Chapter 3 The Storage Room

For a moment, I couldn’t move.

The storage room door stood halfway open at the end of the hall, a thin sliver of darkness spilling out like ink. I hadn’t opened that door in months—not since we moved in. It was the one room we never used, filled with old paint cans, boxes of Mark’s college books, and things we hadn’t bothered to unpack.

And there was no reason for it to open on its own.

“Elena…”

The voice drifted out again, soft and low, like someone whispering through cupped hands.

Like someone standing just behind the door.

My legs locked in place.

It sounded young.

It sounded familiar.

It sounded impossible.

I swallowed hard. “Sophie?” My voice cracked. “Sweetheart, is that you?”

No answer.

Just silence. Heavy. Waiting.

A cold draft slid down the stairs and brushed the back of my neck. I shivered and forced myself to take another step, then another, my fingers gripping the banister so tightly they ached.

When I reached the top of the stairs, I stopped again, heart hammering so violently it felt like my ribs might crack.

The storage room door creaked slightly, as if nudged from the inside.

I whispered into the darkness, barely breathing, “Who’s there?”

The house held its breath with me.

Then—

A quick, sharp tap from inside the room.

Like something falling.

Or someone shifting their weight.

My throat tightened.

I needed to check.

I needed to know Sophie wasn’t in there.

I needed to prove to myself that nothing in that room could speak with a dead boy’s voice.

Slowly, I pushed the door open.

It groaned on its hinges, revealing a room swallowed in shadow. The single small window near the ceiling filtered in a thin line of gray light, barely enough to outline the mess of boxes on the floor.

Nothing moved.

I stepped inside, my hand sliding along the wall until I found the light switch. I flicked it on.

The bulb flickered weakly, then steadied.

The storage room looked exactly as I remembered: cluttered, dusty, untouched. A stack of boxes. Old suitcases. A broken lamp. Mark’s textbooks in a crate.

And no one inside.

My breath came out in a shaky exhale, relief and confusion tangling in my chest.

Maybe the sound had come from downstairs. Maybe the door hadn’t been fully shut before. Maybe the voice—

My gaze snagged on something near the far wall.

A wooden crate was pulled slightly away from the others, its lid pushed open an inch.

I hadn’t opened that crate since we moved in.

My heartbeat stuttered.

I crouched and lifted the lid.

Inside, on top of a pile of old blankets, lay a small object wrapped in paper. Something square. Something thin.

My hands shook as I unwrapped it.

A photograph.

Old. Faded.

Edges frayed as if it had been hidden away for years.

My breath caught.

It was the same playground from the postcard—only clearer. Brighter. Taken on a sunny day. Kids climbing the slide. Two boys on the swings. A dog tied to the fence.

And under the oak tree, nearly invisible in the shadow, stood two figures.

Two children.

Me.

And K.

A chill crawled through my veins.

Why was this here?

I would’ve remembered packing something like this. I never kept old photos from that time. I couldn’t. Every picture reminded me of what happened. Of who didn’t come home.

I turned the photo over.

There were words on the back.

Written in the same looping handwriting.

You left something behind.

A soft thump sounded from the hallway.

I jerked upright so fast I nearly dropped the picture.

“Sophie?” I called out, breathless. “Sweetheart?”

No answer.

Another thump.

Closer.

At the top of the stairs.

Fear coiled tight in my stomach.

I moved to the doorway slowly, gripping the frame to steady myself. My eyes scanned the hallway.

Empty.

The bathroom door was shut.

Sophie’s room door was open.

The hallway light flickered once.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, making me jump.

I pulled it out with trembling fingers.

Unknown Number

My stomach dropped.

Not again.

I answered, voice barely audible. “Hello?”

This time, the breathing on the other end was louder. Closer. As if the speaker was struggling to contain something—laughter, tears, a secret.

“Elena…”

Chills rippled across my skin.

The voice was older now, but still him.

Still K.

Still impossible.

I forced myself to speak. “What do you want?”

A long, painful pause.

Then:

“You remember… don’t you?”

My breath hitched. “Remember what?”

But the line had already gone dead.

I lowered the phone slowly, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. The storage room suddenly felt too small. Too suffocating.

I hurried out, closing the door quickly behind me.

I needed air.

Space.

Something real to hold onto.

I went downstairs, chest tight, and stared out the front window.

Nothing.

But the memory of the man across the road clung to me like smoke.

His stillness.

His angle.

The way he leaned… just like K used to.

A soft scraping noise echoed from the front porch.

I jumped back from the window.

Then, slowly, I moved forward again and lifted the curtain just enough to peek through.

A small envelope now sat on the welcome mat.

Just like the postcard had.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I didn’t open the door.

Not yet.

I stared at the envelope through the glass.

It wasn’t sealed.

It wasn’t stamped.

It was simply laid there.

Placed deliberately.

Carefully.

Like a message waiting to be opened.

With a shaking breath, I unlocked the door, leaned down, and picked it up.

Light.

Thin.

Something flat inside.

Hands trembling, I slid the paper out.

It wasn’t a letter.

It was a drawing.

Crude, childlike lines.

A stick-figure girl with long hair.

A smaller stick-figure child holding her hand.

And a taller figure standing across the road—facing them.

Underneath, in childish scrawl, someone had written:

I never left.

The drawing slipped from my fingers and fluttered to the ground.

I stumbled backward, one hand covering my mouth, breath coming too fast and too shallow.

Someone had been watching us.

Someone knew where Sophie slept.

Where I stood.

Where I looked.

Someone who wasn’t done.

Because beneath the childish drawing, almost invisible, scribbled in tiny letters near the corner, was an additional message.

A message not meant for a child’s eyes.

It wasn’t an accident.