A lone candle flickers in an abandoned study, its wax gathering in a pool on the rosewood table. Layers of dust shroud the room,  undisturbed for years. A tattered journal lies open on the table, its yellowed pages filled with frantic script. The air is dense with something intangible—not just with time and dust, but with a presence unseen.   

Historian Bob Thorne and his wife, in search of the perfect abode, come across the rustic wonder. 

The rooms were vacant, its halls silent—but it was inviting. 

They come across the journal, resting in wait on the study table. The words should have faded over the two decades that anyone was last seen in the room—but the ink was gleaming, wet beneath the candlelight.  

Bob thumbed eagerly through its yellowed pages. The entries seemed run-of-the-mill, nondescript at first—daily reflections and complaints about the heat. 

Until his fingers stopped at a page dated 50 years earlier. Fifty years of silence, pierced by a page that should not have existed. The ink was fresh, as if penned only moments earlier. 

A draft crept through the room, although its windows were completely sealed. Bob’s eyes hovered over the final entry quickly, wanting to reach its end—but prompted Bob to freeze. Dated that day, the journal documented his movements, sentence by finely penned sentence, as though unseen eyes were watching. 

The writer of that entry never meant for anyone to read it. But now that Bob had, he understood why.

The candle flickered violently; there was a shadow on the wall, not its own. It shifted, morphing into a shape so distended that Bob fell back. 

The journal’s pages slowly turned on their own, with a new line:

You are not alone. 

Bob felt it—a cold, chilling breath creeping down his neck. The breath of another person in the room. Unseen. 

He stumbled back, his heart hammering in his chest, with the flame becoming—taller. Extending. Coming closer to him. 

The ink bled onto the journal’s page, forming words not there before. Darkness swallowed Bob whole, and a whisper came from the place he least expected–his own mind. 

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The past is never really gone. Michelle Liew

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The apartment would have put most tenants off– flickering lights, a musty odour that clung to the air, and shadows that slithered across corridors.

But for single mother Lina Crew, content wasn’t an option–only survival. With her bank account nearly empty and six-year-old Eric to support, a cheap rental like this was all she could afford. Besides, all she wanted–and needed–was a fresh start.

They settled in as best they could, clinging to the promise of some stability after a bruising custody battle. To the relief of the financially-stretched but dedicated mother, he began to make friends.

Perhaps too many. Some…were wrong.

Muffled whispers came from his room. Lina thought nothing of it and let them be; they were nothing but harmless playdates and sleepovers.She didn’t want to be the sort of mother who appeared at her son’s bedroom door in the middle of the night.

Then one night Eric murmured: “The girl in the closet doesn’t like darkness.”

The whispered voices grew louder, bolder. Darker. As if they were not just speaking, but waiting.

Eric’s complaints grew like repeated recordings; soft scratching, like nails clawing desperately on wood, behind the walls. The closet opening and closing. Lina still dismissed them as child’s play. The busy mother always threw herself onto the sofa after a long day, falling asleep in front of him.

Time passed, and young Eric became a mere shell of himself. Odd, rake-like scratches appeared on his arms. His arms, once plump and full of energy, now hung limp. Cold. He stopped talking.

The rakish marks finally caught Lina’s divided attention. Muffled whispers came over the baby monitor one midnight, and she raced to Eric’s room. The little boy was fast asleep.

But the closet door stood ajar. Open, a fraction of an inch– she knew that she had closed it herself.

As if inviting her to explore.

And so she did. But that was all it was–a closet, albeit old, dank and dark.

The scratches on Eric’s arms were becoming deeper, more blood seeping from them with each passing day. She pushed her way into her landlord’s office.

“Ma’am, I don’t think there’s anything to fret over” He waved his arms and pushed her to the door. “Besides, the apartment’s ancient….hey, you knew that when you rented it.”

She found herself at the town library, fingers flicking through countless records in desperation.

A young girl, Sophie, had lived in the apartment decades ago–but had vanished. Her parents had appeared on television, hollow-eyed, grief wrapping them like a second skin.

Clipped behind the the torn pages of the news clipping was another photo- a yellow grainy picture of a man whose sunken eyes stared.

Straight at Lina.

Her throat caught. The man in the photograph was an older version of Eric. The same pale features, the same haunted demeanor.

Lina’s pulse raced as she slammed the file shut. Was the past was talking to her son?

Then Eric’s voice: “Mom, who’s that?”

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