The house at the end of the dead-end road—the one the locals whisper about, the one the real estate websites list as "structurally condemned"—is silent. No lights in the windows. No movement in the yard.

But there is something in the woods.

A rustle of fabric. The creak of a branch. A low, staticky crackle from a voice that sounds like it's being broadcast through a busted radio.

They're watching.

The house Y/n has been living in for the past three months—cheap rent, no questions asked, landlord who doesn't exist in any database—has never felt like home. But tonight, as the wind picks up and the trees begin to groan, it feels even less like one.

Inside, the only light comes from a flickering laptop screen. The floorboards creak. The walls are thin.

Outside, something moves closer.