Lost in the Echo

II

Following a few hours, my hands are aching from hours of clearing debris, and the hot air slipping through the broken windows does not help much. Although, I can feel the temperature starting to cool some as night approaches, the shadows lengthening in the dim light.

My gaze wanders across the room, pausing on the bookshelves lining the far wall. Most of the books have been damaged by time, their spines warped, pages browned and curling. But one book, or rather a folder, sits crooked on the shelf, distinct from the others. It looks out of place—too new to belong here, yet old enough to blend into the decay surrounding it. Something about it calls to her.

I cross the room and pull the folder free. Dust floats into the air as I open it, revealing a single letter tucked between the brittle pages.

I recognize the handwriting now, having read my father's earlier.

The letter us short, but each word feels heavier than the last:

Makenna

If you are reading this, then the house is yours now. I wish I could say that I am sorry, but there are some things I cannot explain. You must understand—there are shadows here. They have always been here. They cling to the walls, the floors, the very air you breathe. They watch, and they wait.

Keep the shadows at bay, Makenna. You must, or they will take everything. I tried, but they are relentless. They know I am weak now. But you... you still have time.

The house holds secrets. Some that even I could not uncover. But you will. You must.

The Kannehill bloodline carries a responsibility, a burden. I know I was never a good father to you, but I hope you can forgive me for the weight I have left you. But please, don't let it consume you like it did me.

—Your father

I stare at the paper, my throat tight, the words spinning in my head. "Keep the shadows at bay? What the hell does that even mean?" I mutter, wanting to crumple the letter, throw it into the empty fireplace, and pretend I didn't find it, but something about it gnaws at me.

I vividly remember what others thought of him before I left.  Locals said he'd become a recluse, obsessed with this house, with the land. People spoke about him in the past tense long before he died. And now, reading his words, it feels like they were right. This letter—these paranoid ramblings—they can't be anything but the delusions of a man who had lost his grip on reality.

Right?

I fold the letter back into the folder and set it on the table. I exhale slowly, trying to shake off the lingering unease. It is just a letter. Nothing more. But still, the words echo in my mind: keep the shadows at bay and to not let it consume me.

Suddenly, the room feels colder, darker. I glance out the window and see the sun has dipped below the horizon, leaving the house in near-total darkness save for the few lights I have on. A gust of wind rattles the window panes, and a deep groan reverberates through the old wooden frame.

The house groans again, louder this time, as if the very walls are straining under some unseen weight. I shake my head, irritated at myself for letting my nerves get the better of me. This place is old, falling apart—of course it is going to make noise.

But then, there it is. A soft whispering. It isn't the wind, isn't the house settling—it is something else. It is faint, just on the edge of hearing, but unmistakable. Voices.

My heart stutters in my chest as I freeze, straining to listen. The whispering seems to come from all around me, from the walls, the floorboards, even the ceiling. I cannot make out the words, but the tone is clear: urgent, demanding.