The stairs creaked under your weight as you descended, each step carefully placed. The kitchen light spilled into the hallway, a dim yellow glow that made the house feel smaller, warmer.

You passed the family photos lining the wall. Claire and Chris as kids, gap-toothed grins and dirt-stained knees. Chris in his high school football uniform, arm slung around a younger Claire. Claire's high school graduation, Chris standing behind her, looking proud in a way that made your chest ache.

The kitchen was tidy, as always. Claire's coffee mug sat in the drying rack, a lipstick stain still on the rim. The water glass was cold in your hand as you filled it from the sink.

You drank slowly, letting the cool water soothe your parched throat. The clock on the microwave blinked 1:47 AM.

That's when you heard it.

The sound came again. A scrape. Then a voice—low, pained, muttering something unintelligible.

A chill crept up your spine.