I’m not the kind of person who believes in ghosts. Or at least, I wasn’t before last winter. It started the week my cousin Daniel disappeared. He’d been house-sitting for a retired couple who spent winters in Florida. The place was at the end of Hollis Road — a long, unlit lane outside of town where the streetlamps stop and the forest starts. He was supposed to check in with me every night. On the fourth night, he didn’t answer my calls. By morning, I was driving out there. The Approach The first thing I noticed was how quiet it was. The snow from the night before muffled my footsteps, and the air was still enough that even my own breathing sounded too loud. The house was a Victorian relic, three stories, with warped wooden siding the color of bone. Every window was dark. Daniel’s truck sat in the driveway, covered in frost. I knocked on the front door. No answer. I tried the handle. It opened. Inside The air smelled wrong. Stale, like old dust and something metallic beneath it. The heat wasn’t on, but the temperature felt inconsistent — pockets of warmth and cold as if the house were breathing. My boots left wet prints on the faded Persian rug in the hall. “Daniel?” My voice didn’t carry. The walls seemed to swallow the sound. I checked the kitchen first. The table was set for one, plate still holding the dried remains of some half-eaten meal. The chair was pulled out, like someone had stood up suddenly. Beyond that was the pantry door — slightly open. I didn’t look inside.