The air in Blackwood Manor was thick with the scent of old paper, lemon polish, and something else—something deeper, like cold, damp earth. It was this third scent that pricked the hairs on Tom Harlow’s arms as he heaved another box labeled “KITCHEN STUFF” over the threshold. His wife, Sarah, stood in the center of the grand foyer, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared up at the sweeping staircase, a smile of pure disbelief on her face.
“I can’t believe this is ours, Tom,” she breathed, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. “It’s like something out of a novel.”
“Let’s hope it’s not a horror novel,” Tom grunted, setting the box down with a thud that seemed to be instantly swallowed by the house’s oppressive silence. The sound died too quickly, absorbed by the heavy wood and the watchful quiet.
Their seven-year-old daughter, Lily, was already exploring. Her small footsteps pattered across the hardwood floors before disappearing into the living room, a space dominated by a hearth of grey, river-worn stone. “Mom! Dad! There’s a fireplace big enough to stand in!” she yelled, her voice sounding oddly distant, as if she were calling from across a field rather than from the next room.
It was true. The house was a relic, a masterpiece of nineteenth-century architecture that had been surprisingly, almost suspiciously, affordable. The realtor, a woman with a smile as fixed and brittle as old porcelain, had explained that its remote location and the cost of upkeep had deterred most buyers. “A house like this chooses its family,” she had said, a phrase Tom now found less charming and more unsettling with each passing minute. They were in the middle of nowhere, a good twenty-minute drive from the small town of Oakhaven, surrounded by a dense forest that seemed to crowd the property lines, its branches like grasping fingers.
As the afternoon wore on, a chill began to settle in the air that had nothing to do with the setting sun. While hanging a family portrait in the upstairs hallway, Tom noticed a small, dark stain on the oak floorboards, almost directly in front of the master bedroom. It was no bigger than a coin, but it was unnaturally dark, as if something had soaked deep into the wood’s grain, defying time and varnish. He scrubbed at it with his thumb, but it was indelible, a permanent blemish. As his skin made contact with the spot, he felt a sudden, inexplicable wave of sadness wash over him, so profound it almost buckled his knees. It was a grief that wasn’t his, a phantom limb of emotion. Shaking his head, he dismissed it as exhaustion. It had been a long day, a long week of packing and driving.
He found Sarah in what was to be their bedroom. She was standing by the large bay window, looking out at the overgrown garden. “There are roses out there,” she said softly, her back to him. “Or there were, once. Look at those thorns.” Tom looked past her. The garden was a chaotic tangle of weeds and monstrously overgrown rose bushes, their thorns thick and curved like talons.
That evening, after a dinner of celebratory pizza on the floor of the half-unpacked kitchen, Lily came to them with a troubled look on her face. She was holding her favorite stuffed bear, Barnaby, by one ear, its button eyes seeming to stare into a space beyond them.
“What’s wrong, sweetpea?” Sarah asked, pulling her into a hug that Lily only partially returned.
“The boy in the wall doesn’t like Barnaby,” Lily whispered, her eyes wide and serious. “He says Barnaby’s fur tickles his nose.”
Tom and Sarah exchanged a look—the classic, slightly amused “imaginary friend” glance. It was normal for a child in a new, strange place.
“What boy, honey?” Tom asked gently, crouching down to her level.
“The one who hides in the walls,” Lily said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Her gaze drifted past Tom’s shoulder, towards the darkened hallway. “He told me he’s cold. He wants a blanket. But he said… he said the last family didn’t give him one, so he took theirs.” She pointed a small finger towards the dark stain Tom had seen in the hallway. “He said that’s where his old room was.”
The amusement drained from Tom’s face, replaced by a cold knot in his stomach. The house was silent again, but this time the silence felt different. It felt like it was listening.
Later, tucked into her new bed, Lily spoke into the darkness. “He’s humming,” she murmured as Sarah kissed her forehead. “It’s a sleepy song.” Sarah smiled, but as she walked back down the hall, she thought she could hear it too—a faint, melodic sound, like a music box playing from a great distance. She paused by the stain on the floor, listening. The humming seemed to be coming from the very walls of the house. It was a lullaby, but it held no comfort. It was a song of sorrow, ancient and unending, and for the first time, Sarah felt a tremor of genuine fear. This wasn’t just an old house. It was a watchful one.
