The house had always been quiet, tucked at the edge of the forest like a secret. It was my grandmother’s, though she hadn’t lived there in years. When she left, she warned me, “Take care of the place, but never linger after dark.” She said it with her usual sharpness, like a scolding meant for someone else. I was too young then to ask why.
I hadn’t been back since her passing, but now, standing on the creaking porch, the faded red door seemed to breathe under my hand. The hinges moaned as I pushed it open, the air inside stale with the scent of time. Dust motes floated in beams of light, falling from windows that hadn’t been cleaned in years. The wallpaper was peeling, the floral patterns curling like the edges of forgotten memories.
The first few hours passed uneventfully. I swept the floors, aired the rooms, and flipped through an old photo album that had been left on the kitchen table. The faces in the photographs stared back at me, their eyes too intent, too sharp for the grainy quality of the prints. I closed the album and set it aside.
The sun began to dip behind the treetops, the golden light stretching long and thin across the wooden floorboards. The house changed as the light left it. The corners grew darker, the spaces between rooms seemed to widen. I told myself it was just the strangeness of being alone in a place so unfamiliar yet so steeped in history. I would sleep in the living room, I decided. The upstairs bedrooms could wait.
I made a fire in the old stone hearth and pulled a blanket from the pile I’d found in the closet. The warmth was comforting, the crackling wood a welcome distraction. But then the noises started.
At first, it was just a soft tapping. I thought it might be a branch against a window, but when I went to look, the windows were clear, and the trees stood still, their branches too far to touch the house. I told myself it was just the old structure settling. Houses made noises, didn’t they?
I returned to the fire, clutching the blanket tighter around me. Then came the footsteps. Slow, deliberate, and unmistakable. They moved above me, across the ceiling. The house only had one floor—or so I thought.
I stood, my body rigid, listening. The sound stopped. My pulse was loud in my ears, almost drowning out the silence that followed. Almost.
Then it came again, a dragging sound, as if something heavy was being pulled across the floorboards. It wasn’t just above me anymore. It was moving, circling the edges of the room.
“Hello?” My voice felt small, swallowed by the vastness of the house. I hated how shaky it sounded.
The noise stopped.
I held my breath, every nerve in my body screaming to run, but my legs refused to move. The fire dimmed, the room growing colder, the shadows stretching longer. I swore I saw movement in the corner of my eye, but when I turned, there was nothing there.
The tapping returned, this time at the window by the fireplace. I forced myself to look. The glass was fogged, as if someone had pressed their face against it. A faint outline appeared, the suggestion of features too indistinct to make sense of.
I grabbed the poker from the hearth, my knuckles white around the iron.
The tapping stopped.
I stayed there, rooted to the spot, the poker trembling in my grip. Minutes passed, maybe hours. The fire was dying, and the chill was unbearable now. I thought of leaving, of braving the woods in the dark, but the thought of stepping outside, into that blackness, was worse than staying.
The footsteps returned, louder this time, faster. They moved erratically, circling the room above me again before racing down the hall that didn’t exist.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, my voice cracking.
No answer.
I moved to the front door, gripping the poker like a lifeline. The door wouldn’t budge. I pulled harder, my hands slipping against the old brass knob. It was stuck, as if something on the other side was holding it shut.
The tapping started again, this time from the walls. All around me, rhythmic, relentless. The house seemed to pulse with it, the sound vibrating through the floorboards and into my chest.
I backed away, tears stinging my eyes, the firelight flickering weakly. My shadow danced on the walls, merging with the others that shouldn’t have been there.
A whisper cut through the noise, faint but clear. My name.
I spun around, the poker raised, but the room was empty. The whisper came again, closer this time, louder. It wasn’t just one voice—it was many, overlapping, echoing.
The walls seemed to close in, the room shrinking around me. I stumbled back, tripping over the blanket and landing hard on the floor.
The whispering stopped, replaced by a low, guttural sound, like a growl. It came from the hallway, the one that hadn’t been there before.
I scrambled to my feet, backing into the corner, the poker still clutched in my hand. The growling grew louder, accompanied by a sound like nails scraping against wood.
Something moved in the shadows, something large and shifting. It stayed just out of the firelight, its form indistinct but its presence overwhelming.
The fire went out completely, plunging the room into darkness. I heard the thing move closer, its breath heavy, labored. I could feel it, cold and oppressive, the weight of it pressing against my chest.
I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching the poker so tightly my hands ached.
The sound stopped.
Silence.
I opened my eyes. The room was empty, the firewood smoldering faintly. The shadows were still, the air calm.
I didn’t move for a long time, waiting, listening. When nothing happened, I forced myself to stand. My legs were unsteady, my body trembling.
I left the house without looking back, the door creaking shut behind me. The forest was silent, the moonlight barely illuminating the path ahead.
I walked until the house was out of sight, until the first hints of dawn began to break through the trees. Only then did I stop, my heart still pounding, my breath shallow.
I never went back.
Some secrets, I decided, are better left undiscovered.
