Sins of the Ancestorz

Eliza woke to the sound of rattling. At first, she thought it was the wind—an old house like this was bound to groan and shift in the night. But as the rattling grew louder, sharper, her eyes snapped open. She was in her childhood bedroom, now layered in dust and decay, the bed's heavy canopy casting deep shadows.

The rattling came from the hallway, echoing through the quiet house like the tapping of bony fingers on glass. She sat up, heart pounding, and glanced toward the door. A faint light spilled in through the crack beneath it, flickering like a candle flame.

"Eliza," a voice whispered, soft and distant.

Her breath caught. The air was icy against her skin as she swung her legs over the bed and stood, every nerve screaming at her to stay put. But the pull was undeniable, as if something—or someone—was guiding her.

She opened the door cautiously. The hallway stretched out before her, dimly lit by an orange glow emanating from the far end. The locked room. Her bare feet padded softly on the hardwood floor as she approached, the boards creaking beneath her weight.

When she reached the door, the rattling stopped. The padlock, heavy and rusted, hung askew, as if it had been tampered with. Eliza leaned in, her hand hovering over the lock.

"Don't," a voice hissed behind her.

She spun around, gasping. No one was there. The hallway stretched back into darkness, silent and empty.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she turned back to the door. The urge to open it was overwhelming, like an itch she couldn't scratch. Her hand moved almost on its own, fingers grazing the lock.

A sudden crash echoed from downstairs, shattering the spell. She yanked her hand away and stumbled back, her heart racing.

"Eliza!" the voice called again, louder this time. It was coming from the study.

She hesitated for a moment, torn between the door and the voice, before turning and rushing down the stairs.

The study was exactly as she had left it, the journal still resting on the desk. But the air felt different—charged, oppressive. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to shift and writhe as she stepped inside.

"Eliza," the voice whispered again, this time from the journal itself.

Her hands trembled as she picked it up. The pages flipped on their own, stopping at a passage she hadn't read before.

"The Watcher feeds on curiosity. The door must remain closed. Do not listen to its whispers, no matter how sweet they sound."

The light flickered overhead, and for a moment, she thought she saw a figure standing in the corner of the room. Tall and gaunt, its face obscured by shadow.

"Eliza," it said, its voice low and guttural.

She screamed and stumbled backward, the journal slipping from her hands. When she looked again, the figure was gone, but the oppressive weight in the room remained.

Gathering her courage, she grabbed the journal and fled back upstairs, slamming the door to her bedroom shut. She leaned against it, breathing heavily, her mind racing.

She knew now that this wasn't just an old house with creaky floors and dim lighting. Something was alive here. Something that had been waiting for her return.

And it wasn't going to let her leave without a fight.

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