The wind howled through the cracks in the old Victorian house, carrying with it the faint scent of rain-soaked earth and decaying leaves. Sarah had returned to Blackwood Manor after ten years away, the place where her brother, Ethan, had grown up alongside her. It was also the place where he had died—or so everyone thought. The official report said heart failure, sudden and inexplicable, at the age of twenty-five. But Sarah knew better. She had seen the pallor on his face that last night, heard the labored breaths echoing down the hallway. Now, at thirty, she inherited the manor and everything in it, including the ghosts of memory.

The first night was quiet. Too quiet. Sarah unpacked her bags in the master bedroom, the one with the four-poster bed and the wallpaper peeling like old skin. She lit a candle, its flame flickering against the drafts, and settled into an uneasy sleep. Dreams came fragmented: Ethan’s laughter in the garden, their childhood games of hide-and-seek among the overgrown hedges, the way his eyes would light up when he spoke of his dreams to become a writer. But beneath it all, a murmur, like voices underwater.

Morning brought fog, thick and cloying, pressing against the windows like a living thing. Sarah made coffee in the cavernous kitchen, the floorboards creaking underfoot. As she sipped, a chill ran down her spine. From the parlor, she heard it—a whisper. ‘Sarah…’ It was faint, barely distinguishable from the wind, but unmistakable. Ethan’s voice. She froze, cup halfway to her lips. ‘Just imagination,’ she muttered, shaking her head. Grief did that, played tricks.

Days blurred into a routine of sorting through Ethan’s belongings. Boxes of manuscripts, half-finished stories filled with tales of restless spirits and unfinished business. Journals detailing strange occurrences: shadows moving without light, cold spots in warm rooms, whispers in empty halls. Sarah dismissed them as the ramblings of a lonely man. But the whispers persisted. Always at dusk, when the light bled from the sky, calling her name.

One evening, as she sat by the fireplace reading one of Ethan’s stories, the voice came clearer. ‘Sarah… help me.’ She dropped the book, heart pounding. The room grew colder, her breath visible in the air. She stood, backing away, eyes darting to the corners where shadows pooled unnaturally. Nothing. No one. ‘Ethan?’ she whispered tentatively. Silence answered, but the sense of being watched lingered like a weight on her chest.

The next day, she drove to the local cemetery, the fog clinging to the hills like a shroud. Ethan’s grave was modest, a simple stone etched with his name and dates. Kneeling, she placed flowers at the base. ‘If you’re out there,’ she said softly, ‘tell me what you want.’ A breeze stirred the leaves, and then the whisper: ‘Let me in… I’m cold.’ Sarah jerked back, scanning the empty grounds. No one nearby. Her skin prickled with gooseflesh. Driving home, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had followed her.

That night, the manifestations escalated. In the mirror of her bathroom, Ethan’s reflection flickered beside hers for a split second—pale, eyes hollow. She screamed, shattering the glass with her fist. Blood dripped, but the pain was distant compared to the terror. Wrapping her hand, she searched the house, finding Ethan’s old room untouched. Inside, his journals lay open to a page: ‘The dead don’t leave if they have unfinished words. They knock until you open the door.’

Sarah began to listen. The whispers formed sentences. Ethan spoke of regrets: the novel he never finished, the love he never confessed to their neighbor, Clara. He begged her to deliver letters he had written, hidden in the attic. Trembling, she climbed the dusty stairs, cobwebs brushing her face like fingers. There, in a trunk, envelopes addressed to Clara. As she touched them, a gust extinguished her flashlight, plunging her into darkness. ‘Thank you, sister,’ Ethan breathed close to her ear. She fled, letters clutched to her chest.

Delivering them the next morning, Clara wept, reading of Ethan’s unspoken love. ‘He was always so quiet about his feelings,’ she said. ‘Thank you for this.’ Sarah felt a momentary peace, as if a burden lifted. But that night, the whispers returned, angrier. ‘Not enough… more.’ Ethan appeared at the foot of her bed, translucent, his form wavering like smoke. ‘Finish my book, Sarah. Publish it. Let my voice be heard.’ His eyes pleaded, but there was something off— a hunger in them.

She agreed, spending days typing up his manuscripts. The house seemed alive with his presence: pages turning themselves, ink bottles tipping to refill her pen. Progress brought comfort, but unease gnawed. Locals avoided her questions about Ethan, muttering of ‘cursed blood’ and ‘voices that don’t rest.’ One old woman warned, ‘Some dead cling too tight. They take more than they give.’ Sarah laughed it off, but doubt seeded.

Weeks passed. The book neared completion. Ethan’s visits grew frequent, solidifying. He sat beside her, guiding her hand on the keyboard, his touch icy. Secrets spilled: childhood pranks, family lies their parents hid—a bankruptcy, an affair. ‘Tell no one,’ he whispered. Sarah felt closer to him than ever, the bond of blood renewed beyond death.

Then the dreams turned nightmarish. Ethan dragging her into fog-choked voids, his grip bruising. Waking, she’d find bruises blooming on her arms. Food soured in her mouth; mirrors showed her face paling, eyes hollowing like his. ‘Just tiredness,’ she rationalized. But the final night, as thunder rattled the windows, Ethan stood fully corporeal before her. ‘It’s time, Sarah. The book is done. Now, let me in completely.’

Confusion warred with love. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been waiting. You came back for this. Switch places. Live my life through you. I’ll rest then.’ His smile twisted, revealing teeth too sharp.

Horror dawned. ‘No, Ethan. That’s not—’

‘You killed me,’ he hissed, voice no longer soft. Memories flooded, repressed: that night, argument over the inheritance, her rage, pushing him down the stairs. Heart failure? No, trauma masked. She had buried the truth, fled, lived with guilt disguised as grief.

But he continued, ‘Not just that. Every whisper, every help—it was me pulling you back. You died too, Sarah. That crash you think was mine? We both went off the road. I held on to you, kept you walking in this half-world, making you finish what I couldn’t. Now, with the book done, I can take your body fully. You’ll fade into silence.’

The room spun. Flashes: not heart failure, a car wreck she ‘survived’ but didn’t. The manor, her return—not inheritance, but compulsion. Whispers not grief, but his tether. Letters to Clara? Forged memories. Bruises? Him possessing inch by inch.

She lunged for the door, but he blocked it, form solidifying. ‘Brother…’ she gasped.

‘No more,’ he said, eyes gleaming. The world dimmed as he embraced her, cold flooding her veins. The last thing she saw was her body standing, smiling with his face, walking out into the fog.

In the quiet manor, the new Ethan sat to revise the book. Whispers began anew, but this time from within: Sarah’s voice, faint, pleading. ‘Let me in… I’m cold.’ He smiled. Some dead refuse to stay silent.