House no.9

Chapter Four

The next morning, I woke to the sound of rain tapping gently against the bedroom window.

For a moment, I simply lay there, listening.

Beside me, Harper was still asleep, her arm draped lazily across my waist. A smile tugged at my lips.

"Morning," she mumbled without opening her eyes.

"I thought you were asleep."

"I was."

"Then how did you know I was awake?"

She cracked one eye open.

"You stopped snoring."

"I do not snore."

"You absolutely do."

I laughed, shoving her shoulder playfully before climbing out of bed.

The floor was cold beneath my feet.

Downstairs, the smell of coffee soon filled the kitchen as Harper searched through another unopened box.

"Where did we pack the mugs?" she groaned.

"I thought you packed them."

"I thought you packed them."

"So... neither of us packed them."

We burst into laughter.

An hour later, the house was alive with music playing softly from Harper's phone while we unpacked the last few boxes.

Around noon, the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," Harper called.

When she opened the door, an elderly woman stood on the porch holding a freshly baked pie.

"Oh!" Harper smiled. "Hi."

"I thought I'd welcome the new neighbors properly," the woman said kindly.

"That's so sweet. Please, come in."

The woman hesitated.

Her eyes drifted past Harper's shoulder and into the house.

For a brief moment, her smile disappeared.

"No..." she said quietly.

"I don't think I should."

Harper frowned.

"Are you sure?"

The woman nodded, forcing another smile as she handed over the pie.

"My name's Mrs. Whitmore. I live in Number Seven."

"It's nice to meet you," I said, joining Harper at the door.

Mrs. Whitmore looked at me for a long second.

"You two seem happy."

Harper slipped her hand into mine.

"We are."

"I hope..." Mrs. Whitmore paused, "...you stay that way."

Before either of us could ask what she meant, she turned and walked back toward her house.

Harper and I exchanged confused glances.

"That was odd," Harper muttered.

"A little."

We carried the pie into the kitchen.

Tucked beneath the pie dish was a small folded note.

Neither of us had noticed it before.

I unfolded it.

The handwriting was shaky.

If you ever hear knocking from inside the walls... don't answer it.

I sat at the kitchen table, turning the folded note over in my hands. The handwriting looked oddly familiar, though I couldn’t place it—like a memory hiding just out of reach.

Harper was slicing the pie, humming softly, clearly not rattled by Mrs. Whitmore’s strange visit.

“It’s just an old neighborhood thing,” she said, pressing a fork into the golden crust. “Maybe she’s one of those people who watches too many horror movies.”

“Yeah, maybe.” But the words felt flat, even to me.

After lunch, we went back to unpacking, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was waiting just beneath the surface. Every time I passed the hallway, the air felt heavier. Every time I looked at the empty picture frame above the mantel—left behind by the previous owners—I almost expected a figure to appear behind me.

That evening, as Harper flipped through a streaming service, I sat on the couch, scrolling through old neighborhood records I found online. Maybe I could learn more about House No. 9.

I typed the address into a search bar.

At first, nothing.

Then a name popped up—a woman named Clara Whitlock, listed as the previous owner.

She died here, in the house, ten years ago.

And yet, as I kept scrolling, I realized something strange.

Her death wasn’t recorded as natural causes. There was no obituary. No family listed.

I leaned forward, squinting at the screen.

Harper glanced over.

“What’s up?”

I shook my head, trying to stay calm.

“Nothing. Just an old house history thing.”

But inside, a knot twisted tighter.

Because even though the date was a decade ago, it felt like she was still here.

Watching.

Waiting.

I clicked back to the note on the table.

If you ever hear knocking from inside the walls... don’t answer it.

I didn’t sleep well that night.

And when I woke, the sound of tapping echoed softly from somewhere inside the walls.

I told myself it was just the pipes.

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.