. But he's real—I felt the glass break under his hand." A pause, then, "Mara, I need you to do something for me."

Mara's stomach twisted. "What?"

"Hide a knife," Ellie said, her voice dropping low. "Under the kitchen sink, behind the pipes. I might need it later. Please, just do it."

"Ellie, I—" Mara started, but the girl cut her off.

"Please. I don't know how much time I have."

The line went silent, the dial tone humming softly. Mara lowered the receiver, her breath fogging in the dim light.

This was crazy. She wasn't some errand runner for a voice on a ghost phone.

But Ellie's fear—it was raw, infectious, sinking into her like damp rot. She sighed, rubbing her face, and headed downstairs.

The kitchen felt smaller now, the shadows sharper. She knelt by the sink, opening the cabinet with a creak.

The space behind the pipes was cramped, littered with old sponges and a rusted can of cleaner.

She didn't have a knife handy—not one she'd trust to hide—but she'd humor this, prove it was nothing.

She grabbed a butter knife from the drawer, its edge dull and harmless, and wedged it into the gap.

"There," she muttered, standing. "Happy now?"

She turned away, reaching for her coffee, when a chill crawled up her spine.

Something felt off—too still, too heavy. She glanced back at the cabinet, her pulse quickening.

She hadn't heard anything, hadn't seen anything, but the air had shifted, like the house was holding its breath.

Mara knelt again, shining her flashlight into the cabinet. The butter knife was gone.

In its place was something else—a long, rusty blade, its handle wrapped in fraying cloth.

It wasn't hers. She hadn't put it there. Her hand hovered over it, trembling, before she pulled it free.

The metal was cold, pitted with age, and the edge gleamed faintly, sharp enough to cut through bone.

She dropped it, the clatter loud against the tiles. Her chest heaved as she stared, the flashlight beam catching the blade's curve.

Ellie's words echoed: old, rusty, like something from the shed. Mara scrambled to her feet, backing toward the wall.

This wasn't possible. She'd hidden a useless kitchen tool, not this—this thing.

Her reflection flickered in the window, and for a split second, it wasn't her face. Younger, wider-eyed, lips parted in a silent scream.

She blinked, and it was gone, just her own pale features staring back.

The knife lay on the floor, unmoving, but she swore she heard a faint scrape—like it had shifted when she wasn't looking.

Upstairs, the phone stayed silent. But the house didn't. A low creak sounded from the hall, slow and deliberate, like a foot testing the boards.

Mara grabbed the flashlight, her knuckles white, and told herself it was nothing. She almost believed it.