CHAPTER 8
(WARNING)
Natalya stood at the bus stop, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. The bench was cold, still slick with dew, and the morning mist hovered low to the ground.
She glanced down the road, hoping to spot the headlights of Bus 176. Nothing yet. Just the slow waking of the town behind her. A dog barked in the distance. A door creaked open. A crow cawed overhead.
She checked her phone again. Still nothing. No messages. Just the empty lock screen staring back at her.
A low rumble vibrated through the ground. Her heart jumped.
Moments later, a large blue bus rounded the corner. The number glowed faintly on the top screen: 176.
Natalya stood up as it came to a slow, hissing stop in front of her. The doors creaked open, and the bus driver, a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper stubble and deep lines under his eyes, looked at her without much interest.
"Brooklyn Heights?" she asked, just to be sure.
"Last stop," he muttered with a nod.
She climbed in, fumbling with the change she had left from the bakery.
The driver didn't say another word as she dropped the coins into the machine and made her way down the aisle. The bus was nearly empty. Just an old woman in a tan coat sitting near the front, and a teenage boy sprawled across the back seats with headphones on.
Natalya slid into a window seat halfway down. The cushion was stiff beneath her, the plastic backrest cold against her spine. She rested her bag on her lap, curling her fingers around it like a lifeline, and looked out the window as the bus lurched forward with a groan.
The town slowly passed by. The familiar grocery store, the bakery with its faded awning, the forest path disappearing into the trees. And then, little by little, the cabins faded into open land. Wide fields lined the road, soaked from the night's rain, scattered with dark crows picking at the dirt. Fences bordered abandoned barns. And the forest began to thicken again in the distance.
She leaned her forehead against the window. It was cool, grounding. For a while, she just sat there, watching the trees blur past, trying not to think. But her mind wouldn't be still.
What happened at eighteen that made her leave Brooklyn Heights?
Why isn't any triggering at least for me to remember something?
Why did that boy recognize me? Wait what was his name? D something.
And what will I find in Brooklyn Heights?
The hum of the engine was the only answer.
An hour passed, maybe two. It was hard to tell. The sky remained overcast, clouds heavy and unmoving. The old woman got off at a quiet stop near a boarded-up gas station, and the boy at the back stayed where he was, eyes closed, music still pulsing through his headphones.
Eventually, the bus turned onto a highway, the trees growing thinner as the outskirts of a different world came into view.
The signs of the city were subtle at first. A large billboard here, a streetlamp there—but soon enough, she saw it.
Brooklyn Heights.
It wasn't the city she imagined in her mind. No glittering skyline. No crowds of people rushing. It was more like a quiet neighborhood built on memory.
Worn brick buildings. Narrow streets. Rows of houses with black iron fences and tidy gardens. It looked like a place where people knew each other. Where kids rode bikes and neighbors left soup on each other's porches during flu season.
But it didn't feel familiar.
Not yet.
The bus turned onto Maple Drive, and her chest tightened as she sat forward.
12, Maple Drive.
The driver's voice crackled over the intercom. "Next stop—Maple and Holloway."
She pulled the cord and stood up, her knees a little shaky as she braced herself. When the bus came to a halt, she stepped off and found herself in front of a narrow row of houses with white-painted porches and flower boxes on the windows.
She turned slowly, scanning each number.
10A.
Then...
12.
It stood slightly set back from the others, like it didn't quite belong in line. Two stories. Pale yellow siding. Shutters crooked on one side. The lawn with overgrown shrubs, but the porch was faded, paint peeling slightly from the railings.
She stood there for a moment, her breath caught in her chest.
The house didn't trigger a flood of memories. No flashbacks. No sudden gasp of recognition. But her body reacted in a way her mind didn't understand. Her fingers trembling slightly, her heart beating just a little too fast.
She stepped up to the porch.
No sound.
Just the soft creak of the boards beneath her feet.
Then she raised her hand and knocked.
Silence.
She knocked again, louder this time.
Nothing.
She glanced around. No mailbox. No signs of life.
Natalya hesitated only a second before stepping off the porch and moving carefully down the side of the house.
The grass brushed against her ankles, wet from the mist, and the earth squelched faintly beneath her shoes.
She passed a narrow window, its blinds drawn shut, the glass clouded with dust. Further along, a cracked flowerpot lay tipped over, the brittle stems of long-dead plants tangled in themselves.
She reached the backyard gate—paint-chipped, hanging slightly off its hinge—and nudged it open.
The backyard was small, boxed in by a crooked wooden fence. A single tree stood in the far corner, branches bare, its bark mottled with greenish moss. An old swing hung from one of the branches, its seat askew, one of the ropes frayed and twisted.
The back of the house had a door. Faded white, with a small window at the top, mostly obscured by grime.
She climbed the two steps leading up to it and tried the handle.
Locked.
Of course.
She pressed her forehead lightly against the door, frustration prickling at the back of her throat.
Why had she come all this way? Why this house? What did she expect—that it would all come flooding back? That someone would open the door and say, "Welcome home, Natalya"?
Instead, there was just silence. The kind of silence that feels heavy, old.
She stepped back and looked up at the windows above her. One of them—just slightly—was open. Barely an inch, but enough to catch her eye.
Her heart fluttered. Was someone inside? Watching? Waiting?
Or had it been left like that... years ago?
Her gaze dropped to a small metal box near the back steps—rusted, maybe an old fuse box or storage container. She crouched and tried the lid.
It creaked open reluctantly.
Inside—spiders, mostly.
But tucked in one corner was a tiny key. Silver, tarnished, looped with a brittle piece of twine.
She stared at it.
Was it luck?
Or something meant for her?
Fingers trembling, she picked it up and stood again and tried unlocking the back door but it didn't open. She groaned slightly in frustration as she tried to unlock the door again, but that attempt too failed.
Just as she was about to give up she remembered the front door. Maybe this is the key to the front door.
She moved quickly around the house, the overgrown path crunching beneath her shoes. The air felt heavier now, like the clouds above were leaning just a little lower.
Back on the front porch, she paused again.
The key was small, ordinary, really, but it felt heavier in her palm, like it carried weight beyond its size.
With a shaky breath, she slid it into the lock.
But before she could turn it, a voice called out, soft and weathered.
"Hello? Who's there?"
Natalya froze.
She turned her head slowly.
An elderly woman stood near the walkway to the house.
Her gray hair was pulled into a loose bun, and she wore a long knitted cardigan over a floral dress.
She didn't look angry. Just cautious, like someone trying to place a memory that wouldn't come.
"Are you looking for someone, dear?" the woman asked, her voice warm but tinged with curiosity.
Natalya swallowed, glancing back at the front door before turning fully toward her.
"I... I think I used to live here," she said softly.
The old woman tilted her head, studying her with sharper eyes than Natalya expected.
The woman tilted her head. Her eyes sharpened, flickering with recognition... or suspicion. It was hard to tell.
After a moment, she said gently,
"I don't think so, child. That house's been abandoned for ten years now."
Wait what? Ten years... how is that possible? This is the address in her identity card. Maybe she can't remember properly.
"Umm sorry but I don't think so," Natayla said , her voice trembling with confusion. "I—I'm certain I used to live here. My name is Natalya Reinhart, and I... sorry this address is on my identity card."
The elderly woman stepped back slightly as Natalya approached, her brow furrowed in confusion. The old house, with its peeling paint and overgrown lawn, felt eerily still, like a forgotten piece of time. Natalya's hand hovered near her pocket, fingers brushing the edge of her ID card.
"I... I have my ID," she said, her voice unsure but steady, as she pulled it out. She handed it to the woman, hoping for some confirmation, some piece of truth to hold on to.
The woman took it carefully, her eyes scanning the card. A long, awkward silence stretched between them. Natalya could feel her heart pounding in her chest, the knot of uncertainty growing tighter.
Finally, the woman looked up, the recognition or was it suspicion? But it faded quickly.
She handed the ID back with a sigh, her fingers lingering just a moment too long. "I'm sorry, dear," she said, her tone soft but firm. "This address... well, it's not the same anymore. No one's lived there for years, not since the accident."
The word accident hit Natalya like a cold splash of water. Her mind raced, trying to piece together fragments that wouldn't connect.
Did it have something to do with her? Was she connected to this accident?
The possibility gnawed at her, but before she could settle on a single thought, the elderly woman's soft footsteps interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
Natalya's head snapped up.
The woman had already started to walk slowly down the pathway, her cardigan swaying with the motion, her back hunched slightly as if the years had bent her frame with the weight of forgotten stories.
"Wait!" Natalya called out before she could stop herself, the words spilling from her mouth, desperate for some kind of explanation.
The woman paused but didn't turn around immediately. She stood with her back to Natalya, her silhouette softened by the mist that hung low in the air.
The old woman's voice came back to her, soft and distant, "I don't think I can help you, child."
Natalya's throat tightened, the lump in it growing with every word that she didn't understand, that she couldn't connect. She needed answers, and the silence felt too heavy to bear.
"Please..." Natalya took a step forward, but the woman still didn't turn. "Tell me what happened. Why was there an accident? What happened?"
The woman's shoulders stiffened slightly, a flicker of something in her stance. After a long pause, she finally spoke, her voice barely audible. "Some things are better left to the past," she said, her words wrapped in caution, like she feared the weight of them.
The cold chill of the morning seemed to grow stronger around them, thickening the air between them.
"Please.. just tell me," Natalya said and she heard the old woman take a long sigh before speaking again.
"Ten years ago, there lived a family of four in that house," she said slowly, as though unspooling a story too old and too fragile to be told. "A mother, a father, and their two daughters."
Natalya felt her breath catch. Something about that sentence pulled at her chest like a thread loosening a knot.
"They were quiet people," the woman continued. "Kept to themselves mostly. But kind. The girls were just teenagers, maybe a few years apart. Always walking to the bus stop together in the mornings. One of them... the younger one, she used to leave wildflowers on my porch."
The old woman's eyes glazed slightly, lost in the memory. "Then one night... something happened. It was raining heavily that day and the family was inside the house... The power went out not long after nightfall. Then"—she paused—"from what I heard someone knocked on their door."
She said it like a ghost story, quiet but chilling.
"No one knows who it was. But everything changed that night."Natalya felt her blood run cold. The stillness in the woman's voice was more unsettling than if she had screamed.
"The house was quiet for a few days," the woman continued, her voice low, as if afraid the wind might carry her words too far. "No lights. No movement. No sound. At first, we thought maybe they'd gone away. A family trip, maybe. But then... the mail piled up. The flowers on the porch withered."
She paused, the lines on her face tightening.
"A neighbor finally called the police. When they went in..." Her voice faltered, the words sticking in her throat. "They found the house empty and concluded that they have disappeared. But the police dog sniffed something and that led them to the dark basement underneath the house and what they found out was horrifying."
The old woman's voice dropped to a near whisper, barely louder than the wind rustling through the trees.
"The basement was a mess with broken chairs, dust, broken wood. And blood. So much blood and the stains on the walls and the floor. The police still didn't find the bodies but the police dog kept on barking at a shelf. They found the hidden door behind that enormous shelf and no one knew what they would find beyond it."
Natalya's stomach turned as the air seemed to press in tighter around her, thick with something unspoken.
"The dog wouldn't stop barking at it," the woman went on. "So they pried it open, went in and found the bodies of the family members.."
"From what I heard, the father had hanged himself in that room. But his body told another story. There were bruises, defensive wounds. Like he'd struggled. Like someone had fought him... or he'd fought something else before the end."
She paused, her eyes clouding over, voice trembling just slightly.
"And the rest of the family... The mother, the daughters..."
Her breath caught.
"Their bodies were dismantled. Scattered. Unrecognizable. To this day, no one knows who did it... or why."
Natalya stared at the woman, the chill gnawing into her bones, her mouth too dry to speak.
Word Count- 2375
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