The Echoes of Number 14

Chapter 1 (Part 1) Ada Okoye tried not to look at the peeling paint on the sign as the taxi pulled away. “14 Willow Lane” was barely visible, the numbers cracked like brittle bones against the weathered wood. The driver hadn’t even waited for her to grab her second suitcase, too eager to leave. He’d offered a polite smile, but she’d seen the relief on his face when she told him she’d take care of the bags herself. Now, standing alone on the gravel driveway, Ada felt a whisper of wind stir her hair, as if the house itself had sighed at her arrival. It was a handsome structure, in a tragic sort of way — two stories of crumbling elegance, gray paint weather-beaten by years of rain and neglect. Ivy crawled up one side, clinging to the bricks like desperate hands. The porch steps sagged, and one of the shutters hung at a crooked angle. She told herself it was only cosmetic. Just old bones, she reassured herself. She’d seen worse when she’d been apartment-hunting in Lagos: waterlogged ceilings, cracked walls, landlords who wouldn’t fix leaking pipes. At least this place was hers, for now — a fresh start. Ada hoisted her suitcase up the steps and turned the brass key in the lock. The door swung open with a long, unhappy creak, revealing a wide hall lined with dusty wood paneling. The smell of damp plaster and old wood drifted out to meet her, mingling with the faint sweetness of something long dead and forgotten. The real estate agent had been brief — no one had lived here for twenty years. The last owners left everything behind: furniture, dishes, even books still on the shelves. The price was cheap. Suspiciously cheap. Ada had asked about that, but the agent only shrugged, eyes darting to the side. “People get superstitious,” he’d explained. “Family vanished. Rumors. It’s nonsense. I promise it’s solid.” She’d wanted to believe that. She still wanted to believe it. She stepped inside. The air seemed to shift around her, as if the house were breathing her in. The hallway stretched on, shadowed and silent. The light switch by the door clicked uselessly — no electricity yet. Ada made a mental note to call the power company first thing Monday. Sunlight through stained-glass sidelights gave the entryway a strange, bruised glow, reds and purples spilling across the faded rug. She closed the door behind her, and for the first time, the stillness seemed to wrap around her like a heavy blanket. Home, she told herself. This is home. Dragging her suitcase behind her, she explored the ground floor. A formal living room opened to the right, with stiff old armchairs lined in floral brocade, dust collecting on their curved arms. A fireplace dominated the far wall, its iron grate still filled with the charred remains of logs, as if someone had meant to relight it but never returned. On a small side table, a teacup rested on a saucer. A thin, brown ring stained the cup’s inner rim, the liquid long evaporated. It was unsettling, how preserved everything was, like a moment frozen in time. Ada shook off the chill running through her and turned into the dining room. A table sat beneath a brass chandelier, plates neatly arranged, cutlery still set, as though dinner had been interrupted. “Creepy,” she murmured under her breath. The plates were coated with dust, but otherwise untouched. Had no one cleaned up? Didn’t the bank or whoever handled repossession take anything out? Something scuttled across the floor. Ada jumped, heart hammering — but it was only a mouse darting into a corner hole. She let out a shaky laugh. “Relax,” she said out loud. “Old houses have mice. That’s all.” --- She left her suitcase at the foot of the stairs and decided to take a quick look upstairs. The creaking steps complained beneath her weight, and the railing felt splintery under her palm. The second floor was darker, the windows coated with grime that dimmed the sunlight. Four bedrooms, the listing had said. Enough for a growing family. She picked the one in the front corner, with a view of the street through gauzy curtains. The bed was still made, a faded blue quilt covering the mattress. Someone had left a book on the nightstand, its spine cracked open to a marked page. Ada’s chest tightened. It was all too intimate, too personal. As if the family who lived here had only stepped away for a moment, promising to return. Her foot bumped something beneath the bed. Slowly, she crouched down and pulled out a small, dust-covered stuffed bear. One button eye missing, threadbare around the ears. A child’s toy. --- Night fell quickly. Ada unpacked just enough to change clothes and pulled out the new bedding she’d brought. She refused to sleep on twenty-year-old sheets, no matter how desperate she was to settle in. The house groaned with night sounds — the sigh of wind through window frames, the creak of floorboards adjusting, the faint rattle of pipes. Ada told herself it was normal. But just after she turned out the lamp, she heard it: a soft tapping from somewhere in the walls. Three slow taps. Then silence. She sat up, holding her breath. It came again, closer this time — like knuckles gently rapping against the wood. Ada swallowed, forcing herself to br eathe. Mice, she told herself again. Just mice. But mice didn’t knock. Part 2) Ada tried to ignore the tapping, lying stiffly on top of her fresh sheets. Maybe it was the wind, she reasoned. Maybe an old pipe. Maybe anything except what her racing imagination suggested. When the taps came a third time, steady and slow, she forced herself to get up. The hallway was dark, its length distorted by shadows. She clutched a cheap flashlight she’d left on the nightstand, switched it on, and stepped cautiously toward the sound. The beam revealed peeling wallpaper, a line of faded family portraits, and a thin c***k in the plaster running floor to ceiling. Ada moved closer, pressing her ear to the wall. Nothing. Just the hush of an empty house, so quiet it rang in her ears. She straightened up, heart still pounding. You’re being ridiculous, she scolded herself. It’s an old house. There’s always noise in an old house. Still, the silence was heavy, pressing down like the ceiling might collapse on her. --- Downstairs, she made her way to the kitchen, needing water, needing anything to ground her. The cabinets were still stocked with dishes, mismatched cups, and a battered kettle. In one of the drawers, she found old cutlery neatly organized. It felt wrong, like trespassing. Ada turned on the faucet and let the cold water run until it was clear, then filled a glass and drank it all at once. She glanced at the doorway, half-expecting someone to appear there. But it remained empty. The silence pressed deeper, echoing around her as if the house was holding its breath, waiting. --- She tried to sleep again. Sometime after midnight, she drifted off. Dreams came, thick and colorless, the kind that leave you with a chill. In the dream, she stood on the landing of the stairs. The house was darker, somehow even more decayed, every beam sagging, the wallpaper dripping with something dark and wet. At the foot of the stairs, a small figure stood with its back to her. Ada tried to call out, but no sound came from her throat. The figure slowly turned, and she saw a child’s face — pale, eyeless, features melting like wax. Its mouth opened, a soundless scream. Ada shot awake, covered in sweat. --- She sat up, heart pounding, listening. The house was silent again, but that silence was wrong. She could feel it, a wrongness that made her skin crawl. Ada switched on her flashlight again and scanned the room. Everything was as it had been. Bed. Suitcases. Wardrobe. But there was something on the mirror that hadn’t been there before. She rose slowly, bare feet cold on the wooden floor, and crossed to the mirror above the dresser. Written in shaky letters through a smear of dust was a single word: LEAVE. Ada stared, frozen. The letters were ragged, as though carved by a trembling hand. She reached out to wipe it away, fingers trembling, but the word smeared into an ugly gray streak. The breath left her lungs in a whoosh. It had to be a joke. Someone must have broken in. Maybe a neighbor — maybe kids. But that didn’t make sense. Who would break in just to leave a message like that? Ada backed away from the mirror, refusing to turn her back on it until she was safely under the blanket again. She kept the flashlight clutched to her chest, eyes wide in the gloom, waiting for any other movement. Sleep didn’t come again that night. --- Morning light made things easier to bear. Ada was never a fan of the dark, even as a child. In daylight, the house was only a house — old, neglected, but nothing more. She forced herself to get dressed and went downstairs. The dining table, still set for a meal twenty years gone, looked less threatening now, more tragic than terrifying. Ada resolved to at least clean a bit. She opened windows, letting in fresh air, the dampness shifting slightly under the morning breeze. Make it yours, she told herself. Make it home. She swept, dusted, and stacked the old dishes in the sink. At one point, she thought she heard something upstairs — a dragging sound, like furniture moving — but when she went to check, nothing had changed. Maybe she really was losing it. --- By the afternoon, she felt braver. She stepped outside to see what the backyard looked like. A rusted swing set stood in one corner, the seats tangled in vines. A tiny sandbox, half-collapsed, showed the remains of forgotten plastic toys poking through. A family had loved this place once. The thought made Ada sad. She kicked aside a bit of broken fence picket and startled a crow, which took off cawing into the gray sky. The stillness returned after it left, and the house seemed to loom behind her, its windows like watching eyes. --- Back inside, Ada explored a narrow storage closet near the kitchen. It smelled of damp wood and old cloth. Piled inside were moth-eaten coats, a dented umbrella, and a pair of small red rain boots. On a shelf above them was a box labeled Photos. Ada pulled it down, coughing as dust billowed out. She took it into the dining room, where the light was stronger, and opened it. Stacks of glossy prints spilled across the table — family vacations, birthday parties, a wedding. A family she’d never met but now lived in their house, wearing their shadows like a second skin. One picture stood out: a birthday party, a little girl in a blue dress blowing out candles, parents beaming behind her. There was a name scrawled in pen on the back: Aisha, 7th birthday, 2004. Ada felt a strange ache in her chest. Where had they gone? Why had no one claimed their things? She packed the photos back into the box, a cold dread coiling in her gut. --- As evening came again, Ada decided to try the second floor one more time. There was a hallway closet she hadn’t opened yet. Its door stuck, swollen by damp, but she forced it open. Inside, she found what looked like a diary, its leather cover cracked and flaking. A child’s handwriting labeled the inside cover: Aisha Musa Ada’s hands trembled as she flipped to the first page, trying to read by the dim dusk light from the hall. > Today Mommy was sad again. She keeps saying the house is hungry. I don’t know what that means. Daddy said we will go away soon, but we can’t yet because the house won’t let us leave. I am scared. Ada swallowed hard. The writing was innocent, childish — yet so full of dread it made her stomach turn. She turned another page. > Last night, I heard the voices again. They were under my bed. They said I could stay forever. I don’t want to stay. Ada snapped the diary shut, breathing hard. The floor creaked behind her. She spun around, heart hammering, but the hallway was empty. Get out, a voice whispered in her mind, or maybe from the walls. Ada backed into the bedroom, clutching the diary, eyes darting across every corner, trying to find the source of the voice. There was no one there. ---