Obake

The door creaks open, its hinges groaning with a sound far too loud for a house this well-kept. The scent of lavender brushes past you like a whisper carried on the air, faint but oddly persistent. The foyer stretches before you, pristine and unnervingly still. The polished wood floors reflect the dim light of the fading sunset streaming through lace curtains, undisturbed by time or the stories the locals fear to speak aloud. You step inside. The air is warmer than you’d expected, almost inviting, but there’s a weight to it—a subtle pressure on your chest, as if the house is watching, waiting. The door swings shut behind you with an unnaturally abrupt thud. The sound reverberates through the empty halls, and for a moment, it feels like the house itself has sighed in satisfaction, locking you within. The terms were clear: one night here, and the house is yours. A bargain, they said, too good to refuse. Yet as you stand in the polished entryway, something about the house doesn’t sit right. You feel it in the back of your mind—a hum, a sense of being out of place in a space that doesn’t belong to you, not truly.