Liam Turner, a thin, wide-eyed fourteen-year-old, drags a battered suitcase up the creaking steps. His mother, exhausted from the move, hurries inside, leaving Liam staring at the shuttered windows. Shadows seem to curl beneath the eaves, and the silence in the air feels thick, expectant. "Just stories," Liam mutters, pressing his palm to the cool blue door.

Liam glances at the closed bathroom door, remembering the warnings he'd overheard in town. The house feels too quiet, save for the distant rush of the river and the steady, rhythmic dripping echoing from the bathroom. He tries to focus on unpacking, but each drip seems to grow louder, pulsing in the walls. "It's just a leaky faucet," Liam reassures himself, though his voice trembles in the empty room.

Liam finds himself staring at the drain, unease prickling his skin. The water in the sink twitches, as if breathing, and the air grows damp and cold. Suddenly, the dripping stops. Silence falls, so complete it presses against Liam’s chest. "Liam..." The whisper curls up from the drain, soft as steam, chilling as ice.

Liam wakes with a start. He picks up his phone, staring at the glistening mark. The recording plays, static filling the room, and then—another voice, slick and hungry, hisses from within. "Don't leave me down here..."

The metal rattles, the drain convulses, and thick black water spills onto the floor. A pale hand, long-fingered and slick, emerges, gripping the edge with unnatural strength. The voice is closer now, a rasping secret. "You looked too long..."

Static crackles through the speaker, then a final whisper slides into the morning air. "Another one for the drain..." On Riverbend Street, the old blue house waits, its drains dark and hungry. Locals glance away as they pass, never daring to look too long, knowing some stories are more than just tales.