Have you ever lived somewhere your whole life? And I don’t just mean staying in the same town—I mean never moving, never leaving the four walls you were raised in since the day you were born.

A place so familiar that even if you were blind, you could find your way through it without stumbling. A place you know like the back of your hand—every creak in the floorboards, every chipped brick, every sound the wind makes at night. That’s what Sunnyview is to me.

If that’s you too, then we’re the same. I’ve lived here for as long as I can remember. The kids on the block were always outside laughing, riding the newest bikes, showing off their new kicks. We all had the same stuff, did the same things.

Sunnyview was my bubble—my safe place.

That was until the Andersons moved into the house at the end of the street. It had been boarded up for years and was probably one of the biggest houses on the street so it stood out compared to the rest of them. The one everyone said was haunted.

The Andersons had two sons the oldest was Carter and the youngest Jason. Jason was five years old at the time when they first moved into the neighborhood, so we didn’t hang out with him because what 10-year-old wants to hang out with a five-year-old. And two, I never saw him other than the day they moved in. Which now that I am thinking about it, it is weird. But our group didn’t want Carter to feel left out so we asked him to hang out. He was about our age—Skyler was 12, I was 10, Tom was 8, and Carter was 11. We were tight. A little crew.

But like I said, they had another son, but I won’t say his name anymore. That story is too dark—too real. The kind that makes your skin crawl just thinking about it.

Because what happened in that house… it wasn’t normal.

A year after the Andersons moved in Carter started showing up with bruises and scratches. Said it was from baseball or some family activity. But I was watching. Their car never left the driveway. No one came, no one went. That silence? It hit me deep. Something wasn’t right. It gave me chills—spine-tingling, gut-turning kind of chills. I couldn’t stop watching, hoping I wasn’t the one going crazy.

When the Andersons finally moved out, the block went still. Too still. Like their presence had kept something… contained. And now, with them gone, the silence was louder than ever. Why did the scariest house on the street feel even scarier empty?

Now, I’m not some little kid anymore. I’m sixteen. My voice dropped, I’ve got muscle, and yeah—ladies notice. So when Skyler asked me to go to the old Anderson place, of course I said yes. I’m no chicken.

And yeah, maybe I’ve had a crush on her forever. She’s older, sure, but she’s bold, gorgeous, and gets me in a way nobody else does. Even if she runs off and marries some rich Jersey guy, I know I’ll always have a place in her heart. And her in mine.

Skyler’s the kind of girl who’d make curiosity itself nervous. If the saying “curiosity killed the cat” were a person—it’d be her. And right now? I’m shaking on the inside. But on the outside? Chest out, confident, playing it cool.

Tom said he’d meet us there later, which—who shows up late to a haunted house hangout? That’s not a party you show up fashionably late to. But whatever. He swore he’d come after baseball practice. He and Carter were on the same team. Me? I’m more the artsy type—painting, sketching, you name it. Need a portrait? I’m your guy. Birthday gift for your mom? Say no more.

Tom, though? Even younger than us, that kid’s got abs. Built like your classic golden retriever—but upgraded. Like an 8 or 9 out of 10 golden retriever. Charming, loyal, loud. He lives for attention. But so down to earth at the same time.

As I walked up to the Anderson house, Skyler stood out front—phone in one hand, flashlight in the other. Her face was lit up by the screen’s glow, but something about her expression made me pause. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t hyped like she usually was before one of her spontaneous “adventures.”

She looked… tense.

“This place gives me the creeps,” she muttered, eyes still locked on the front door. “You sure you’re good?”

“Of course,” I said, straightening up. My voice cracked slightly, which didn’t help. “Just a house… plus Carter lived here so it can’t be that bad.”

“ I guess.”

But that wasn’t true—and we both knew it.

The Anderson house had always been wrong. Even when people lived there, it felt _off_. Like the walls were listening. Like the windows watched you. No one ever trick-or-treated there. No mail ever came. Lights would flicker on and off at random, long after the Andersons had supposedly gone to bed.

And then there was the smell. Not rot. Not mildew. Just… wrong. Like old pennies and burnt hair.

“Tom’s on his way,” Skyler said, turning on the flashlight and walking up the crumbling steps. The wood groaned under her weight. I followed, my legs moving like they were underwater.

The door was unlocked.

Of course it was.

Inside, the air was ice cold. The kind of cold that didn’t make sense for July. Especially when no one was paying the electricity bill. It was the kind of cold that wraps around your spine and squeezes. Dust hung thick in the air, catching the light in suspended motion like ash after a fire. The living room was still furnished, but wrong—like the furniture didn’t belong to this time or this place. Covered in sheets, sagging with age. The TV was old, static still humming softly from inside, even though it wasn’t…plugged in?

“I swear I heard something last night,” Skyler said, stepping further in. “Like... whispering. From this house. I thought maybe it was the wind. But it wasn’t windy.”

I wanted to laugh it off. Say something clever. But I couldn’t. My throat was dry. My body knew something I didn’t.

We stepped into the hallway, and that’s when I saw it.

A smear of something dark on the wall. Not quite red. Not quite brown. It looked… fresh.

“Is that—?” I started.

“Blood?” Skyler finished for me, staring at it. “I don’t know.”

But we did. We both did.

Suddenly, a door down the hall creaked open on its own. No breeze. No draft. Just movement.

We froze.

Then—footsteps.

Not ours. Not above us. Not below us.

Behind us.

We spun around, lights flicking back toward the living room.

Nothing.

“I thought Tom wasn’t here yet,” I whispered.

“He’s not.”

We turned back toward the hallway—and the door that had opened?

Was closed again.

Skyler grabbed my arm. Hard. “Let’s just peek inside and then go, okay?”

If it wasn’t for how low-key scared I was right now I would’ve tensed, by her touch, but it’s low-key what’s keeping me grounded.

I wanted to say no. I wanted to turn and bolt out the front door because what the fuck are we even doing here. What do we gain from figuring out what is inside this house? I know Skyler said she heard stuff but I don’t know call the cops? We don’t have to go looking for the source of the sound ourselves.

But I didn’t. Because something about that house… it doesn’t let you leave easy once you step inside.

We crept toward the door. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the air itself was thickening.

Skyler reached for the doorknob.

Suddenly, the walls groaned—not from settling. It sounded like breathing.

She turned the knob slowly.

The door creaked open.

Darkness.

We stepped in.

And then we saw it.

The floor was covered in scratch marks. Deep ones. Like someone—or something—had been dragged across the floor, clawing at the wood the whole time.

And in the corner of the room, barely visible in the flashlight’s beam, was a message scrawled on the wall in jagged, childlike handwriting.

**“HE NEVER LEFT.”**

Skyler dropped the flashlight.

It rolled.

And then it stopped.

Right at a pair of bare feet.