As I close my car door and look up the walkway, I gaze at my childhood home.

An old farmhouse with more memories etched into the walls than a whole generation could make. The wind brushes past my face and through my hair with a rooted familiarity—like I’ve returned to where I was always meant to be.

In the background, the farm fields stretch wide, the same ones I once helped tend alongside my father and brother until I moved to the city at twenty. I’d left in search of something more. And now, at forty-three, I return—not for nostalgia, not to see my family. I came to see the house one last time before I sell the property.

My entire family recently passed away. The police and morgue ruled the cause of death as undetermined.

Each step toward the porch feels loaded—weighted with questions I never got to ask.
How did they die?
Were they killed?
Who, or what, killed them?

The slightly rotted wooden steps loom before me. Four of them. Each soaked with the memories of a childhood that feels more like a story someone once told me. Mom waiting for us after school. Me and my first girlfriend kissing under the porchlight. Hugging my family goodbye the day I left.

Beside the stairs, the yellow ribbon still flutters on the banister. I tied it there when I left—a symbol of who I was, and where home would always be if I ever lost my way.

Now, it feels like a joke. A mockery. A ghost of the man I no longer am.

I sit in the lone wooden rocking chair on the steps—the one my father used to settle into after a long day in the fields, beer in hand, shotgun on his lap. It creaks under me. I let myself breathe. Just once. One final moment before I go inside.

Off in the distance, I see it: a storm.

But it doesn’t look natural.

It looks… placed. Constructed. The clouds are as black as ink, the lightning a mesmerizing violet, and the rain—like streaks painted onto the sky by an unseen hand.

I take one last breath, stand up, and turn the doorknob.

It’s unlocked.

That’s strange.

Inside, the air is stagnant. Like the house has been holding its breath, waiting for someone to disturb it.

The wallpaper’s still there. So are the paintings. The staircase, leading up to where we used to sleep, looks exactly the same. Old. Wooden. Slightly crooked—much like our family ties.

Everything looks right.

But it feels wrong.

I can’t remember a time the house was this quiet. Even in the dead of night, there were always sounds: Dad snoring. My brother laughing with a girl he thought no one knew he brought home.

Now? It’s silence.
Eerie. Foreign. Like the house is only pretending to be itself.

I climb the stairs.

My old room is untouched, except for the thick film of dust that coats everything. I walk into my brother’s room.

A candle is lit.

Lavender and thyme.

A strange mix. Stranger still that it’s burning at all.

Then I hear it: the first pitter-patter of rain on the roof.

It escalates fast—into a full assault. The downpour pelts the house like a million fists trying to break in. Lightning flashes violet across the walls and the fields.

It’s like the storm encased the house in a bubble—and now it’s trying to get inside.

I step back into the hallway.

The candle snuffs out.

Darkness.

Weren’t the lights just working?

Only the lightning illuminates anything now. I make my way downstairs and head toward the bathroom.

Better safe than sorry, right?

Passing the mirror, something catches my eye.

I stop.

Look.

Everything seems normal. But I swear, that wasn’t me I just saw in the reflection.

Am I going crazy?

Maybe the house is haunted. Maybe ghosts killed my family.

I shake my head.

No. Get it together.

But every time I pass a window, I feel eyes on me. Watching. Studying.

There’s never anything there—just rain and purple light.

I sit in the living room.

Close my eyes. Try to breathe.

The rain. The drive. I’m just tired. That’s all.

“Hello, son.”

My eyes snap open. I twist my head.

Nothing.

No one.

But I heard that.

The dining table is set.

A cooked chicken sits in the center.

Footsteps echo from upstairs.

“What the fuck?”

I was just up there.

There was no one else here.

I grab my father’s shotgun from its usual spot by the front door. I run.

Upstairs. Ready. Gun cocked.

Nothing.

Except… my parents’ door is open.

I didn’t do that.

It was closed a minute ago.

I move inside. Carefully. Eyes scanning.

On the desk: Mom’s old leather-bound journal.

It’s open. There’s writing.

“He’s come home. I hope he remembers this time. I miss him so much.”

It’s dated today.

What the fuck?

I stare, heart pounding.

A hand grabs my shoulder.

I spin.

Shotgun raised.

It’s me.

Older. Half-lidded eyes.

“You have to remember. Before it loops again.”

A crack of thunder splits the sky.

The world flashes violet.

Lavender and thyme hit my nose.

My brother’s candle…

I collapse.

When my eyes open, the world is white.

Walls too clean. Beeping machines. A nurse leans over me.

“He’s awake. Get his family. Tell Dr. Klein.”

I try to move—can’t.

My arms and legs are restrained.

A moment later, two people walk in. They look like my parents. Younger, somehow.

“Son… We were worried… We didn’t think you’d ever wake up.”

No.

They’re dead.

I saw the bodies. I buried them.

I glance across the room. A mirror.

No.

I look too young. My face. My skin.

This can’t be right.

I haven’t looked like this since college.

I don’t know how long I stare into the mirror.

My face is too smooth. My eyes too wide. But behind them… something’s wrong. Worn. Like a memory scraped half from a dream.

The people calling themselves my parents ask if I remember them. If I know where I am.

I nod.

But say nothing.

My voice doesn’t feel like mine.

Outside the window, a tree sways gently in the breeze.

From its lowest branch, a yellow ribbon flutters.

My stomach knots.

I don’t remember tying it there.

But I remember that ribbon.

It was on the farmhouse porch.

The nurse checks my IV.

“Just a mild sedative,” she says. “You’re safe now.”

Lavender fills the room.

I glance around.

No flowers.

The monitor beside me beeps — until it doesn’t.

Static. Then silence.

I look back at the mirror.

My reflection stares.

Then it smiles.

Just barely.

Behind me, footsteps.

Soft. Padded.

Like someone sneaking in from upstairs.

I close my eyes.

I don’t know if I’m waking up…
or dreaming again.

And maybe I never will.