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"A hundred n’ fifty flat. Utilities are on you." You blinked at the keys in your hand. Certainly you had heard him wrong.
“150?”
“Hundred fifty.”
"Th-The ad said 500 a month," you said. The gentleman--Richard, the ad said--spit into the rusty gold pot at his feet.
"What, you wanna pay more?" he questioned. You sucked in your lips and shook your head, closing your fingers around the keys. It looked like he smiled, but without any teeth it was hard to tell. "I figure not. The ad's old. I'd rather have someone in there takin' care of the place anyhow. Lord knows I can't do it no more."
You nodded, looking once more at the keyring in your hand. Three keys stared back at you, all silver, tape stretched over their faces and sharpie'd with their purpose. One for the front door, one for the back, and the last key without a label. You didn't have the courage to ask about it. This was too good an offer to screw up with too many questions, so you chose to ask the important ones.
"I’m not going to die in my sleep in a cave in, am I?" you asked. He wheezed out a laugh, slapping his hand on the arm rest of his rocking chair.
"There's a difference 'tween buying cheap and renting cheap." You tried to laugh at his joke, but it just seemed a little strange. 500 a month already WAS cheap for an entire house. Even out in the country. Unless you came across a cockroach infested shithole, you’d say you were getting some bang for your buck. 150 for a whole month, though?
There was a “why” somewhere in there. After all, good things don’t come this cheap. But, whatever it was, you supposed you'd see it when you got there. And since you don't pay rent until the end of the month, what was the harm in at least trying it out?
"Alright, anything else I need to know?" you asked, twirling the keys around your finger before sliding them in your pocket. He pressed his knuckles to his chin, swishing his tobacco around in his mouth and pondering.
"Mm. Don't mess with the closet in the guest bedroom," he said, leaning back in his chair. "Or, maybe it'll be your bedroom. I don't care. But the door's busted. Open it and you’ll be paying for the damage." He spit once more in his tin, then reached into his jean pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes. You resisted the urge to retch. "That's about it. Any other questions?"
"No, sir," you said, giving him your best trustworthy smile. "I'll take good care of your property." He waved his hand, cigarette clutched between two boney fingers.
"See to it that you do." With no other farewells, he lit his cig, and you took your cue to leave. As you slid into your driver's seat, you saw a woman walk out of the front door of the cabin and begin a conversation with the man. You offered a neighborly wave out of your window before starting your rental truck and pulling off onto the gravel road.
"So she took it?" she asked her husband, watching his steely gray eyes recede back into warmth. It was like a weight lifted off the man.
"Wave somethin' cheap in front of these kids and they jump for it." Took a hearty drag. "Don't stop to think." She nodded solemnly, resting her arm on the back of his chair and watching your tail-lights disappear off on the horizon.
"How long till she notices she ain't got no neighbors?" He sighed, smoke tickling his burned nostrils as it escaped.
"Not as soon as she notices the one livin' under her roof."
---
You almost felt bad. You already expected to get a loaded deal for 150 a month, but now you just felt like you were ripping the old man off.
For one, the house wasn’t just nice, it was gorgeous. Old, of course, that hadn’t been a secret, but the old woodwork still held up beautifully, from top to bottom. The furniture must have belonged to the owner, it all matched the home too perfectly. The kitchen had all working appliances despite their age, an up-to-date smoke detector, and the washer and dryer were fairly new. The place wasn’t even trashed.
Which begged the question: What was the “Why?”
You didn’t want to pass up a good thing on unfounded suspicions, but you just couldn’t help it. There had to be something. Some reason why this house was being rented out at a fraction of what it could be making, and that this old man trusted a single young woman to take care of it for him. Something below the surface; something that warranted this rock-bottom price.
But the more you saw, the more you felt the question slip from your mind. Everything was beautiful. The heater and water boiler worked. No bats in the rafters. No feral possums in the corner of the basement. You searched the house top to bottom before you even committed to bringing in the first box, determined to find this problem...and coming up blank.
Cracking open one of the mahogany doors on the second floor, you immediately saw the rogue closet in question. The door stretched from the floor all the way up to the ceiling, no slits or anything else in the sliding doors. It looked structurally sound, but maybe the door wasn't on the sliding track? That would be an easy fix.
The air in this room was a couple degrees cooler than the rest of the house but stale, as though it hadn’t been disturbed in years. A thin layer of dust covered everything, even the cracked paint on the closet door, and its doorknob. It had a lock, something you’d never seen on a sliding door, but otherwise was unremarkable. You pulled your keys out of your jean pocket, the one unmarked key that bore no purpose, and looked again at the lock.
You were just starting to think about how you might be able to salvage the door when a bump downstairs stole your attention, making you whirl around to face the hall. You stepped out into the hallway and looked down the stairs, waiting for any more noise.
Nothing.
Without a weapon to defend yourself, it took a lot of willpower to creep down the stairs, looking at the living room over the landing. Nothing was disturbed, the furniture seemed to be in all the right places. Neither the front door nor the back was open. Could something that loud be dismissed on creaky old house noises?
That was a possibility you hadn’t yet considered: Your new place may very well be haunted. Or rather, presumed haunted. You didn’t really buy into homeowner horror stories; the real estate market wasn’t determined by ghosts . You could find yourself believing their existence with the right evidence, but the idea that they’d spend their time focusing on living people, or even a single living person was silly.
You felt almost comically paranoid when you finished looking. There was nothing wrong with the house. Not that you could see, anyways. As you brought in your things, you reminded yourself to keep an eye and ear out. Nothing wrong with a bit of caution; whatever you were missing now might show up in the next couple of days. If it was indeed anything at all.
You carried in boxes from your moving truck until it got dark, and rather then stop then, you flicked on the lights and got to work unpacking. Besides a few broken or missing bulbs, the lighting system worked just fine too, another unexpected boon you got out of this place. Your life was feeling a little too good to be true.
You were halfway through your first box of clothes when the sight of your pajamas reminded you of how late it was. You glanced at the clock on the stove. Nearly 1 am.
"Oh, shit," you muttered to yourself, exhaustion hitting you like a wave at the realization. You'd been moving stuff for almost 10 hours, and even with a sizable dent in your progress, you knew it'd take you the whole week to get everything separated and put in its proper place. You took the pajamas in your hand--along with some underwear and your toothbrush, and made your way to the bathroom, getting ready for bed.
"Alright, so I have to finish unloading the truck and take it back tomorrow," you were muttering to yourself through the foam in your mouth, scrubbing your teeth with your toothbrush. "Gotta get dishes in the kitchen for breakfast, need my shower stuff, uhhh, shit, I didn't even make my bed yet."
You pulled your hair away from your face so you could gargle and spit, cool air tickling the surface of your clean teeth. You stood back up, meeting your own eyes in the mirror. Motion in the edge of the mirror, your eyes trailed to the left subconsciously.
You sucked in a breath and whipped around, hands finding the bathroom counter and grabbing hold. There was nobody behind you.Nobody in the mirror when you looked again. But you could have sworn you saw...something, a figure, but not a person. The door to the bathroom was open, unmoved. Nothing moving in the hallway.
Of course, the bathroom walls were a light green, it could have very well been a shadow. Obviously. What a perfectly acceptable, logical conclusion. You turned back to your own reflection, laughing off your own silliness, but the hairs on the back of your neck were still standing.
--
You were starting to think this house was a little too big for you alone.
You weren't used to sleeping in here yet, even though your bed was set up just like it was when you were home. There was just something ethereal about the sound of air moving through such a massive, empty house. The rattle of old glass against equally old wood didn’t make for peaceful sleep.
The weather hadn't been kind to you ever since you'd moved in either. Grey and dreary, raindrops drizzling on your roof but never downpouring. Sometimes, between the showers, you'd hear creaks and groans in the craft wood throughout the house.
You couldn't say it didn't scare you. But at least you'd learned by the second night that you didn't need to check on every bump in the night. You never found anything.
You were nearly finished unpacking, your last 3 days spent laboring over cardboard boxes, tangles of wires and missing clothing. A lot of missing clothing. You would have pardoned it on a single missing box, but it seemed more like one or two things were missing from each separate pile. One pair of pajamas. Your favorite sundress. A shirt or two.
At the very least, you'd opened the last of your clothes today, so you were done with unpleasant surprises. You needed to be more careful with your stuff, especially when the store was half of a tank of gas away.
Your closet was filled now, shoes lining the floor and clothes hanging in rainbow order. You hadn't needed to get into the other one like you'd feared, the closet in this room was plenty big enough for you. Though, if you needed storage space, you were thinking about fixing it up anyways.
More than once, the thought crossed your mind: Why you were so insistent on making use of it? You certainly had more than enough room in this house for you and all of your stuff, and a single car garage that you could use if you ever needed it. Why did you have to make use of a tiny closet in the guest bedroom?
Of course, you answered that question for yourself whenever you saw your house keys in the dish on the counter. You were just curious. And if that were the case, nothing would stop you from opening it up and sating your curiosity, right? Right.
But you never so much as brought the keys upstairs.
The guest bedroom didn't see your attention much, despite your interest. You were much more focused on hauling your things upstairs, to line your drawers, your wall, your shelves. The only room that got stocked faster than your own was your kitchen.
The weather was still cloudy, but less so, the dreamy gray giving the impression of the sun behind the clouds. It cast a dim shadow across your room, the perfect amount of light for you to work by. You carefully unboxed miniature statues, jewelry, anything you had packed to fill the bare walls and give the home your own touch.
You could foresee yourself spending most of your time in your room. Everything you need would be in here, you could be closed off in a comfortable little cube while this massive house goes untouched around you. And all the better for it; you didn't think you could bring yourself to clean the whole thing.
You had your electronic alarm clock hooked up, but it still flashed at 12:00, the only indication of time passing being the square of light that moved over the room as the sun traveled across the sky. The clouds darkened, then the sun behind them, and only when you couldn't see in front of you anymore did you check your phone for the time. Almost eight.
Already feeling the creak in your joints, you eased yourself into standing slowly, stretching out your limbs as you went. Around you was looking much better than it had when you moved in. Though you couldn't do anything about the aged furniture and the out-of-style wallpaper, the decor and style was all you. Satisfied with your work, you made your way to the door and flipped on the hallway light. A flash of red made you glance down.
In the middle of the floor, one of your scarves was coiled in a messy pile. You blinked, grabbing onto the knit and holding it up to examine. You had carried your winter gear up this morning. You certainly would have noticed if you had dropped this by now. You held it to your chest and glanced around, though you couldn't put a name on what you were looking for. You certainly didn't have an explanation for it.
You wound up wrapping it around your neck before you walked downstairs, laughing to yourself. "Yeah, that's why my clothes' are missing. They're walking away."’
Your stomach was rumbling by the time you got to the bottom step, ignored since lunchtime. But something else hit you then as well, a staunch odor that practically singed your nose hairs as it entered. The stench of gas was nauseating. You covered your nose with the scarf, dashing for the kitchen entrance and running over to the stove.
Just as you suspected, one of the knobs was turned on high, gas leaking from the spigot and into the air. It hadn’t been on long, judging from the prominence of the stink, but it had done a number on the kitchen. Making double sure it was turned off, you cracked open the window above the sink and left the kitchen to clear out. You were too pissed about your insatiable hunger to even consider how it might have happened.
--
Things were slowly, but surely, falling into place.
From the front door, your moving truck rental was gone and your car had taken its place in the driveway. Your interior was actually decorated, your own posters and decor standing alongside the paintings already on the wall. The fridge was covered in magnets, your bed was unkempt and your laundry piling up in the corner. Every day the house felt more and more lived in, and every day brought it closer to being your true home.
The only thing you had left at this point was to get a job. You had 3 months of rent saved up before you even accepted the offer, and since he was renting it out to you at only a fraction of what you had expected, that money was going to last you even longer. But not forever.
You stepped out onto the porch, the wooden roof blocking off the drizzle that trickled along the edges. Steam rose from your cup of tea, warming your cheeks in the light chill. You wondered what the neighbors did for a living.
But the area around here was quiet. Though there were a couple houses up and down the rolling green landscape that you saw from your front porch through the fog, you never saw any lights on, or any cars in the driveway. Already, you expected seclusion, but over the last week you'd slowly come to understand that you were the only person in the area.
That started to worry you.
Maybe that was why the old man was so willing to pawn the house off on you, there was something in the area that was warding people off. But if that were true, how would you have even gotten here? Certainly there would have been something, some sort of order from the local law not to let anyone live here. That didn't seem likely either.
But then again, no explanation you could come up with made sense. So, you tried to let it rest, but that wasn’t satisfying you anymore. You had been accepting that answer for too many strange events lately, and it was starting to get on your nerves. Nothing was more unsettling than the unknown. And you wanted to be settled.
-
The nearest town was unimpressive, a single water tower the tallest structure around. Folks were looking at your car from porches and storefronts, but the further you got into town, the less they stared. Probably just unused to outsiders. You doubted they got many out here.
You scanned the buildings on either side of the road, taking a couple turns here and there until you found a diner that seemed alight with activity. You were looking for a bar--alcohol tended to loosen peoples lips--but this early in the afternoon, it looked like here was your best shot.
You expected more of a stir when you walked in, but unlike the outside everyone was too preoccupied in their own conversations to gawk at the outsider. You made your way to the counter undisturbed, sliding into a stool in between what looked like a trucker and an old woman sitting with her husband. A curly-haired waitress bounced over to you just as you picked up the menu before you.
"Hey there hun, what can I get for you?" she asked. You looked over the list of drinks, pursing your lips before putting it back down.
"I'll take a sweet tea, and a minute of your time if you have it?" Her smile wavered a little, but not for long.
"Sure thing, just give me a moment." You signaled for her to take her time, and watched as she slowly made her way down the counter, tending to every customer that needed tending to before placing your glass before you and leaning her arm against the counter.
"So, what do you need?" You weren't sure how to approach the topic. You had seen in movies where the very mention of a place or person could turn an entire restaurant silent, and you weren't sure if your house would be such a place. What if it was a local taboo to discuss?
Well, if it was, at least you'd know to get the hell out of there. "I just moved in the area, was wondering if there was anything I should know."
She looked a little confused, tapping her baby blue nails on the countertop. "Like what?"
"Well, I just noticed that..." you were starting to feel a little silly. "I don't have any neighbors. And I was wondering what was up with that?"
She tilted her head to the side. "Where'd you move in at?"
“Dwyer Street?" At that, her eyebrows perked up--then lowered immediately.
"Oh, that neck of the woods." She shrugged, stroking her chin with her thumb. "Can't say I know for sure, I just know way back when, one family moved in, and next thing you know everyone else is moving out." She ducked her head, pointing as subtly as she could. and you followed her lead and looked cautiously. "Some of those folks moved into town, others hit the hills and never looked back."
"What, were they serial killers or something?" The man she had pointed to didn't look special, just enjoying a cup of coffee with the two other men at his table.
"Who can say? I just know that nobody wanted to be anywhere near that house. Sure enough, the family disappeared too. Moved back to their home country, from what I understand." Someone called her name, and she turned to look at them, holding up one finger before looking back at you. "Ask around, somebody might be able to tell you. Though, if that family is gone, I don't see no reason why folks can't take their homes back."
With that, she walked away, leaving you with more answers than you expected, and many, many more questions. You looked again at the man, laughing at something one of his compatriots told him, and left a couple dollars on the counter for your drink before making your way over to him.
"Excuse me? Can I have a moment of your time?" Both of the man’s friends turned to look at you, but he continued to tend to his coffee. You pursed your lips. "I just had a question about your old house."
The mans face dropped, and you felt a little hesitation in your heart before you pressed on with your question. "I just moved in, and I was told that everybody moved out a few years ago--I was just wondering why?"
The man lowered his coffee cup to the table. His face was almost as pale as his porcelain mug. "How'd you know I lived there?"
Oh shit, you didn't even think about how invasive you were being until now. You didn't want to get the waitress in trouble, but you didn't have an excuse on hand, so you just froze up, stuttering like an idiot. "Ah...I-I...um,"
He waved his hand, hunching over the table and wrapping both of his hands around his coffee. "I don't want to talk about that place ever again. That's why I moved out of there. And if you're smart, you'd move out too."
"But why?" Your question was punctuated by the sound of shattering glass. Every pair of eyes, including yours, turned to the counter. Your glass of tea, barely over halfway full, laid in a pile on the floor, ice cubes still floating in the shallow pool of liquid. The people sitting next to your empty spot looked just as confused by the spill as everyone else. You turned back around to the men, but the way they looked at you was of absolute horror.
“You live in Richie’s old place,” the man whispered, leaning away from you.
"God be with you," another said, crossing himself with a rosary he pulled out of his shirt pocket.
Confused and off-put, you felt yourself become a backseat driver in your own body. You heard your own voice echo in your mind as you stuttered a goodbye, sliding away from the table. You tried to make your way to the exit, and through your slight tunnel vision you noticed more people staring at you, even after you walked out of the glass doors and back to your car.
The man was right, the guy you had gotten the keys from was named Richard. Which meant that this family, possibly serial killers, had lived in what was now your house. You had wondered why the man was living in a run-down cabin compared to the 3 story house he was giving up for rent, why everything was so cheap, and now you had an idea as to why.
So, your house was taboo, and you half knew why. Maybe people had been killed in your basement? You had seen anything to even suggest crazy people had lived there, but then again, maybe they’d cleaned it up to make the house an easier sell.
But, despite everything, the waitress was right. If the family that made everyone leave was gone, what was keeping people from coming back?
--
“I think my house is haunted.”
“No shit?” You leaned against the arm of the couch, switching your phone to your left ear.
Well, I don't actually think that." You glanced over your nails, noting how you'd been nervously chewing at them since you got home from the town. That wasn't a habit you were trying to get into. "But everybody else seems to think it is, and I don't want to be like, that chick in horror movies that gets killed by the demons because she doesn't want to leave her house."
"Ah yes. That chick in the horror movies. I love her." You rolled your eyes back in your head.
"I mean, really though. As in, I have no neighbors. Because people think this house is so goddamn haunted." Your friend hummed, a drip of concern ebbing into their voice.
"Was it a Satan house?"
"I don't think so." A deeper, more contemplative hum on the other end.
"But are you sure?" You puffed up your cheeks.
"Goddammit, I want to keep this house!" They picked up on the sarcasm in your voice, and they quipped back just as enthusiastically.
"Well, I'm sorry to break this to you, but if you want to keep your Satan house so bad, you're going to become Chick in Horror Movies, who dies clutching onto her beloved white picket fence." You cracked up, and as an afterthought, they added: "Can't have your cake and eat it too."
"Ah shit," you wheezed between laughter. holding the phone away from your ear as you struggled to regain your composure. "I fuckin love you."
You thought you heard them say it back, but the crash in the kitchen was louder.
You were on your feet in an instant, heartbeat ringing in your ears. You could see the kitchen from the living room, the massive arch giving you easy sight of everything to the far wall. Nobody was in your kitchen. Not unless they were hiding behind the counter.
Near paralyzed, you raised your phone to your ear. You couldn't raise your voice above a whisper. "I just heard something break in my kitchen."
"You're fucking with me." To anyone else it would've sounded flippant, but you knew your buddy well enough to know they were as on edge as you felt.
"I-I'm gonna...check."
"Okay." Knowing your bestie almost certainly had 911 on standby for you, you felt a little more confident rounding the couch, but not much. Already from here you could see the kitchen floor, shards of the plate that had fallen.
Inhale. You poked your head through the arch.
Nothing.
You released the breath you had stored in your lungs, dragging your whole body in and raising the phone to your ear once more. "A plate just fell."
"So no intruders?" They sounded relieved, but you just weren't feeling it.
"Not that I see." You knelt to assess the damage, lifting a fragment of the broken plate to inspect. It was one from the set that was already in the cabinets when you moved in; ones you hadn't even used. The piece you held was towards the edge, where you could read the inscription.
"--ver. Until my s--"
"Hang on a second." You friend piped down, allowing you to put the phone down and begin to assemble the pieces.
"Just rememb--"
"--ove you for--"
"--aves my bod--"
You weren't able to salvage some of the smaller pieces, but you got enough of it together that you were able to get the gist of the message.
"Just remember that I will love you forever. Until my soul leaves my body."
In the middle of the plate, a Kanji symbol you had no hope of translating was painted in the same color, edges tickling the words around the plate. It was a beautiful piece, definitely too fancy for you to eat off of. What a shame it broke.
You picked your phone back up. "I don't even use this plate, it's cool."
No response. You pulled the phone back and looked at the screen. Your friends name and picture stared back, the call still going...but when you held the phone up to your ear, you only heard your own breathing.
"Shit." You hung up and slid your phone on the counter, then went to grab the dustpan and broom.
How had that plate gotten out from the bottom of the cupboard?
-
Ever since your freak experience, sleep hadn’t been coming easy.
You tried to reason with yourself. Whoever had lived here before was long gone, in another country, and whatever they may or may not have done beneath this roof was in the past.
But just the idea that you might be living in the house where someone was murdered sent your stomach rolling. Especially if that meant your house was haunted.
You weren’t even sure why you thought that. Of every piece of evidence you had, none of them pointed strictly to the idea that murderers lived here. But, if it wasn’t that, it was something else equally horrible. The look of terror on that man’s face was enough to tell you that.
And then the kitchen. Alone it wasn’t much, but it just brought along all the memories of unexplained noises in your house, things you brushed off as normal. You weren’t sure if you could believe that anymore.
Now you were in a worse situation than before. You feared the unknown, so you sought answers. Now, the only answer you have is that something bad definitely went down around here, most likely in your own home. That was a much worse “unknown” to be afraid of.
You threw yourself face down on your pillow with a groan. You hated to admit that the most logical conclusion in your mind was that your house was haunted. The process of elimination you had to go through to find that the most likely explanation was staggering.
Why hadn't the owner told you the truth? You clenched your eyes shut, feeling a headache blooming in your temples. Of course he wanted to pawn this house off. That was your "why" right there; he didn't want anything more to do with this house than the neighbors did. He said he wanted somebody to take care of it for him, after all…
...And he also said something about the closet.
Back stiff straight, you rose like a zombie from its crypt. The keys were downstairs. It was late, you were supposed to be sleeping, and if your predictions were anywhere close to correct, you would probably see something in that closet that would render you unable to sleep for a week.
But you wouldn't be able to sleep not knowing either.
Even alone, you tiptoed down the stairs and to your kitchen. The clocks on the stove and microwave both read 1:58, and you mentally berated yourself as you took the keys off of the counter. You should be in bed. You could deal with this in the morning.
You took the keys upstairs. When you woke up, you were going to pack up and take these keys back to Richard.
You opened the door to the guest bedroom. Well, best not to be hasty. Maybe you were just assuming the worst. Maybe they were exaggerating about how awful everything here really was.
The moonlight caught on the paper white paint of the closet door. It was the first clear night in days. It was beautiful, like everything else in this house. Did you really want to let it go to rumour?
You didn't realize you were shaking until you were holding the key in front of you, jittering nervously before the lock. You had to know. It would help you sleep so much easier at night if you knew what was behind this door. Deep breath, you pushed the key in the lock and turned.
You weren't sure how the locking mechanism on a sliding door would work, and from the number of clicks, this lock didn't sound very standard in the first place. Then, everything came to a still, and the closet door slide open a crack. The door was loose, and when you took the handle, it took a mere flick of the hand to throw it open.
The image in your mind was gruesome. you had to blink to wash it away, to realize that wasn't what you were actually seeing. But you weren't sure if you liked the actual answer any better.
The closet was bare for its size, making the contents all the easier to parse. It was hard to tell in the darkness of the room, but you were pretty sure you'd recognize the pattern of your favorite dress anywhere. It was stretched over a small pile, unfolded but clean, and your gut seized a bit at the thought of all your other missing clothes.
You looked at the other corner of the closet, where an umbrella leaned against the wall in a sleek case. You reached out to grab hold of the handle, hidden in the shadows, and flinched when you felt the solid grip. Not an umbrella. That was a sword.
You weren't sure what to make of your discovery, but you could feel the hairs on the back of your neck raise again. You needed to get out of that house, no, out of that room, this instant.
You went to grab the closet door and close it, only to come back fruitless, the wood catching on the track and making you near jerk your arm out of the socket. You weren't going to waste time with it. You turned and sped towards the door, only to have it slam right in your face.
"Oh," you wheezed. Did this room have a window? You were starting to forget in your rush to hyperventilate, eyes flicking over the door in fear. Your feet weren't cooperating with you, legs shaking as you urged them to go somewhere. Anywhere. Nothing could force them.
Until the sound of metal whistling pierced your ears. That made you turn around.
The case, a dark brown wood with some indecipherable design, was falling to the floor, hitting the carpet soundlessly. In the air above it, at perfect chest height, a samurai sword pointed at you, moonlight reflecting off every inch of it's unscathed surface.
In the reflection of the metal, you swore you saw someone's smile, but there was nobody in the room but you. That was the only thing you could reason about the situation before your brain finally gave up and you passed out cold, collapsing to the ground.
---
The air was warm. Warm like summer, which made no sense because it was almost wintertime. You felt sheets over your body instead of your blankets, a light sheen of sweat over your forehead. When you cracked open your eyes, a ray of sunlight was cutting directly across your face, making you turn your head.
When had you fallen asleep?
"There she is." You didn't recognize that voice. You opened your eyes again, shielding them from the sun with your hand, and looked over the stranger in the corner of the room. He was sitting in a chair that you didn't recognize, though the wallpaper and carpet were the exact same. You were in the guest bedroom.
When the hell did you fall asleep?
"I hope you don't mind my decorating." His smile was earnest, but his eyes were hard, the emotion not quite melting them. His hair was bright green, but you could see the black of his roots showing through when he ran his fingers through. "It might be a little much for you."
You blinked. The bedside table was different, you hadn't realized that before. So was the sheets on the bed, And on your body, these pajamas looked straight of your mothers closet, baggy and button-up. You looked at the clock on the nightstand, only to find it was a classic analog clock instead of digital. The minute, second, and hour hands all seemed to be resting on 6, broken.
"Where am I?" you asked. Your legs felt anchored to the bed, not by any object, but by an invisible force. The man shifted to one side in his chair.
"Your house. My house." He smiled in a mischievous way that wasn't lost on you. "My bed."
The pieces were starting to click together in your head, into a painting that made you nauseous at the thought. "Are you haunting my house?"
He smiled, gently correcting you. "My house?"
"Oh my god." Your head fell back onto the pillow. Your house was haunted by the ghost of...the person who owned the house? Not a murder victim or demon summoned by some cult family? You wanted to ask how he died, but you rejected the very idea. You’d seen enough horror stories involving ouija boards to know that question wasn’t a good idea.
Though it pained you, you looked back at the man in the corner, trying to imitate his carefree smile. You didn't feel very convincing.
"Well if you'd let me up, I can leave your house." You tried once again to move your legs despite yourself, but once more found them pinned to the bed. The man looked amused with your attempt.
"You misunderstand. I don't want you to leave." Your forced smile fell apart with that. He pushed on the armrests to stand, making a tiny grunt of effort to do so. With a slosh of bodily fluids, a myriad of guts slid out from his untucked shirt and onto the floor, still attached to him by his intestine. You clenched your eyes shut and turned away, but the image was already burned into your mind.
"What is it?" You didn't like how close he sounded. You felt something warm and wet dripping onto your cheek, hot breath lingering in the air, but your eyes stayed shut. "Did you forget I was dead?"
"What do you want from me?" you hissed through gritted teeth. A single tear gathered at the corner of your eye.
"I want something that will make me feel alive again." He shifted even closer, his voice practically in your ear. "I think you can help me with that."
Finally, compelled through both terror and disbelief, you tore open your eyes to look at your captor. The first sight at his grisly, mangled visage, lacerated with a blade and rotten from decay, made them flutter back closed.
--
Could you pass out in a dream? Would you go to an even deeper level of your subconscious? That's certainly what it felt like, so dark and so deep that you couldn't even move. Every attempt at breath felt like you were in a plastic bag, so you tried to urge yourself out of it, instead opening your eyes to look around.
It was dark. You almost weren't sure if you had truly opened your eyes or if you were just staring at the inside of your lids, but you were just barely starting to make out the edge of a wall. Your ears were ringing.
Or rather, a ceiling. You were in bed, in the same room.
You still couldn't move when you urged yourself, everything down to your fingers locked tight in paralysis. You couldn’t resist when you felt the warmth of touch on your thighs, gently guiding your legs up until your toes breached the edge of your field of view.
“What are you doing?” you tried to ask, but your vocal chords wouldn’t shake. You were in your own pajamas once more, loose pants being dragged up your legs by gravity. The sensitive skin in your nose tingled with something strong, but you couldn’t place it. The ringing was growing more distant.
"I'll admit, I didn't bother you as much as I might have," you could hear his voice from the thin air, whispering over your ear like an afterthought. A warm, indistinct caress pulled your waistband up, exposing you inch by inch to the room. It felt warmer in here than it did earlier. "I didn't want you to run too soon."
You whimpered, the only thing you could do as long as he was influencing you. You watched your own legs do nothing, not even a twitch of your toes, while you screamed mentally for them to respond. Your pants were raised over your feet without a lick of resistance, falling to the ground and revealing a shadow of a face. Only for a second. Then he was gone again. Your whimpered turned to muffled screams.
"Don't do that," he warned, voice lilted. Playful. "Or else you might start breathing harder. And it won't taste very good."
You wanted to ask what he was talking about, but the sound in the background cleared up at just the right moment for you to realize. It was the smoke detector. The thought of your gas stove, of the man's ruined face...you fought against your invisible chains with everything you had.
"Oh?" You could hear his soft voice even over your own screams, like he was speaking right in your ear. "Fine, die faster then."
"Why?!" With closed lips, the single syllable was the most eloquent thing you could manage, when you truly had so many more words for him. You felt him remove your panties, dragged up your legs and on the floor before you got your response.
"Because I can follow you anywhere when you're alive, but you can't leave me at all when you're dead." Another wave of paralysis rode up your spine, rocking every one of your nerves stiff. Your vocal cords failed to shake any more, every attempt at a scream soundless. Your immobile eyes were just able to start picking up the first wisps of smoke crawling over the ceiling.
It didn't feel like he penetrated you, at least not with anything solid, but you could feel his warmth inside of you, his force stretching you and filling you perfectly with every inch he slid in. It didn't surprise you that those nerves responded, sending twitches and spasms through your body that you couldn't even feel.
"You should face death peacefully," he was telling you, what you imagined were his hands caressing your thighs and holding them together. The ceiling moved ever so slightly as the bed rocked beneath you. "Or else its energy may follow you."
"What, like you followed me?" You were glad he couldn't read your thoughts on top of everything else, but it certainly would have helped you now. All your panic, your fear and demands and screams, everything that came with facing death was trapped in your brain and only your brain, unable to express it in something as simple as a scream. And, of course, more immediate than your lingering death was your poltergeist, making use of you in your last, paralyzed moments.
You coughed against closed lips, eyes watering and nose burning as smoke began to fill your airways. You were really going to die.
The realization made your chest seize harder than the smoke. You should have never accepted this goddamn house.
His face materialized out of the gloom and you couldn’t look away, translucent form textured by the smoke clogging the air, eyes warm and affectionate.
“Don’t cry, darling,” he muttered, an invisible force brushing a tear from your eye. “It may be the end for you, but it’s only the beginning for us.”