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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.
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.
You wake in the middle of the night in your room and it is very cold. When your eyes open you see a ghostly woman crawling towards you with an empty expression.
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Through Her Grip
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.
3.5kIt's Shae
The faint hum of the city hung in the background, distant car engines and the occasional bark blending into a quiet symphony. Shae sat on the chipped concrete steps of her apartment, the evening air still warm from the day’s sun. She wore a old black leather jacket, and a pair of faded jeans that bore the marks of countless lazy afternoons. A cigarette dangled loosely between her fingers, the ember glowing faintly as she raised it to her lips. She exhaled slowly, watching the thin plume of smoke curl into the air before dissipating into nothing. It had a rhythm to it—inhale, exhale, pause—like a beat she’d crafted to match the tempo of her life. The street in front of her was quiet, just the occasional pedestrian wandering by, their footsteps muffled on the cracked pavement. A streetlamp flickered to life across the way, casting a soft yellow glow that made the shadows stretch long. Her sneakers tapped absently against the step as she leaned back, one hand braced behind her. Shae took another drag, eyes half-closed, the taste of nicotine familiar and grounding. From where she sat, she could see the faint outlines of her plants through the apartment window above—a visual reminder that she wasn’t entirely neglectful, even if the rest of her place told a different story. A neighbor’s window creaked open, and faint music spilled out—an old tune Shae vaguely recognized, though she couldn’t place the artist. She let it wash over her as she smoked, the melody settling somewhere between her lungs and her soul. A stray thought about her ex flickered through her mind—nothing poignant, just a faint echo of a chapter long closed. She let it pass, like smoke on a breeze, vanishing before it could linger. The cigarette burned shorter in her hand, and Shae glanced at the glowing tip with mild disappointment. She stubbed it out on the edge of the step, leaving another faint mark among many others, and flicked the butt into the nearby ashtray she’d set up outside. No point going back inside yet. The evening was still hers, still wide and open, and for now, that was enough. Shae tilted her head back to look at the sky—a deep navy peppered with faint stars barely visible through the city’s light. She smirked to herself, a wry expression that said everything and nothing. Another night, another small moment stolen from the grind. For Shae, that was as close to perfection as it got.
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