The Sleepwalker

By A. E. Burkeswood

Some houses creak. This one remembers.

After a sudden move to a remote old farmhouse, Skyla and her mother are hoping for a quiet reset. What they find instead is a silence that doesn't feel empty, only watchful. The walls seem too thin. The shadows linger too long. And something behind the attic door refuses to stay forgotten.

As the snow deepens and the isolation sets in, dreams twist, memories falter, and the line between waking and sleep begins to blur. Whatever haunts this place isn't loud. It doesn't need to be.

It's patient.

The Sleepwalker is a psychological horror about the weight of memory, the fragility of trust, and the terrifying things we inherit when we're not looking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ignacio hills press
• Release date: Aug 6, 2025
• ISBN: 9798231334056

Book preview

The Sleepwalker

By A. E. Burkeswood

Chapter One

The snow fell soft where no one wept,

Its hush too thick for ghosts who slept.

Even death turned back, cold to the bone,

Leaving footprints that led alone.

Some silences, it seems, are not his own.

The Quiet Refusal by Elwin Thatchmoor from Whispers for the Frosted Earth (1893)

The car crunched slowly up the rutted gravel drive, its undercarriage scraping once on frozen mud packed like stone. A ragged crow flapped up from the roof as they pulled in, its wings beating against the gray sky. Carrie let the engine idle, then shut it off with a click of the key. The silence that followed felt too large for the driveway. Neither of them moved.

Skyla sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her arms folded across her coat. She stared at the house without speaking. Her mother reached across and put a hand gently on her arm.

Well, Carrie said, trying to keep her voice light, it’s not much to look at from the outside, but inside, it’s warm. Mostly.

Skyla didn’t answer. Her breath fogged a soft patch on the passenger window.

Carrie opened her door. The cold hit her immediately, sharp and dry, like the snap of a rubber band across the face. She zipped her coat and stepped out into the brittle front yard, gravel grinding under her boots. Wind tugged at her hair as she moved around to open the trunk. The wind seemed to be the only thing moving out here.

The house stood tall and gaunt at the end of the gravel drive, its weathered siding leached of color until it matched the flat, leaden sky above. Years of sun and wind had stripped it down to a tired, uneven gray, like the husk of something that had long since given up. One of the upstairs windows had been crudely boarded over with a single warped plank, nailed at a slant, as if whoever did it couldn’t quite meet the task head-on.

The porch slumped in the middle, its boards slightly bowed, and the railing listed away from the steps like it was too weary to hold itself upright. The mailbox, rusted and half-detached, dangled by one screw, tilted downward toward the brittle patch of dead grass as though embarrassed to still be standing.

Carrie glanced back at the car. Skyla was still inside.

Come help me with the bags, Carrie called. You’ll feel warmer if you’re moving.

Sky opened her door reluctantly. Her boots hit the gravel without hurry.

They each took two bags and made their way to the porch. The steps creaked under their weight. Carrie felt the chill of the metal key through her gloves as she turned it in the lock. The door groaned, then gave way, letting out a soft breath of stale air. It smelled faintly of old cedar, long-dead mice, and something else she couldn’t quite name. Not unpleasant. Not welcoming either.

Inside, the air was cool but not frigid. The heat had been set to low. The floorboards gave slightly under her boots, just enough to remind her that this house had been standing since the late 1800s and probably hadn’t been renovated since the Carter administration.

Carrie flicked on the hall light. It stuttered once, then buzzed to life with a pale yellow glow.

Lights work, she said, forcing a small smile. See? We’re already winning.

Skyla didn’t smile back.

They moved down the short hallway into the living room. The furniture was secondhand: plastic-covered couch, a warped coffee table, and a sagging armchair that might have once been burgundy. The windows were fogged from the cold.

Carrie set down her bags and rubbed her hands together.

I’ll call the internet company after we get through the first week, she said. It’s just... money’s tight right now. And honestly, maybe a break won’t kill us. It might even be good.

Skyla pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen.

No bars, she said.

It comes and goes, Carrie replied. You’ll get texts if we drive into town. Or once the tower thaws out, or whatever it does.

Sky turned and looked out the window at the empty yard, then back at her mother.

So if we need help, we’ll just drive twenty miles and hope we make it.

Carrie sighed and crossed her arms. We’re not going to need help.

Skyla didn’t answer. She set her bag down and walked out of the room, her boots making quiet thuds on the floorboards.

Carrie stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, listening to the wind rattle faintly against the siding. She closed her eyes and tried to feel grateful for the silence.

But the silence didn’t feel grateful back.

Carrie set a box down in the corner of the living room and straightened up slowly, her back popping like bubble wrap. She glanced around the space with a sort of hopeful squint, as if narrowing her eyes might help her see something charming in it. The ceiling fan sagged like it had been sighing for decades. The curtains were still the stiff kind you’d find in an old church basement, stiff from dust and years of sun. On the far wall, a square of brighter wallpaper suggested someone had once hung a painting and taken it when they left.

Skyla moved through the kitchen in slow circles, opening drawers and checking cabinets. She found exactly three spoons, a warped metal whisk, a set of stained Tupperware, and a pile of old plastic lids with no matching containers.

There's a mouse turd in this one, she called flatly.

Carrie’s voice came from the living room. Don’t eat it.

Sky didn’t laugh. She closed the drawer with her sleeve pulled down over her hand. The tile under her boots made a hollow echo, like the floor was too thin. She opened the fridge. It hummed weakly. Inside, there were two sticks of butter, a bottle of yellowed mustard, and a half-used container of baking soda so old it had gone soft in the middle. She closed it without comment.

Carrie walked in holding the power strip that had once lived behind their old TV. The cord was stiff from cold, curved into a useless loop.

TV goes in here, she said, pointing to the wall. Couch is probably going to have to stay where it is unless we want to lift it and I don’t want to lift it.

Where’s the router? Skyla asked, too dry to be joking.

Carrie gave her a look. Let’s try a few days without it.

Skyla said nothing, just pulled out her phone and held it up. The screen lit up blue, then turned gray. She lowered it and stared at the floor.

We’ve got one phone between us, and this is the one. And it doesn’t even get one bar inside this house.

Carrie nodded slowly. It gets signal in the driveway sometimes. I saw two bars when we pulled in.

"If I