Chapter 1: The First Echo
It started with the doorknob.
Samantha Wren noticed it one Tuesday
morning—nothing obvious, just slightly
turned, as if someone had gripped it and
forgotten to let go. She lived alone in a quiet
cul-de-sac, a small rented bungalow on the
edge of Northbridge. Nothing ever happened
here. People grew roses and smiled too long.
Everyone knew everyone.
But no one knew Samantha.
She’d moved here three months ago, hoping
for peace. After the messy breakup, the panic
attacks, the late-night crying spells. She
wanted quiet. A place to reset. And
Northbridge had promised that.
The first few weeks were calm.
She worked from home as a freelance editor, rarely left the
house except for groceries. She kept her routine simple:
wake at 7, jog for ten minutes, tea by 8, laptop open by 9.
She even smiled again. Then the silence started to change.
It was the smallest things at first. The light in her hallway
would be on when she remembered turning it off. Her
kitchen drawer, the one with the knives, half-opened. A
voicemail from an unknown number—static and then
breathing. Just breathing. No words. No background. Just
that long, slow inhale. She deleted it immediately.
Maybe it was paranoia.
Or maybe she was losing her mind.
But when she found the muddy footprint just inside the back
door—a single men’s boot print—she knew it wasn’t her
imagination.
She hadn’t gone outside that day.
She hadn’t opened the back door in over a week.
---
She told the police. Officer Camden came out, looked
around, took a few photos, and gave her a half-polite, half-
bored nod.
“No forced entry. You probably tracked it in yourself and
didn’t notice.”
“I wear running shoes,” she said.
He shrugged. “Could be old mud. Or a prank. You said you
just moved here, right?”
Samantha nodded.
“Maybe someone’s testing you. Kids around here get bored.”
She wanted to believe that. She wanted it to be kids. But kids
didn’t leave just one footprint inside a house with locked
doors and no sign of breaking in.
She changed the locks that night.
She didn't sleep.
---
Days passed. The strange happenings slowed but didn’t stop.
A shadow behind her car when she backed into the driveway
—gone when she turned around. Her bedroom light
flickered at midnight. Then the phone calls resumed.
No number.
No voice.
Just silence.
And always after midnight.
She began logging everything in a notebook. Times, dates,
events. She made copies of the logs, kept one in a locked
drawer and emailed the other to herself every week. She
bought security cameras off Amazon. Installed one facing
the front door, one in the backyard, one hidden near her
bedroom window.
The next morning, the backyard camera was on the ground.
Smashed.
Nothing else touched.
No footage.
---
That evening, she sat in the dark, eyes wide open. Her heart
felt too loud in her chest. She locked all three doors. She
double-checked the windows. She slept with a flashlight and
kitchen knife under her pillow.
The next morning, the front door was unlocked.
She was sure she’d locked it.
She began crying in the hallway.
---
She didn’t call the police again. She could tell they didn’t
care. She knew the signs. A woman alone. No family nearby.
No witnesses. “Probably stress.” That’s what they’d say.
But she felt it now.
The feeling you get when someone stares too long. When the
air gets too heavy. When you know something is wrong—but
there’s no proof. Nothing that fits neatly into a report.
Just the echoes.
After midnight.
---
