Lena clenched the doorknob. This wasn’t right. But wrong things don’t knock. They slither. They creep. They don’t wait. Still, she peeked through the curtain. And he was standing there—whole, clean, alive. But wrong. Like something was missing just beneath the surface.


“I need you to leave,” she said, the words scraping against her throat.


He tilted his head. “You really think that’s how this works?”


The porch light flickered off, then on. And for a blink, he was gone. But no. There he was. Still waiting. Still watching.


“You don’t belong here,” she said again.

A quiet beat passed. Then “Don’t I?”


The hours dragged on. He never left. Lena curled into the armchair, ears straining to hear anything else. Clock ticks. Electric hum. The pressure of the house closing in. And always, him.


When she couldn’t stand it anymore, she rose. The curtain shifted with a whisper as she approached. Slowly, she lifted the edge. And he was already watching her. She gasped and stumbled back. He smiled. Patient. Pleased. Like he’d been waiting for her to look. She yanked the curtain shut, heart pounding against her ribs.


She didn’t invite him in. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t step forward. A breeze slipped under the door, carrying the scent of earth—fresh, damp, undeniable. He had been buried. She *knew* he had. The ache in her hands, the dirt in her lungs—that grave had been real.


Still… he stood. Watching. Waiting. Alive. Or something close.


“I suppose this is where you decide what happens next,” he said, voice calm. Unbothered.


Lena stared at him across the threshold. It wasn’t fear anymore. Not entirely. It was knowing. Death had never been the end. Burying him had been a mistake.


And now, the door stood open. As he stepped inside, she understood

Some things do not stay buried. Some things never leave.