The first time Elias saw his dead father, it was three minutes past midnight.

He was seventeen years old.

He was alone in his bedroom.

And it had been exactly seven years since his father had been buried.

Outside, rain battered the windows of the old house. The wind moved through the trees with a long, hollow whistle, making the branches scratch against the walls.

Elias sat at his desk beneath a weak yellow lamp, trying to finish his history assignment.

He had been staring at the same paragraph for almost twenty minutes.

He couldn’t concentrate.

Something about the night felt wrong.

Not frightening.

Not yet.

Just wrong.

The house was too quiet.

His mother had gone to bed early. She had been tired all week, and lately she had developed a habit of locking her bedroom door before sleeping.

Elias had noticed.

He had asked her about it once.

She had smiled and told him she was simply becoming more careful.

He hadn’t believed her.

His mother had never been afraid of anything.

Not thunderstorms.

Not darkness.

Not being alone.

Not even death.

But after his father’s death, something inside her had changed.

Sometimes Elias caught her standing in the hallway at night, staring toward the front door as if she were waiting for someone.

Other times, she would wake from nightmares screaming his father’s name.

Daniel.

His father.

The man Elias remembered mostly through photographs and fragments of childhood memories.

A strong hand holding his.

A deep voice laughing.

The smell of his father’s jacket after rain.

The old wooden chair where Daniel used to sit every evening.

The scar above his eyebrow.

The silver pocket watch he always carried.

Elias remembered that watch particularly well.

His father had once told him:

“When you’re old enough, I’ll give it to you.”

He never got the chance.

Daniel died when Elias was ten.

At least, that was what Elias had been told.

The official story was simple.

Daniel had gone into the forest during a storm.

His car had been found near the northern road.

His body had been recovered two days later.

The funeral had been closed-casket.

His mother had said the injuries were too severe.

Elias had never questioned it.

He had been a child.

Children believed adults because adults were supposed to know everything.

But now Elias was seventeen.

And lately, he had begun questioning everything.

Especially the night his father died.

Because for the last three weeks, Elias had been dreaming about the same house.

A black house.

Three stories.

Broken windows.

A dead tree beside the entrance.

And a narrow staircase leading underground.

Every dream ended the same way.

Someone stood at the top of the stairs.

Someone who looked exactly like his father.

Then Elias would wake up.

Tonight, he had decided not to sleep.

He wanted to finish his assignment and stay awake until morning.

He was almost done when the electricity went out.

The room fell into darkness.

Elias sighed.

“Perfect.”

He reached for his phone.

The battery was at eleven percent.

He switched on the flashlight and searched for the candles.

A few minutes later, a small flame flickered on his desk.

The candle cast strange shadows across the walls.

Elias returned to his chair.

He had just started writing when he heard it.

Knock.

He stopped.

He looked at the bedroom door.

Nothing.

He waited.

Knock.

Three seconds later—

Knock.

Three slow knocks.

Elias swallowed.

“Mom?”

Silence.

He stood.

The knocking had come from the door.

He walked toward it.

His hand reached for the handle.

Then—

another sound.

Not from the door.

From the window.

Tap.

Elias froze.

Tap.

He slowly turned.

The curtains were moving.

The window was closed.

There was no reason for them to move.

He stepped closer.

The candle flame bent sideways.

The curtains lifted.

And Elias saw someone standing outside.

He stopped breathing.

A man.

On the other side of the glass.

On the second floor.

There was nowhere to stand.

No balcony.

No roof.

No tree.

Nothing.

Yet the man was there.

Rain poured over him.

His clothes were completely soaked.

Water ran down his face.

His hair was plastered against his forehead.

Elias stared.

The man’s head was lowered.

Then slowly—

very slowly—

he lifted it.

Elias saw his face.

His heart stopped.

“Dad?”

The man looked exactly like Daniel.

Exactly.

Same dark hair.

Same scar above his eyebrow.

Same gray eyes.

Same old brown jacket.

The jacket Daniel had been wearing the last time Elias remembered seeing him.

Elias stumbled backward.

“No.”

The man raised one hand.

He placed his palm against the glass.

Elias couldn’t move.

His father’s lips moved.

But there was no sound.

Elias stepped forward.

“What?”

The man mouthed the words again.

Elias couldn’t understand.

Then lightning flashed.

For one second, the man’s face changed.

His skin looked gray.

His eyes became completely black.

His mouth opened unnaturally wide.

Elias screamed.

He fell backward.

The candle went out.

Darkness swallowed the room.

He scrambled toward the door.

His hands shook so badly that he could barely turn the handle.

“Mom!”

He pulled the door open.

The hallway was empty.

He ran toward his mother’s room.

“Mom!”

He opened her door.

She was sitting upright in bed.

Awake.

Terrified.

She looked at Elias.

Then past him.

Toward the hallway.

“What happened?”

Elias could barely breathe.

“Dad.”

His mother went completely still.

“What?”

“He was outside.”

Her face changed.

“Who?”

“Dad.”

She got out of bed.

“No.”

“He was at the window.”

“No.”

“I saw him.”

“You were dreaming.”

“I wasn’t!”

His mother grabbed his shoulders.

“Elias.”

“I saw him!”

She stared into his eyes.

For several seconds, she said nothing.

Then she asked quietly,

“What did he look like?”

Elias’s breathing slowed.

“He was wearing his brown jacket.”

His mother closed her eyes.

“And?”

“His hair was wet.”

She swallowed.

“What else?”

“He had the scar.”

His mother stepped backward.

Elias noticed.

“Mom?”

She shook her head.

“No.”

“What?”

“He couldn’t have been wearing that.”

“Why?”

“Because I burned it.”

Elias stared.

“What?”

“The jacket.”

She looked toward his bedroom.

“I burned it the night he died.”

The house became silent.

Elias whispered,

“Then what did I see?”

His mother didn’t answer.

A soft sound came from the hallway.

Something hitting the floor.

Both of them turned.

A silver object rolled into the doorway.

It stopped beside Elias’s foot.

He looked down.

His blood ran cold.

The pocket watch.

His father’s pocket watch.

Elias slowly picked it up.

His mother screamed.

“Don’t touch it!”

He looked at her.

“You know this.”

“Give it to me.”

“Why?”

“Elias!”

She grabbed his wrist.

He pulled away.

The watch suddenly opened.

Inside was a tiny photograph.

Elias.

His father.

His mother.

The photograph had been taken when Elias was six.

His father was smiling.

But something was wrong.

Elias looked closer.

Behind Daniel, standing near the hallway, was a dark figure.

Elias frowned.

“Who is that?”

His mother looked at the photograph.

Her face lost all color.

She whispered,

“Oh God.”

“Mom?”

She snatched the watch from his hand.

Then she closed it.

“Go to bed.”

“No.”

“Elias.”

“Who is that?”

“Go to your room.”

“Why are you scared?”

“Because I know what this means.”

“What?”

She stared at him.

“Your father has come back.”

---

Elias did not sleep.

He sat on his bed until dawn.

He kept thinking about his mother’s words.

Your father has come back.

Not you imagined him.

Not you had a nightmare.

Not it wasn’t possible.

She had said it as if she had been expecting it.

At six in the morning, he heard his mother moving around downstairs.

He went into the kitchen.

She was making tea.

Her eyes were swollen from crying.

She didn’t look at him.

“Mom.”

“Eat something.”

“Who was the man in the photograph?”

“Elias.”

“Who was he?”

She placed the cup on the table.

“Your father had problems before he died.”

“What kind of problems?”

“He was under a lot of pressure.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She looked at him.

“You were a child.”

“I am not a child anymore.”

“I know.”

“Then tell me.”

She sat down.

For a long moment, she stared at the table.

“Your father believed someone was following him.”

“Who?”

“He didn’t know.”

“Did you believe him?”

“At first, no.”

“And later?”

She looked toward the window.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I started seeing things too.”

Elias’s stomach tightened.

“What things?”

“Your father.”

“But he was alive.”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“I mean after he died.”

Elias stared at her.

“You saw him?”

“Once.”

“When?”

“The night after his funeral.”

“What happened?”

“He stood outside the bedroom.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because he wasn’t alone.”

Elias felt cold.

“What was with him?”

His mother looked at him.

“I don’t know.”

---

Later that morning, Elias searched the house.

He found nothing.

No explanation.

No hidden room.

No letters.

Nothing.

But one thing kept bothering him.

The photograph.

He knew he had seen it before.

Not the photograph itself.

The house behind his father.

The black house.

He had seen it in his dreams.

Elias returned to the attic.

His mother had forbidden him from going there for years.

That was reason enough.

He searched through old boxes.

His father’s clothes.

Books.

Old newspapers.

Christmas decorations.

A broken radio.

Then he found a wooden trunk.

It was locked.

Elias searched nearby.

Inside an old drawer, he found a small brass key.

The lock clicked open.

Inside were notebooks.

His father’s handwriting.

Elias picked up the first one.

The cover read:

DANIEL HARPER — PERSONAL NOTES

He opened it.

The first pages were ordinary.

Work.

Bills.

Family.

Elias smiled sadly as he read a sentence about his sixth birthday.

Elias wanted a red bicycle. He said blue bicycles were boring.

Elias laughed quietly.

Then he turned the page.

The handwriting changed.

It became hurried.

Uneven.

September 13.

I saw him again.

Elias stopped.

The next entry.

September 15.

He looked like my father.

Another.

September 19.

My father has been dead eleven years.

Another.

September 21.

He knows my son’s name.

Elias’s smile disappeared.

He kept reading.

September 25.

I heard Elias crying beneath the house.

Elias’s heart began beating faster.

He was asleep beside his mother.

But I heard him calling me.

Daddy.

Elias closed his eyes.

He continued.

I went to the house.

The next page contained only one sentence.

IT WAS WAITING FOR ME.

Elias turned another page.

Blank.

Another.

Blank.

Then the final page.

Only four words.

DON’T LET ELIAS RETURN.

Elias stared.

Return from where?

He heard footsteps behind him.

He turned.

His mother stood at the attic entrance.

She was crying.

“You found it.”

Elias held up the notebook.

“What house?”

She didn’t answer.

“The house from the photograph.”

Silence.

“Mom.”

She closed her eyes.

“The house under the hill.”

---

That evening, she finally told him about it.

The house had stood in the forest for more than a century.

Nobody knew exactly who had built it.

But every generation had a story about the family who lived there.

A father.

A mother.

A son.

And every story ended the same way.

The son died.

The father refused to accept it.

Then the father disappeared.

Years later, the dead father would appear again.

Always at midnight.

Always outside a window.

Always asking for his son.

Elias listened.

“What happens after that?”

His mother looked at him.

“The son disappears.”

“And?”

“His father comes back.”

Elias felt cold.

“That’s impossible.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you believe it?”

“Because your father went there.”

“And he died.”

“Yes.”

“But why?”

His mother whispered,

“Because he thought he could break the curse.”

“What curse?”

She looked directly into his eyes.

“The Father Curse.”

Elias almost laughed.

Then he saw her expression.

She wasn’t joking.

“What does it do?”

“It doesn’t kill the father.”

“What then?”

“It keeps him.”

“What does that mean?”

His mother lowered her voice.

“When the father dies…”

She paused.

“…something takes his face.”

Elias remembered the figure at his window.

His father’s face.

Those black eyes.

That impossible smile.

He whispered,

“Then what did I see?”

His mother answered,

“Something pretending to be your father.”

---

At midnight, the house became cold.

Elias lay awake.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the black house.

He couldn’t stop thinking about his father’s notebook.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the photograph.

Then—

Knock.

Elias sat upright.

His heart began pounding.

Knock.

He looked toward the window.

Knock.

The same three knocks.

He slowly got out of bed.

The curtains were still.

The window was empty.

He took one step closer.

Then another.

A shadow appeared on the other side.

Elias froze.

The shadow belonged to a man.

His father.

But this time, Elias didn’t scream.

He stood there.

Watching.

The figure raised its hand.

It pointed toward the forest.

Toward the hill.

Then it mouthed something.

Elias leaned closer.

“What?”

The figure repeated it.

This time Elias understood.

COME HOME.

The window suddenly cracked.

Elias jumped backward.

The figure vanished.

On the glass, written in water, were four words.

HE IS WAITING BELOW.

Elias stared at them.

His mother appeared behind him.

She saw the writing.

Her face collapsed.

“No.”

Elias turned.

“Mom.”

She shook her head.

“Don’t go.”

“Go where?”

“The house.”

“You knew this would happen.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because your father warned me.”

“What did he say?”

She looked at the window.

“He told me that when you turned seventeen…”

Her voice broke.

“…he would come for you.”

Elias felt the room spin.

“Why me?”

His mother cried.

“Because the curse needs a son.”

A long silence followed.

Then Elias looked toward the forest.

The black house was visible between the trees.

Its windows were glowing.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

All seven windows lit at once.

Then the lights went out.

Elias whispered,

“I have to go.”

His mother grabbed him.

“No!”

“He’s my father.”

“He isn’t!”

“I need to know what happened.”

“You’ll die.”

“Maybe.”

“Elias!”

He looked at her.

“But if I don’t go, I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering whether Dad was trying to save me.”

His mother began crying.

Elias hugged her.

“I’ll come back.”

She held him tightly.

“You don’t understand.”

“What?”

Her voice was barely audible.

“The people who go to that house…”

She looked at him.

“…are not always the ones who come back.”

Elias stepped away.

He picked up his father’s pocket watch.

The second hand began moving.

Backward.

He opened it.

The photograph inside had changed.

His father was gone.

Elias was standing alone.

And behind him stood the black figure.

New words appeared beneath the photograph.

MIDNIGHT TOMORROW.

Then another line appeared.

COME ALONE.

Elias stared at the message.

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.

Somewhere in the forest, a man’s voice whispered his name.

“Elias…”

He closed the watch.

The voice came again.

Closer this time.

“Elias…”

Then three knocks sounded from beneath his bedroom floor.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Elias looked down.

His mother screamed.

And beneath the wooden floorboards—

something knocked again.

END OF CHAPTER ONE