Footsteps at the Morrissey House

When the Morrissey House was listed for rent again, no one in town was surprised.

No one wanted it. It sat at the edge of Briarwood like a patient thing, half-hidden by trees

that never lost their leaves, even in winter. The windows were tall and narrow,

the kind that made the house look like it was always watching. People said the place had bad bones.

Others said it remembered too much. Evan didn’t believe in that kind of thing.

He needed a cheap place to stay. The landlord, a woman who refused to meet him in person,

emailed him the code to the lockbox and transferred the keys digitally. No walkthrough.

No warnings. Just a sentence at the bottom of the message: If you hear footsteps