Narrator

After nearly an hour's hike through misty bogland and brittle moss, the farmhouse appeared, small and stark, perched atop a bluff overlooking the lead-colored sea. The wooden exterior had weathered to a dull gray, paint long since peeled away by relentless northern winds.

the structure looked abandoned forgotten by time but despite its obvious age it was strangely intact without the typical signs of vandalism or graffiti that often marred remote buildings i approached cautiously my boots crunching through coarse grass and sheep bones bleached white by years in the sun The farmhouse's silence seemed absolute.

the structure looked abandoned forgotten by time but despite its obvious age it was strangely intact without the typical signs of vandalism or graffiti that often marred remote buildings i approached cautiously my boots crunching through coarse grass and sheep bones bleached white by years in the sun The farmhouse's silence seemed absolute.

As I reached the front door, a mild unease settled in my gut, a familiar sense of vulnerability that comes from being utterly alone in the wilderness. Inside, the air felt heavy, cold, and stale. The interior was sparse, old wooden furniture, dusty floors, and pale walls bare save for a faded homemade poster taped above a rusty stove. Squinting in the dimness, I read the text.

As I reached the front door, a mild unease settled in my gut, a familiar sense of vulnerability that comes from being utterly alone in the wilderness. Inside, the air felt heavy, cold, and stale. The interior was sparse, old wooden furniture, dusty floors, and pale walls bare save for a faded homemade poster taped above a rusty stove. Squinting in the dimness, I read the text.

Family Gathering, 1982. Beside the stove lay a pile of sheep ear tags, yellowed and brittle, relics of a forgotten past. The kitchen smelled faintly of mold and sea coal. Intrigued by the peculiar preservation, I began taking photographs, documenting the strange assortment of household items left behind. A kettle, a chair with a broken leg, and a framed family photo.

Family Gathering, 1982. Beside the stove lay a pile of sheep ear tags, yellowed and brittle, relics of a forgotten past. The kitchen smelled faintly of mold and sea coal. Intrigued by the peculiar preservation, I began taking photographs, documenting the strange assortment of household items left behind. A kettle, a chair with a broken leg, and a framed family photo.

In the stillness, each camera click echoed softly, breaking the quiet like stones thrown into still water. I eventually turned toward the narrow staircase tucked into the corner of the main room. Dust covered the steps thickly, undisturbed for decades. As I placed my foot on the first step, the wood groaned beneath me startlingly loud against the house's deep silence.

In the stillness, each camera click echoed softly, breaking the quiet like stones thrown into still water. I eventually turned toward the narrow staircase tucked into the corner of the main room. Dust covered the steps thickly, undisturbed for decades. As I placed my foot on the first step, the wood groaned beneath me startlingly loud against the house's deep silence.

I hesitated, holding my breath, listening intently. Nothing. Convincing myself it was just the aging wood, I moved up another step, carefully this time. Another creak, deeper, more resonant, echoed from above. I paused again, heart rate picking up slightly. Suddenly, clearly and deliberately, I heard footsteps. Slow, heavy steps pacing across the floorboards directly above me.

I hesitated, holding my breath, listening intently. Nothing. Convincing myself it was just the aging wood, I moved up another step, carefully this time. Another creak, deeper, more resonant, echoed from above. I paused again, heart rate picking up slightly. Suddenly, clearly and deliberately, I heard footsteps. Slow, heavy steps pacing across the floorboards directly above me.

I stood frozen, my rational mind frantically trying to explain away the sounds. It was impossible that anyone else was here. I was utterly alone, miles from another living soul. Yet there they were, unmistakably human footsteps. Then came a loud thud, forceful enough to vibrate through the ceiling and down my spine. My instincts took over.

I stood frozen, my rational mind frantically trying to explain away the sounds. It was impossible that anyone else was here. I was utterly alone, miles from another living soul. Yet there they were, unmistakably human footsteps. Then came a loud thud, forceful enough to vibrate through the ceiling and down my spine. My instincts took over.

Rational thought abandoned me, replaced by raw, primal fear. I spun around, leaping down the stairs in two strides, nearly tripping as adrenaline surged through my veins. Bursting out the front door into the cold afternoon air, I ran without looking back, legs pounding through moss and marsh until my lungs burned and I finally reached the defender.

Rational thought abandoned me, replaced by raw, primal fear. I spun around, leaping down the stairs in two strides, nearly tripping as adrenaline surged through my veins. Bursting out the front door into the cold afternoon air, I ran without looking back, legs pounding through moss and marsh until my lungs burned and I finally reached the defender.

I threw myself inside, locked the doors and sat panting, watching the distant farmhouse through the windshield. It stood silent and still, offering no answers. When I finally calmed enough to inspect my camera's photographs, my fingers trembled. Flicking through images, I paused at the last picture, taken just before I ascended the stairs.

I threw myself inside, locked the doors and sat panting, watching the distant farmhouse through the windshield. It stood silent and still, offering no answers. When I finally calmed enough to inspect my camera's photographs, my fingers trembled. Flicking through images, I paused at the last picture, taken just before I ascended the stairs.

At the very top of the staircase, blurred yet unmistakably present, was a dark silhouette. Someone or something had been watching me. I spent a restless night parked far from the farmhouse, wrapped in my sleeping bag inside the Defender. The rhythmic drumming of rain and the shrill whistle of wind battered against the vehicle's roof, keeping sleep distant and uneasy.

At the very top of the staircase, blurred yet unmistakably present, was a dark silhouette. Someone or something had been watching me. I spent a restless night parked far from the farmhouse, wrapped in my sleeping bag inside the Defender. The rhythmic drumming of rain and the shrill whistle of wind battered against the vehicle's roof, keeping sleep distant and uneasy.

By morning, the storm had subsided, but the cold persisted, creeping through the gaps in the windows. Shivering, I tried turning the key in the ignition, desperate to move farther away from that place, but the engine only sputtered helplessly, refusing to start.