The old farmhouse always seemed colder than it should have been. The wind found every crack in the wooden walls and whispered through them like ghosts looking for company. Mike padded across the creaky floor in his socks, careful to avoid the boards he knew would squeal under his weight.
It was early. The sun hadn't yet risen over the hills, and most of the house was still asleep—except for Jake.
Jake was always awake.
Mike eased open the bedroom door. The hinges groaned, and he winced, waiting for the sound to wake someone. But the house remained still. Inside, Jake sat on the bed, eyes wide and glassy, staring at the corner where the wall met the floor. He didn't blink.
Mike had seen his brother sit that way for hours, unmoving, like a statue carved from sorrow.
"Morning," Mike whispered, stepping inside.
No answer.
Mike didn't expect one. He hadn't heard Jake speak in almost two years—not since the day of the accident. The day something happened in the woods.
No one ever said exactly what. Jake had gone off alone, something he and Mike never did. When he returned, he was scratched, shaking, and silent. No amount of coaxing, no healer from town, and not even Harold's calming words could bring back his voice or his old spark.
But Mike still talked to him. Every day.
He sat beside his brother, offering a smile.
"I went back to the forest yesterday," he said. "To the ridge near the tree line. Thought I heard something weird. Not an animal. Different. Like the air was listening."
Jake didn't move.
Mike looked down at his hands. "Steve followed me. Nearly hit me with a rock. Nothing new."
Still nothing.
"But something was out there. I felt it."
A creak from the hallway made Mike stop talking. The sound of light footsteps and a muttered curse signaled Jill's approach. She passed by, nearly tripping over a boot someone had left near the stairs. Mike heard a thump and a quiet, "Ugh—not again."
He almost smiled. Jill was smart—brilliant, really—but she had the grace of a cow on stilts.
Mike turned back to Jake. "I'm gonna go back today. Try to find where that moss patch was. I think there's something under it."
A flicker. Just the tiniest twitch of Jake's fingers.
Mike's heart jumped. He waited, eyes locked on Jake's hand.
But nothing more came.
He sighed. "I miss talking to you, Jake."
Still nothing.
Mike stood and crossed the room to the window. The morning sun was beginning to break over the trees, casting a golden haze on the frost-tipped grass. He pressed his fingers to the glass.
Somewhere out there—past the fields, past the hills, past the ordinary—something was waiting. Watching.
He didn't know how he knew it. He just did.
Behind him, Jake whispered—a single sound, barely more than a breath.
"Mike…"
Mike turned so fast he knocked over the stool near the bed. "Jake? Say it again!"
But Jake was already still, his eyes wide again, staring at the same corner.
Like nothing had happened at all.