Officer Jake Patterson had seen his fair share of strange things in his time on the force, but nothing quite like this. The old house on Rosewood Street had been abandoned for years. Its dilapidated walls sagged under the weight of time, and the yard, once meticulously manicured, was now overtaken by wild grass and tangled vines. The neighborhood kids had dared each other to go inside, but no one had ever stayed long enough to get a good look. It was said to be haunted, but Jake wasn’t one to believe in such things. Still, when an old woman down the street called in about strange noises coming from the house late at night, it was his job to investigate.
It was a Friday evening, and the mist had settled in early, swirling around the house like it had a life of its own. The streetlights flickered in the distance as Jake stood at the front gate. He felt the weight of the unknown pressing on him, but he shook it off. He had a job to do.
The wooden gate creaked as he pushed it open, stepping cautiously onto the overgrown path. The house loomed in front of him, its windows dark like hollow eyes. He knocked on the door, his fist tapping softly on the peeling wood. No answer. He knocked again. Still nothing. A chill ran down his spine, but he pushed it aside. He wasn’t scared. Just curious.
After a moment of hesitation, Jake tried the door handle. To his surprise, it turned easily, the door creaking open on its own. He stepped inside, his flashlight illuminating the dust and cobwebs that covered everything. The air smelled musty, thick with the weight of years. A staircase creaked above him, and Jake froze, his breath catching in his chest. He wasn’t alone.
"Hello?" His voice echoed through the house, but there was no reply. He cautiously moved forward, his flashlight sweeping over the faded wallpaper and broken furniture. The floorboards groaned under his boots as he ascended the staircase.
At the top of the stairs, Jake paused, staring down the long, dark hallway. There was a single door at the end, slightly ajar. As he approached it, a cold gust of air swept past him, making him shiver. He pushed the door open, and that's when he saw her.
A small girl stood by the window, her back to him, her figure faintly illuminated by the dim moonlight that filtered through the grime-covered glass. She was wearing an old-fashioned dress, white with lace trim. Her dark hair was tied into pigtails, and she stood motionless, staring out into the misty yard.
Jake’s heart skipped a beat. There was something wrong about the way she stood there, like she wasn’t quite part of the world around her. She didn’t even seem to hear him enter.
"Hey, are you okay?" Jake called out, his voice soft but firm.
The girl didn’t turn, but her small shoulders trembled slightly, as if she was crying. Jake took a step closer, then another. When he reached her, he finally saw her face.
Her eyes were wide open, unblinking, and empty. There was no life in them—only the dull, lifeless gaze of someone who had long since passed. Her lips were pale, and a faint trace of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. It was a smile that didn’t belong on the face of a child.
"Who are you?" Jake whispered, his voice catching in his throat.
The girl’s smile deepened, and she slowly turned her head to face him. The movement was unnatural, like a doll’s head twisting too far. Her eyes locked onto his, and for a moment, time seemed to freeze.
"Abigail," she said, her voice soft and echoing, as though it was coming from somewhere far away. "I’ve been waiting for you."
Jake took a step back, his heart racing in his chest. His flashlight flickered in his hand, casting shadows on the walls. The name Abigail sent a shiver through him. He didn’t know why, but it felt significant. It felt wrong.
The girl stepped away from the window, her tiny feet barely making a sound on the floor. She moved slowly toward him, her head tilted to one side. There was something in her eyes, something that spoke of pain, of unfinished business.
"I’m sorry," she whispered, her voice like a breeze through the trees. "I didn’t mean to scare anyone."
Jake stumbled backward, his mind racing. He had to get out of there. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. The girl was dead—he could feel it in the very marrow of his bones. This wasn’t a living child. This was a ghost.
Suddenly, a memory flashed in his mind. The old woman who had called in the complaint. She had mentioned a tragedy, a family lost in a fire decades ago. There was one child unaccounted for in the reports—the youngest daughter, Abigail.
Jake’s pulse quickened as he realized the truth. The little girl in front of him, the one who had been standing so eerily still by the window, was Abigail, the girl who had died in that fire all those years ago.
Before he could react, the girl took another step toward him. "Help me," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I need to go home."
Jake’s hand instinctively reached out to her, and as his fingers brushed against her cold skin, the room seemed to shift. The walls of the house blurred, and for a split second, he saw the house as it had been decades ago—a place full of life and warmth, not the rotting shell it was now.
And then, as quickly as it came, the vision vanished, and the house returned to its decayed state. Abigail was gone.
Jake stood frozen in place, his hand still outstretched. His heart pounded in his chest as the full weight of what had happened settled over him. The house had been haunted for years, but it wasn’t the house that needed saving—it was Abigail.
He wasn’t sure how, or even if, he could help her. But one thing was certain: Abigail’s story wasn’t over. And he would make sure it wouldn’t be forgotten.
As he turned to leave, he heard her voice one last time, echoing through the halls.
"Thank you."
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