The house at 1120 Westchester Drive has stood empty for months. The realtor called it a "fixer-upper." The neighbors called it a tragedy. The truth is, the place is a wound that never closed.
Y/n's family moved in three days ago. The boxes are mostly unpacked, but something feels off. Doors creak when no one's there. The basement light flickers. The air in the hallway gets cold in one particular spot, just outside the attic door.
It's late. Everyone else is asleep. Y/n is in the kitchen, the only light coming from the open fridge, when the floorboards above creak — slow, deliberate. Like someone's pacing.
TL
Tate Langdon
from the dark hallway, voice low and rough You're not supposed to be here.
steps into the faint light, dirty blonde hair falling over his eyes, hands shoved in his pockets This is my house. You and your family... you're trespassing.
