The biting November wind cuts across his face. Greg Miller, once an engineer and now a forgotten shadow in the city, sits on the cold steps of a closed-down movie theater.

In his hands — a torn piece of newspaper and a chunk of stale bread.

Suddenly, on the sidewalk — a dark shape.

A luxury wallet, packed with large bills.

Inside, a business card: David Harmon — the same man who had taken everything from him two years ago.

Greg’s hands tremble.

That amount of money could pull him out of the gutter forever.

But Greg gets up, heads straight to the glass high-rise Harmon Tower, rides to the forty-second floor, and walks directly into the office of the man who betrayed him.

David takes the wallet, gives a cold smile, and tosses a set of rusted keys onto the desk.

“My family’s old place. A forgotten town called Ridge Hollow, out in rural Montana. The house is ancient. My mother lived there… until she died.

Live there, if you can.”

He laughs — the kind of laugh meant to kick a man who’s already down.

After nearly two hundred miles of muddy roads, cheap buses, and long walks, Greg finally reaches the dying town.

The last house on Riverbend Road.

The key grinds as it enters the old padlock.

The door opens with a groan.

He steps into the dark entryway — and freezes on the threshold a fire is still burning in the hearth.

The scent of burning pine drifts through the dusty air. Faint embers crackle in the stone fireplace, casting flickering shadows across the floor. The house—weather-beaten and forgotten—should be cold, lifeless. But someone’s been here recently.

Greg steps cautiously inside, every creak of the warped floorboards beneath his boots echoing through the empty house. The living room is cloaked in a thick layer of dust, yet the fire tells a different story. There’s an old armchair near the hearth, a blanket draped across the back, and a chipped mug on a side table, half-filled with something that smells like tea.

“Hello?” he calls out, his voice rasping from days without speaking to another soul.

Silence answers. He checks the kitchen. Empty. Cabinets stand open, as if someone left in a hurry. In the hallway, picture frames hang crooked on cracked walls. One shows a woman in a rocking chair, smiling tightly, her eyes sharp. Another photo — the same woman, much younger, holding a boy who looks eerily like David Harmon.

Greg’s gut tightens.

He moves through the house, tension creeping up his spine. Upstairs, the bedroom doors are ajar. One room is bare except for a collapsed mattress and broken dresser. The other—likely hers—remains untouched. The bed is made. Lace curtains flutter as wind sneaks through a cracked window. On the nightstand sits a journal, its leather cover warped with age.

He flips it open. The handwriting is elegant, neat.

March 14, 2003 — He’s back again. David. Always rushing. Never listening. He won’t believe me. The house knows things. It remembers.

Greg blinks. Keeps reading.

April 2 — I saw her again in the mirror. Her face. My face. I don’t know anymore. She whispers things at night.

Suddenly, a soft creak echoes downstairs.

Greg snaps the journal shut.

He descends the stairs slowly, heart thumping like a drum. The living room is exactly as he left it — except the fire is out. Nothing but ash now. That shouldn’t be possible. It was burning minutes ago.

He rushes to the front door. Locked.

He didn’t lock it.

Panic rises, but he forces it down. Think. Stay calm. This is probably a trick. Some sick joke by David to break him further. Greg’s fingers dig into the keys in his coat pocket. One is longer than the others, oddly shaped. A basement key?

He finds the locked door beneath the staircase. The key fits.

The basement is pitch black. Smells like damp earth and rust. He finds a flashlight on a wall hook, miraculously working, and descends slowly.

The beam cuts through the dark.

Chains dangle from the ceiling.

Old paintings lean against the walls — smeared portraits of the woman from the photos. One of them is slashed through the eyes.

Then—scratching. Behind the far wall.

Greg presses his ear to the stone. Scratching continues. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Like someone wants out.

He stumbles back, breathing hard.

This isn’t just a house. It’s a cage. Or maybe a tomb.

Suddenly, the lights flicker. But there are no lights down here. Just his flashlight.

Something clatters behind him.

He spins — and finds a mirror propped against the wall. Not a reflection.

A window.

Inside the glass: the woman from the photo. She stands behind him, unmoving, though no one is there when he turns.

He stares into the glass again. Her mouth moves.

She says his name.

“Greg.”

He bolts upstairs, heart racing, not caring if the door is locked anymore — he just wants out. But when he reaches for the handle, it’s burning hot. He pulls back with a cry. Smoke curls from the gaps in the doorframe.

Outside, it’s dark. Too dark. It was still afternoon just minutes ago.

The house groans.

The floorboards shift beneath his feet, like the house is breathing.

Greg backs into the hallway and hears a voice — faint, echoing, whispery.

“…not yet…”

He stumbles into the kitchen. The mug on the table is gone.

But a new one sits beside the sink.

Steam rises from it.

His hands tremble as he reaches for it, knocking it over by accident. The tea spills across the counter — and forms words.

“She’s still here.”

Greg shudders. “Who?” he demands aloud.

The air seems to vibrate with laughter. Not a joyful sound — a cold, sharp giggle, like broken glass.

The walls whisper. “Evelyn.”

He remembers now. Evelyn Harmon. David’s mother. A reclusive widow with a reputation for the occult. People used to whisper that she talked to ghosts, performed séances. David used to mock her.

Greg never believed it — until now.

He heads back upstairs, drawn by something he doesn’t understand. The journal. Maybe it holds more.

In the bedroom, the air feels different — heavy, charged.

He opens the journal again. The next entry chills his blood.

May 9 — He buried her in the basement. Not me. The other one. She made him. I tried to stop it. But I’m still here. Watching.

Greg closes the book, heart pounding.

Then he sees it — a trapdoor under the bed.

Not the basement. Somewhere deeper.

He drags the bed aside. The trapdoor groans as it opens, releasing a foul, musty odor. He shines the flashlight down. A ladder descends into darkness.

He hesitates — then climbs down.

The space below is narrow, walls of dirt and stone. He inches forward until the beam of light catches something on the floor.

A body.

Wrapped in a decaying quilt. Skeletal fingers reach out, frozen in a final grasp. Around the bones — chains.

The journal entries echo in his head.

“He buried her in the basement. Not me.”

This… this is the other one. The one Evelyn tried to warn about.

Suddenly the air turns icy. The flashlight dies.

Complete blackness.

Whispers surround him.

“Help me…”

“Don’t leave…”

“You have to finish it…”

Greg’s breath catches. “How?”

The wall in front of him cracks open — revealing another mirror.

His reflection blinks — and then smiles.

It’s not his smile.

“Live here, if you can,” the reflection mocks.

It’s David.

Not just a trick. A curse. A trap.

Greg reaches into his coat and pulls out the rusted keys — one key missing. The long one. He dropped it somewhere.

No.

No, it’s still in his pocket — but twisted now. Sharper. He holds it like a knife.

The whispers grow louder. Begging. Accusing. Pleading.

Greg slashes the key across the mirror. The glass shatters, exploding outward. The darkness screams.

Light floods the chamber.

He wakes up on the floor of the living room, the fire crackling again.

Morning sunlight pours through the windows. The air is still. Calm.

He blinks, sitting up slowly.

The door is open.

Outside, the town is no longer gray and dying — it’s quiet, yes, but not lifeless. He hears a dog barking somewhere, birds chirping.

On the table, a fresh mug of tea. Beside it — the journal. A new entry written in different handwriting.

Thank you.

She’s free now.

Greg steps outside. The wind is gentler. The air cleaner.

Across the road, a man waves. Not a ghost — a real man. Middle-aged, with a kind face.

“You the new guy at the Harmon place?” the man calls.

Greg nods slowly.

“Well,” the man says, walking over, “we’ve been waiting a long time for someone to come who could fix it.”

Greg furrows his brow. “Fix what?”

“The curse. That house kept pushing folks away for decades. Some went mad. Others never came back. You’re the first one to stay the night.”

Greg doesn’t know what to say.

The man claps him on the shoulder. “Name’s Tom. I run the diner down the road. Come by when you’re ready. House is yours now.”

Greg watches him leave, stunned.

He looks back at the old house. It seems… lighter.

Something inside him shifts.

Not just relief.

Purpose.

For the first time in years, Greg Miller doesn’t feel lost. He doesn’t feel broken. He feels… chosen.

As the sun rises higher over Ridge Hollow, he steps inside, ready to live — truly live — in the place that was meant to destroy him.

But didn’t.

He survived it.

And now, he owns it.