The House Across the Field

At 2:13 every morning, the light came on in the empty house across the field.

Sofi noticed it the first night because she wasn’t sleeping. The second night, she waited for it.

At exactly 2:13, the upstairs window turned yellow.

The house had been empty since before she moved to town. Everyone agreed on that much. The roof sagged over the porch, weeds swallowed the driveway, and one winter storm had knocked the power line loose from the side of the house.

Still, the light came on.

On the fourth night, Sofi crossed the field.

The grass soaked the botSams of her jeans. She carried her phone with the flashlight on, although its beam seemed embarrassingly small once she reached the porch.

The front door stood open.

She was sure it had been closed before.

Inside, the house smelled like dust and cold wood. Wallpaper curled from the walls. Her light passed over an overturned chair, a fireplace filled with leaves, and footprints in the dust.

Fresh footprints.

They led upstairs.

Sofi almost left.

Then the light came on above her.

2:13.

She climbed.

At the end of the hallway was the glowing room. Its door was nearly shut.

Sofi pushed it open.

A lamp stood on a little wooden table beside the window, plugged into nothing.

Next to it was a chair.

And on the chair sat her red winter coat.

Sofi stopped breathing.

Her coat was supposed to be hanging in her apartment.

She stepped closer.

Something hard pressed against the coat pocket.

Her phone.

Same cracked corner. Same faded case.

The screen lit when she touched it.

2:12 a.m.

Sofi looked at the phone in her own hand.

2:14 a.m.

Then she heard footsteps downstairs.

Slow at first.

Crossing the room beneath her.

Finding the staircase.

Sofi backed toward the window.

Across the dark field, her apartment building stood exactly where it should have been.

One window was lit.

Hers.

Someone moved behind the glass.

Sofi raised a hand without knowing why.

The figure raised its hand too.

Behind her, the footsteps stopped.

The floorboard outside the room creaked.

Her phone vibrated.

A message appeared from her own number.

DON’T TURN AROUND.

She stared at it.

Then another message arrived.

That’s not what I wrote.

The lamp went out.

For a moment there was only the dark window, the distant light of her apartment, and a shape standing where her reflection should have been.

Sofi heard someone whisper her name.

She couldn’t tell whether it came from the hallway, the phone in her hand, or the person across the field.

Then the light in her apartment went out.

And somewhere in the darkness behind her, another one came on.

Sofi didn’t turn around.

The new light was weak and yellow, spilling past her feet from somewhere behind her. It stretched her shadow across the floorboards until it touched the wall beneath the window.

Except it wasn’t shaped like her.

Its head was tilted.

Sofi’s wasn’t.

Her phone vibrated again.

Walk toward me.

She stared at the message.

Another appeared immediately.

NO.

Then-

Please.

Then-

It knows you can see it now.

Sofi squeezed the phone so tightly the cracked corner bit into her palm.

“Who are you?”

Her voice barely left her throat.

The footsteps in the hallway didn’t move.

Neither did the shadow.

The other phone, the one inside the coat pocket, began to ring.

Same ringtone as hers.

Same vibration pattern.

Sofi looked at the red coat.

The screen glowed through the fabric.

She pulled the phone out.

Incoming call-

Sofi

Her own phone began ringing a second later.

Incoming call-

HOME

She almost laughed. Not because anything was funny, but because her mind had reached the place where fear stopped making sense.

Both phones rang.

The shadow on the floor slowly lifted one arm.

Sofi’s arms stayed at her sides.

She answered the phone from the coat.

“Hello?”

For several seconds, nothing.

Then breathing.

Her breathing.

Fast. Shallow.

A woman whispered, “Are you upstairs?”

Sofi couldn’t answer.

The voice continued.

“Listen carefully. You’re going to hear knocking.”

Three knocks came from downstairs.

Sofi flinched.

“Don’t go down.”

“Who is this?”

A pause.

“You already know.”

“I don’t.”

“You will.”

The call ended.

Sofi stared at the phone.

Its lock screen showed a photograph she had never taken.

It was the upstairs room.

The same lamp. The same chair. The same red coat.

But in the photograph, Sofi stood at the window with her back to the camera.

And someone stood behind her.

She dropped the phone.

It hit the floor but didn’t break.

The footsteps outside the room started again.

One.

Then another.

Closer.

Sofi climbed through the window.

There was no balcony, no roof beneath it, only the porch awning twelve feet below. She lowered herself until her fingers slipped from the sill.

She landed hard.

Pain shot through her ankle, but she rolled off the awning, dropped into the weeds, and ran.

Behind her, the upstairs light remained on.

She didn’t look at the window.

She crossed the field limping, stumbling through wet grass.

Halfway home, her phone vibrated.

You left it there.

Sofi kept running.

Another vibration.

You weren’t supposed to leave it there.

She reached her building, yanked open the front door and climbed the stairs two at a time.

Her apartment door was locked.

She unlocked it.

Everything looked normal.

Kitchen light off.

Shoes beside the door.

Coffee cup in the sink.

Television black.

Her red winter coat was hanging where she had left it.

Sofi stopped.

She touched the sleeve.

Dry.

Warm.

She checked the pocket.

Empty.

Her phone vibrated.

2:13 Samorrow.

She deleted the message.

It returned.

She deleted it again.

It returned.

She shut the phone off.

For the first time that night, there was silence.

Sofi stood in the middle of her apartment, trying to decide whether to call someone.

The police?

What would she tell them?

There’s a lamp in an abandoned house?

There’s another version of my coat?

My phone is texting me?

She walked to the window.

Across the field, the house was dark.

She pulled the curtains closed.

Then someone knocked on her apartment door.

Three times.

Sofi froze.

“Sofi?”

She recognized the voice.

Her downstairs neighbor, Mr. Chason.

“Sofi, are you awake?”

She moved toward the door but remembered the voice on the phone.

You’re going to hear knocking.

“Mr. Chason?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

Silence.

Then, “You dropped something.”

Sofi looked at the gap beneath the door.

A shadow stood on the other side.

“What?”

Another pause.

“Your phone.”

Sofi looked at the phone in her hand.

Still powered off.

Something slid beneath the door.

The second phone.

The one she had dropped in the abandoned house.

Sofi stumbled backward.

“Sofi?”

She didn’t answer.

The doorknob moved.

Once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

Footsteps retreated down the hallway.

She waited ten minutes before opening the door.

Nobody.

She picked up the second phone.

The screen was already awake.

There was a video playing.

Sofi saw herself standing inside her apartment.

Not recorded from the doorway.

Recorded from behind her.

She spun around.

Nothing.

On the video, she didn’t turn.

Video-Sofi remained completely still.

Then someone knocked on the apartment door.

Three times.

Sofi stared at the screen.

That had happened minutes ago.

But the video continued.

Video-Sofi walked toward the door.

She opened it.

The hallway was empty.

Then she looked down.

Something was lying on the floor.

A red winter coat.

Video-Sofi picked it up.

The screen went black.

Sofi heard fabric move behind her.

She turned.

Her coat was no longer hanging by the door.

The hook was empty.

She looked down.

The coat was lying at her feet.

Her phone turned itself back on.

2:12 a.m.

Sofi looked at the microwave clock.

2:26.

She checked the second phone.

2:12.

Then the wall clock.

2:12.

Her microwave changed.

2:12.

Outside, across the field, the upstairs light came on.

Sofi’s phone vibrated.

You have one minute.

“To do what?”

She hated herself for saying it aloud.

A reply appeared.

Choose which house is empty.

Sofi stared across the field.

The abandoned house looked different now.

Not restored.

Not exactly.

But there were curtains in the upstairs window.

Her curtains.

A plant sat on the sill.

Her plant.

Then a figure crossed the window.

Sofi stepped closer to the glass.

The figure returned.

A woman.

Barefoot.

Holding a phone.

Sofi.

Across the field, the other Sofi pressed her palm against the window.

Sofi raised hers.

The other woman shook her head violently.

Then she pointed behind Sofi.

Sofi did not turn.

Her phone vibrated.

2:13.

The apartment lights went out.

For a few seconds, the only illumination came from the house across the field.

Then the light there went out too.

Sofi stood in total darkness.

She could hear breathing behind her.

She closed her eyes.

A hand touched her shoulder.

And somewhere very far away, or perhaps directly beside her, a phone began to ring.

At sunrise, Mr. Chason found Sofi’s apartment door open.

He called her name.

No answer.

The apartment was empty.

Nothing looked disturbed except for a red winter coat lying in the middle of the floor.

He didn’t touch it.

Later, when the police came, they searched the building, the field, and the abandoned house.

They found no sign of Sofi.

They also found no lamp upstairs.

No chair.

No footprints.

No electricity.

Mr. Chason told them about the phone he had found in the hallway during the night.

The officers asked where it was.

He pointed toward Sofi’s kitchen counter.

There was nothing there.

One officer wrote something down.

The other looked through the window at the abandoned house.

“What time did you say you found the phone?”

Mr. Chason thought about it.

“Two-thirteen. Maybe.”

The officer looked at his watch.

Neither man noticed the upstairs window across the field.

Not at first.

A light had come on.

Someone was standing behind the glass.

Mr. Chason stepped closer to Sofi’s window.

The figure across the field lifted one hand.

He couldn’t make out the face.

Then something knocked three times from inside Sofi’s bedroom.

Both officers turned.

Mr. Chason didn’t.

Across the field, the figure was pointing urgently toward something behind him.

Or perhaps toward the apartment.

Or perhaps toward itself.

The light flickered.

For one instant, Mr. Chason thought he saw two people in the window.

Then one.

Then none.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

He took it out.

The message had come from Sofi’s number.

There were only four words.

Which house is empty?

Mr. Chason looked across the field.

Behind him, one of the officers said his name.

He couldn’t tell which house the voice had come from.

And when the knocking started again, neither could they.

Mr. Chason didn’t answer the message.

The knocking stopped.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

One officer, Gronberg, stood near Sofi’s bedroom door. His partner, Mok, remained beside the kitchen counter.

“Mr. Chason,” Gronberg said. “Come away from the window.”

Chason kept staring across the field.

The abandoned house was dark again.

“I saw someone.”

“We’ll check it.”

“You already did.”

Gronberg glanced at Mok.

“We’ll check it again.”

Chason finally stepped away.

His phone vibrated.

He didn’t look.

It vibrated again.

Then Gronberg’s phone did the same.

Then Mok’s.

All three men looked at one another.

Mok slowly pulled his phone from his pocket.

His expression changed.

“What?” Gronberg asked.

Mok turned the screen around.

A photograph.

The three of them standing in Sofi’s apartment.

Taken from the bedroom doorway.

Gronberg immediately turned toward it.

Empty.

Chason’s phone vibrated again.

He looked down.

DON’T LET THEM TAKE YOU ACROSS THE FIELD.

Gronberg was saying something into his radio now.

Chason barely heard him.

Another message appeared.

THEY AREN’T THE ONES WHO CAME IN.

Chason looked at the officers.

Mok was watching him.

“What does yours say?”

Chason locked the screen.

“Nothing.”

Mok stared at him for another moment.

Then somebody knocked on the apartment door.

Three times.

Gronberg drew his weapon.

“Police.”

No response.

He approached the door.

Chason whispered, “Don’t.”

Gronberg looked back.

“Why?”

Chason had no answer.

The knocking came again.

Three slow knocks.

Mok moved beside Gronberg.

Gronberg opened the door.

The hallway was empty.

Except for a phone lying on the carpet.

Sofi’s phone.

Or one of them.

Nobody touched it.

Its screen lit.

2:12 a.m.

Gronberg checked his watch.

8:41 in the morning.

The hallway lights flickered.

The phone changed.

2:13.

Across the field, the upstairs light came on.

Mok swore quietly.

All three men could see it now.

A woman stood in the window.

Gronberg lifted his radio.

“Dispatch, we have a possible person inside the abandoned residence.”

Static.

“Dispatch?”

A voice came through.

Weak.

Distorted.

Female.

“Don’t come over here.”

Gronberg lowered the radio.

Chason knew the voice.

So did Mok, judging by his face.

Gronberg pressed the button.

“Identify yourself.”

Static.

Then-

“Sofi.”

Chason closed his eyes.

Gronberg tried again.

“Sofi, are you inside the house?”

The radio crackled.

“I don’t know.”

The connection died.

By noon, county police had surrounded the abandoned house.

They searched it a second time.

Then a third.

No Sofi.

No lamp.

No furniture upstairs.

No footprints.

They brought dogs.

The dogs followed Sofi’s scent from her apartment, across the field, onto the porch.

Then they stopped.

Not lost.

Stopped.

One sat down.

The other pulled backward until its handler took it away.

The officers searched the surrounding woods.

Nothing.

By evening, Sofi’s disappearance had become a missing-person case.

By the next morning, reporters were parked near the field.

People came to photograph the house.

Some claimed they saw the upstairs light.

Others saw nothing.

A teenager posted a video online showing a figure behind the window.

Someone slowed the footage down and insisted there were two figures.

Someone else demonstrated that the image could have been a reflection.

The video disappeared two days later.

Nobody admitted deleting it.

Mr. Chason stopped answering questions.

He also stopped sleeping in his apartment.

He stayed with his sister thirty miles away.

For six nights, nothing happened.

On the seventh, he woke at 2:12 a.m.

His phone was ringing.

Unknown number.

He watched it until it stopped.

Then came a message.

You left me here.

Chason sat upright.

Another message.

Please come back.

He called the police.

While he waited, another arrived.

Not them.

Then-

You.

He turned the phone facedown.

A minute passed.

Nothing.

Then his sister knocked on the bedroom door.

“Sam?”

Chason didn’t answer.

“Sam, are you awake?”

He looked at the clock.

2:13.

“Yeah.”

“There’s somebody outside.”

Chason went cold.

“Where?”

“In the yard.”

He followed her downstairs.

The porch light illuminated wet grass, a mailbox and the empty road beyond.

Nobody.

His sister pointed.

“There.”

At the far edge of the property stood a woman in a red coat.

Chason opened the door.

His sister grabbed his arm.

“Don’t.”

“Sofi?”

The woman didn’t move.

“Sofi!”

Her head lifted.

Even at that distance, Chason thought it was her.

Then a car passed.

Its headlights swept across the yard.

For a moment the woman disappeared in the glare.

When darkness returned, she was gone.

Chason’s phone vibrated.

That wasn’t me.

He dropped it.

Sofi was missing for eleven months.

Then, on September 17, a woman walked into a gas station seventy miles away.

She wore no shoes.

She carried no identification.

The cashier later said she seemed confused but not frightened.

She asked what town she was in.

Then what year it was.

Then whether there was an empty house nearby.

The cashier called the police.

By the time they arrived, the woman was gone.

Security footage showed her entering the store at 2:13 a.m.

There was no footage of her leaving.

A detective compared the recording with Sofi’s missing-person photograph.

The resemblance was enough to reopen several leads.

Not enough to establish anything else.

Mr. Chason watched the footage once.

He refused to watch it again.

“That’s not Sofi,” he said.

When asked how he knew, he wouldn’t explain.

Three weeks later, the abandoned house burned.

The fire department blamed old wiring until someone pointed out that the house had been disconnected from the electrical grid for years.

The official cause was eventually listed as undetermined.

Nothing recognizable remained upstairs.

The property owner demolished what was left.

The basement was filled.

The land was sold.

A developer built six houses on the field.

Sofi’s apartment building was renovated.

New tenants moved in.

For a while, the story became something people told newcomers.

Then people stopped telling it.

Years passed.

Chapter 2 editor.reedsy.com/s/cs5edGu