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I make horror movies.

Or, well-I used to.

The last two years of my life have been the worst.

My films all failed.

People said that I was washed up, that I had lost my touch.

The critics blamed my repetitive scripts.

But that still wasn't the worst part.

We were a family of three-the perfect happily ever after: me, my beautiful wife, and my daughter.

I was 42 at the time when I made the biggest mistake of my life.

It was 2002 we were going to Florida to visit my brother. He was going through a rough time.

Midway through, it started raining heavily-a thunderstorm.

It was eight o'clock, and I was driving faster than I should have been.

My wife warned me

"Slow the car down. You're driving too fast."

I ignored her.

That was my biggest mistake.

A truck.

The driver asleep.

It slipped through and crashed into us.

When I woke up, my wife and daughter were not moving.

And it was my fault. All my fault.

If only I had listened to my her, maybe things would have been different.

I remember my daughter.

I remember her smile. Her joy.

Everything gone.

The only thing that brought me some happiness was my love for making movies-and that was fading too.

I needed inspiration, as nothing seemed to work.

I started to look through old novels and films.

Most were not up to my standards-except The King in Yellow by Robert Chambers.

It was a beautiful work of horror and perfectly fit my style.

It should have been my redemption.

I read the original version-but there were rumors of another manuscript. Somewhere hidden in Chambers' basement.

My father knew the Chambers family, as they used to live near us.

The Chambers family lived in the same neighborhood where my grandfather had lived.

The house always felt abandoned... haunted in a way.

The basement was deep inside the house, lit with a warm yellow light.

Inside were a study table and some shelves.

The first shelf had some documents.

The second shelf was stuck.

The third shelf held the manuscript.

The King in Yellow.

The book was handwritten by Chambers himself and was almost worn out.

I took it home that night as it was getting late.

The night was eerie to say the least.

I sat at my study table, turned on the lamp.

The lamplight flickered across the table, making the pages seem faintly yellow, though they were white before.

I begin to read

The King in Yellow - Chambers

"This is the original manuscript, not meant for publishing.

I woke up to the sound of rain. The night was all yellow and fake. ____ is the place for the King to be."

Wait-why is it redacted? The start was strange enough, but as I turned the pages one by one, it got weirder...

Gosh, I need sleep.

The next morning, I read a few more pages.

These were unlike the published book. Rather, they read like a script-a story or maybe a play.

"______ is where the defeated come, and _____ is where the victors go. The knowledge that can destroy even the strongest will."

It was completely different from the published story-like the play mentioned in the story.

I wanted to dig deeper.

That's why I went to see Robert Chambers' son.

His apartment was in central Manhattan-bigger than I expected, but strangely quiet, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. We talked about his father.

He told me Robert had been schizophrenic.

But it wasn't just the illness.

His father would... see things. Waking visions of a man in yellow, a mask hiding his face, always watching.

And he would whisper-or sometimes shout-words that seemed to stick in the air: "The King... Carcosa... he will take us."

There was a pause, like the memory itself had grown too heavy to speak.

And for a moment, I felt that weight too.

I asked him if his father had ever written these visions down. His eyes flickered, just for an instant.

"He... he kept journals," he said quietly.

"But some of them... some of them were never meant to be read."

The words hung between us, and I felt an unease crawling along my spine.

My pulse picked up, and I realized my curiosity had led me somewhere I might not be ready to go.

Still, I asked, "Do you know where they are?"

He shook his head slowly.

"I... I don't know if I should tell you.

There are things in those pages that change people. Make them see what should never be seen."

I laughed nervously, though the sound felt hollow.

Change people? Make them see... what? My mind buzzed, trying to picture the man in yellow, the whispers, Carcosa.

And in that instant, I realized curiosity isn't always a harmless thing.

It scratches at your thoughts, digs into your dreams, and sometimes... never lets go.

By the time I left his apartment, the sun had gone down.

Shadows had pooled in corners that hadn't been there before.

And when I walked home through the empty streets of Manhattan, I could almost swear I saw a glimpse of yellow, just for a second, flickering behind a window.

I shook my head. I was imagining it. I had to be.

But deep down, a voice in my mind kept repeating what his father once said.

"The King... Carcosa... he will take us"

I went back to my apartment and stayed up late, reading and studying the manuscript.

Another interesting fact I noticed was that

The date on the manuscript read March 14th, 1897.

But the original book had been published in 1895, hadn't it?

I double-checked.

Yes. So this... this was written after the book. Maybe he had seen something.

Something that had driven him insane.

I shook my head. I was overthinking.

Perhaps it was just a mistake in the date. I told myself to ignore it.

But then I noticed the time. The watch read 3 a.m.-though it had been just 10 p.m. a few minutes ago.

Broken?

Or had time itself... sped up?

And the clock... the clock was white. I swear it hadn't been. It had been brass, or light wood. Now it was stark, ghostly white, and the office felt... unreal.

Maybe I was sleepy.

Maybe I was dreaming.

Maybe none of this was real.

A thought flickered: Is this even real? Or is it just a play?

The phone rang, slicing through the silence.

I picked it up, but the line was dead.

I didn't move immediately. The office felt quieter than before. Too quiet.

I looked down at the manuscript. The page was open. I was sure it hadn't changed.

But it had.

A single new line had appeared at the bottom:

"You answered."

I froze.

I didn't remember reading that before.

And for the first time, I realized I wasn't sure I remembered anything at all.

The edges of the room seemed to blur.

The shadows pressed closer.

And somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, the whisper began again:

"The King... Carcosa... he will take us."

Maybe I'm sleepy... or am I just dreaming?

Is this even real?

Or is it just a play?

The phone rang again, breaking the silence.

The line went dead.

The window creaked behind me.

I turned.

It was slightly open.

I know I hadn't opened it.

My phone rang again.

I didn't pick it up this time. It stopped on its own.

When I looked back at the book-the line was gone.

I don't remember when I fell asleep.

It was 3 a.m.

I woke up with a dry throat, like I hadn't had water in days.

I glanced at the window.

At first, I thought it was just a shadow. The light from the street outside flickered across the glass, throwing long, thin shapes.

Then I saw him.

Tall. Thin. Standing perfectly still.

His skin looked pale-almost yellow.

The mask... a dull yellow.

He didn't move. I didn't move.

We just stared at each other.

My heart began to pound.

I wanted to look away-but I couldn't.

Then, just like that, he was gone.

The street outside was empty.

Nothing but the wind and rain dripping from the gutter.

It looked like he had come straight from the dreams I used to have after that crash.

I looked away for a second, and he-or shall I say it-just disappeared.

The next morning, on my way home, I took the longer route through the road where Chambers used to live.

I don't know why I took that road. It felt like I hadn't chosen it-something else had.

I approached Chambers' old house and opened the door, even though I wasn't sure why.

It felt like something was pulling me closer-closer to the basement, closer to where it all started.

The basement lights were on.

I didn't mean to turn them on-nor did I.

I looked around the room.

It was empty... yet felt full.

The drawers were all closed except the second one.

Frozen, I stood there, staring at it. Something felt wrong. The lines on the table-they looked... yellow.

They had been black before, I was certain.

Stepping closer, leaning in to look inside, the world seemed to tilt.

And then.... it felt like my life has been done for.

Inside was the Second Act. A pair of loose pages, yellowed and fragile.

The heading read: ACT II

At the bottom, a note in Chambers' handwriting:

"Whoever reads this sees all-past, present, future. Some knowledge is forbidden."

I froze. I had already touched it. And I knew, somehow, the King had already seen me.

I remember: the original book said that anyone who reads the second act obtains forbidden knowledge-the past, the present, and the future.

The realization of what trouble I was in struck me.

I fled-not thinking, only feeling the terror behind me. Chest burning. Lungs screaming. Still, I didn't stop.

Tired and exhausted, I stopped to rest at a café.

The man behind the counter froze me in place.

Tall. Thin. Pale. His face familiar, like a shadow from my dreams. But there was no mask this time.

I forced myself to speak.

"Have I... seen you before?"

He didn't answer at first, just stared. The air between us thickened, heavy with something I couldn't name.

Then, quietly, almost under his breath:

"You have never seen me. But you will... soon."

The words sent a shiver down my spine.

I dropped my gaze to the cup, took a trembling sip, and left without finishing it.

I took my coffee and ran home.

I told myself I was just tired.

That had to be it.

The door to my apartment was already open.

I was sure I had locked it.

Inside, the book lay on the table. Open. Like someone had been reading it.

I told myself it was the wind.

It was turned to page 53......

My father died on a Tuesday. By Saturday he was in the ground, and by 3:17 Sunday morning, something was using his phone.

I was the one who handled the arrangements. My mother had gone somewhere internal after the call came — she was physically present but operating at a remove, like a transmission running without connecting to anything. So I signed the forms under a fluorescent light that buzzed at a frequency I can still hear if I'm tired enough. I selected the urn liner. I confirmed noon on Saturday for the burial.

His phone was returned to me in a plastic evidence bag along with his watch and his wallet. I kept it in my jacket against my ribs during the drive home, aware of its weight the entire time. That night I set it on my nightstand. Someone needed to handle incoming calls, I told myself. His office didn't know. His dentist didn't know. The world was still operating as though he existed in it.

Saturday was gray and windless. We stood at the graveside in dark coats and the priest spoke words that were meant to comfort and occasionally did. They lowered him at 12:08 PM. I watched the color of the dirt. I noted the sound of the mechanism that controlled the lowering. I was cataloguing everything because cataloguing was the only thing keeping me functional.

We were home by two. I was in bed by ten. I was not sleeping — I don't think I slept at all that week — but I was lying in the dark with my eyes closed, which was the closest available approximation.

At 3:17 AM the phone screen lit up the ceiling.

Voicemail. From his number.

I need to be precise. His phone was on my nightstand. The phone in my hand when I opened the notification was his phone. The number the voicemail listed as originating was the same number I was holding.

I pressed play.

His voice. Exactly his voice — the slight intake of breath before words, the specific weight of his vowels, the pattern of his cadence that I had heard ten thousand times across my entire life.

Hey, it's me. I just wanted —

Four seconds. The message ended.

But underneath those four seconds, beneath his voice, threaded through the recording — I have listened to it over ninety times now and I am certain of what I am hearing. Soil under pressure. The slow shift of packed earth against something rigid and enclosed. A sound like weight being applied from beneath against wood that was never designed to flex.

I drove to the cemetery. I stood at the grave in the pre-dawn dark and pointed a flashlight at the mound and the mound was undisturbed and I played the recording standing there and the cemetery was completely silent except for the sound of my father's voice and the sound of something moving below the ground where we had put him.

The recording is still on the phone. I can't delete it. I've tried.

And every night since Saturday, at exactly 3:17 AM, the phone lights up my ceiling — no new notification, just the screen activating on its own, illuminating the room for exactly four seconds, as though something is counting out the length of a message it still hasn't finished leaving.

Morning arrived with unexpected brightness, the storm having blown itself out sometime in the predawn hours. Sunlight streamed through the windows of the lodge, transforming the once-gloomy interior into a merely aged and somewhat shabby establishment. Birds sang in the surrounding forest, and the air held the fresh, clean scent that follows a violent thunderstorm.

Alex woke with a start, momentarily disoriented. He'd spent a restless night, his dreams filled with images of Elisabeth Blackwood - sometimes as the solemn child from the photographs, sometimes as something less human, her face elongated into a scream, her fingers stretching into claws. He'd woken several times to the sound of soft tapping at his window, but each time found nothing but darkness and the occasional flash of distant lightning.

He dressed quickly and made his way downstairs, finding his friends already gathered in the dining room. They looked as exhausted as he felt, dark circles under their eyes and expressions that mixed lingering fear with confusion and doubt.

"Did anyone else have weird dreams?" Mia asked without preamble.

The others nodded in unison.

"I kept seeing her standing at the foot of my bed," Lisa admitted. "Just watching me. When I turned on the light, she'd be gone, but as soon as it was dark again..."

"Same," Daniel confirmed. "Though in my case, she was sitting in the chair by the window. Just rocking and humming some old-fashioned song I couldn't quite place."

The Caretaker entered silently, carrying a tray laden with the same hearty breakfast fare they'd enjoyed the previous morning. If he'd slept as poorly as they had, it didn't show on his impassive face.

"The road has been cleared," he announced as he placed plates before them. "You will be able to depart after breakfast, should you wish to."

The four friends exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. It was Alex who finally spoke.

"Before we go, we'd like to help Elisabeth if we can," he said. "Last night, you suggested we might be able to... help her find peace."

A flicker of something - surprise, perhaps, or approval - crossed the Caretaker's face. "Few guests would make such an offer," he observed. "Most flee at first light after experiencing what you have."

"We're not exactly typical guests," Mia pointed out with a wan smile. "And it doesn't feel right to just leave her... stuck here."

The Caretaker studied them intently, as if reassessing his initial impressions. "Very well," he said after a long moment. "There is a ritual of sorts that might help. It has been attempted before, without success, but perhaps with your particular... sensitivity to Elisabeth's presence, the outcome might be different."

He instructed them to finish their breakfast while he made preparations. When they had eaten - though none had much appetite - he led them back to the third floor, to Elisabeth's preserved bedroom. In daylight, filtering through gauzy curtains, the room appeared less eerie but somehow more poignant - a frozen moment in time, a childhood interrupted.

The Caretaker had arranged five chairs in a circle in the center of the room. On a small table within the circle, he had placed several items: a faded ribbon that matched the one seen in Elisabeth's hair in the photographs; a small, worn teddy bear; a tarnished locket; and a single candle.

"Artifacts from her life," he explained, gesturing for them to take seats. "Objects that might draw her spirit more fully into this realm for a time. The ritualistic aspects are perhaps unnecessary, but they help focus intent."

Once they were seated, the Caretaker lit the candle and closed the curtains, plunging the room into semi-darkness despite the bright morning outside. He then took the final seat, completing their circle.

"We must address her directly," he instructed. "Speak to her as if she were physically present. Tell her that it's time to find peace, that she can let go of this place."

They felt awkward at first, speaking into empty air, but gradually gained confidence as the air in the room grew noticeably colder - a sign of Elisabeth's presence that they now recognized. They took turns addressing her, each in their own way.

Mia went first, her usual exuberance tempered by compassion. "Elisabeth, we know what happened to you wasn't fair. No child should experience what you did. But staying here, trapped between worlds, isn't fair either. You deserve to rest, to find peace."

Daniel followed, his skepticism entirely abandoned after the previous night's encounters. "Your mother was sick, Elisabeth. What she did came from illness, not from hatred or malice. She wouldn't want you to remain here, caught in this moment forever."

Lisa, always practical, offered a different perspective. "A hundred years have passed, Elisabeth. The world outside has changed in ways you can't imagine. Your mother, your father - they're waiting for you somewhere else. Not here in this old house. They've had a century to understand, to regret, to prepare to meet you again."

When it came to Alex's turn, he found himself speaking from a place of intuition rather than reason. "You've been so brave, Elisabeth, staying here all alone, waiting for someone to help you understand. But I think, deep down, you do understand. Your mother made a terrible mistake. She was lost in her own darkness. But that doesn't mean she didn't love you. It doesn't mean you have to stay here, endlessly waiting for an explanation that can't come in this world."

Throughout these addresses, the temperature continued to drop, and the candle flame flickered wildly despite the stillness of the air. The teddy bear toppled onto its side without anyone touching it. The ribbon fluttered as if caught in a breeze.

Finally, the Caretaker spoke, his voice deeper and more emotional than they had yet heard it. "Elisabeth Blackwood, last daughter of my bloodline, I release you from your obligation to this house and to our family's shame. The secret has been spoken aloud. The truth is known. You need no longer stand guard over our guilty past."

A sudden gust of wind extinguished the candle, plunging the room into deeper shadow. In the dimness, a figure gradually materialized in the center of their circle - Elisabeth, more clearly visible than she had been the previous night. She wore the white dress from the photographs, her dark hair framing a face of ethereal beauty and profound sadness.

"But I promised," she said, her voice echoing as if across a vast distance. "I promised I would wait for her to come back."

"Your mother cannot come back to this place," the Caretaker explained gently. "But perhaps you can go to where she is now."

Elisabeth's translucent form wavered, like a reflection in disturbed water. "She told me angels would catch me," she said, her voice taking on a childish quality that made her sound younger than her apparent eight years. "But there were no angels. Only rocks and pain and then darkness." Her gaze drifted toward the window, where she had met her end so long ago.

"The angels were waiting elsewhere," Mia said impulsively, tears streaming down her face. "They're still waiting, Elisabeth. They've been patient all this time."

Something changed in the child's expression - a lightening, a lifting of some invisible burden. She turned away from the window to face them directly.

"Will you help me find them?" she asked, addressing all of them but looking most intently at Alex.

Without conscious thought, Alex rose from his chair and extended his hand toward the spectral child. "We will," he promised. "It's time to go, Elisabeth. Time to find your peace."

Elisabeth smiled - the first genuine smile they had seen on her solemn face - and reached toward him. Though logic dictated that her insubstantial hand should pass through his, something remarkable happened instead. Her small, cold fingers brushed against his palm, as tangible as any living child's.

The touch lasted only a moment before a change came over Elisabeth's form. The translucence of her body began to shift, not fading exactly, but transforming - becoming light rather than merely being illuminated by it. The solemn expression that had characterized her features in both life and death gave way to something approaching joy.

"I see them now," she whispered, her voice suddenly clear and close. "The angels. Mother was right after all."

Her form grew increasingly radiant, the boundaries of her silhouette blurring into a gentle luminescence that expanded to fill the room. For a brief, breathtaking moment, they all felt enveloped in a profound sense of peace and resolution - a wordless assurance that something long broken had finally been mended.

And then she was gone. Not with a dramatic flash or thunderclap, but with a gentle diminishing of light, like a candle flame gradually, naturally burning itself out.

In the silence that followed, the five adults sat motionless, each processing what they had witnessed in their own way. It was the Caretaker who finally broke the stillness, rising from his chair with a deep sigh that held equal measures of relief and loss.

"It is done," he said simply. "After all these years, it is finally done."

The transformation in him was subtle but unmistakable - a relaxing of tension held for so long it had become part of his posture, a softening around eyes that had seemed perpetually narrowed in vigilance or suspicion. He looked older, somehow, but paradoxically unburdened.

"What happens now?" Lisa asked, her voice hushed as if reluctant to fully break the spell of what they had experienced. "To you, to this place?"

The Caretaker gazed around the preserved bedroom, seeing it perhaps with new eyes - not as a shrine or prison but simply as a room filled with outdated furnishings and forgotten toys.

"I will stay, for now," he replied after consideration. "This has been my home for many decades. But without Elisabeth's presence to maintain..." He gestured vaguely, encompassing not just the room but the concept of his role as guardian of the family's dark secret. "Perhaps it is time for the lodge to become merely a lodge again. To welcome guests who might appreciate its history without being haunted by it."

They left Elisabeth's room together, closing the blue door behind them with a sense of finality. As they descended to the main floor, Alex noticed subtle changes throughout the building - dust motes dancing in sunbeams where shadows had previously lurked, the aged wooden surfaces glowing with a warm patina rather than looming ominously, the very air inside the lodge seeming less oppressive, as if a window had been opened somewhere to allow fresh breezes to circulate.

By unspoken agreement, they gathered their belongings quickly, eager now to return to the familiar world they had temporarily left behind. The Caretaker saw them to the door, his manner still reserved but lacking the unsettling quality that had initially disturbed them.

"You have done this place - and my family - a service I cannot adequately repay," he told them as they prepared to depart. "The burden I inherited has been lifted, thanks to your willingness to see beyond the surface."

"Will you be all right here alone?" Mia asked, genuine concern in her voice.

A ghost of a smile touched the Caretaker's thin lips. "I have been alone here for many years," he reminded her. "But now, perhaps, truly alone rather than merely solitary." He seemed to find the prospect more liberating than distressing.

They loaded their bags into the SUV, the mundane action grounding them back in ordinary reality after their brush with the supernatural. The morning was gloriously clear, the mountain air invigorating, the forest around the lodge vibrant with renewed life after the storm.

As Daniel steered the vehicle down the rutted drive, they all cast one last look back at Under the Silent Peak Lodge. The Caretaker stood on the porch, a solitary figure watching their departure. For a brief moment, Alex thought he glimpsed another figure beside him - a small child in a white dress, raising her hand in farewell - but when he blinked, only the gaunt man remained.

"Do you think she's really gone?" Lisa asked softly as the lodge disappeared from view around a bend in the road. "At peace, or whatever comes next?"

"I think so," Mia replied, though a note of uncertainty lingered in her voice. "We all felt it, didn't we? That moment of... completion."

"Something happened in that room," Daniel agreed, his hands steady on the steering wheel though his voice betrayed his continued amazement. "Something I can't explain with any scientific principle I know."

Alex remained silent, turning his gaze from the receding lodge to the road ahead. He had experienced something profound in that final moment of contact with Elisabeth's spirit - a glimpse of what lay beyond the veil of ordinary perception, a reassurance that death was not an ending but a transition. But he also couldn't shake a nagging sense of unease, a feeling that they hadn't quite uncovered the complete truth of Under the Silent Peak Lodge.

What they had witnessed and participated in felt genuine - Elisabeth's release from her century-long vigil, her journey toward whatever awaited her beyond this realm. Yet the Caretaker's transformation had seemed almost too complete, his centuries-old burden lifted too easily. There had been something in his eyes as he watched them leave, something that didn't quite match the gratitude expressed in his words.

As the SUV navigated the winding mountain road that would eventually lead them back to the highway and the familiar world of cell phone signals and coffee shops, Alex found himself turning to look back one final time, though the lodge was long out of sight. In his mind's eye, he could still see the Caretaker standing on the porch, watching their departure with that enigmatic expression - not quite a smile, not quite relief, but something more complex and perhaps more disturbing.

For the first time, Alex wondered if they had been manipulated from the beginning. Had the Caretaker somehow engineered their discovery of the journal, the photographs, the newspaper clippings? Had their entire experience been orchestrated to achieve precisely the outcome they had participated in? And if so, what was the true nature of the ritual they had performed?

Had they helped Elisabeth find peace - or had they simply removed the last obstacle to some darker purpose the Caretaker could now pursue unhindered?

The questions swirled in Alex's mind as the mountains gradually gave way to foothills, and then to the outskirts of civilization. His friends chatted around him, processing their shared experience through conversation, finding their way back to normalcy through the familiar rhythms of their friendship. He joined in occasionally, not wanting to dampen their sense of accomplishment or cast doubt on the genuinely moving experience they had shared.

But as they drove away from Under the Silent Peak Lodge, leaving behind its secrets and sorrows, Alex couldn't escape the conviction that they hadn't heard the last of the place - or of its enigmatic Caretaker. Some part of him knew, with inexplicable certainty, that the old building perched in its isolated clearing was not done with them. That whatever they had set in motion with their well-intentioned intervention was still unfolding, like ripples spreading outward from a stone cast into still water.

And somewhere back in those mountains, standing on the porch of a lodge that suddenly seemed emptier than it had in a century, the Caretaker watched the road long after they had disappeared from view. His thin lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes - eyes that, in the bright morning sunlight, briefly reflected a blue as cold and fathomless as the mountain lake hidden deep in the valley below.

A blue that had never been seen in the eyes of any member of the Blackwood family.

A blue identical to that of Elisabeth's bedroom door.

Months later, in a small apartment in the city, Alex sat bolt upright in bed, awakened by a dream so vivid it lingered like a physical presence in the darkened room. In the dream, Elisabeth had come to him, not as the peaceful spirit they had helped to release, but as a frantic, desperate entity trying to communicate something of vital importance.

"He wasn't what he seemed," she had whispered, her voice fading as he struggled toward consciousness. "He wasn't a Blackwood. He was never a Blackwood."

Alex fumbled for his phone on the nightstand, checking the time - 3:17 AM - and then, on impulse, opening his browser. He typed "Under the Silent Peak Lodge" into the search bar, not expecting much; their previous searches had yielded minimal information.

But now, a new result appeared at the top of the list: a news article dated just two days earlier. With growing unease, he tapped the link and began to read.

"Historic Mountain Lodge to Reopen Under New Management," the headline announced. The article detailed the planned renovation and reopening of Under the Silent Peak Lodge, described as "a long-overlooked gem of early 20th century architecture." It mentioned the property's "colorful history" and "local legends of supernatural occurrences" as potential draws for a new generation of tourists seeking authentic experiences.

A quote from the new owner made Alex's blood run cold: "The lodge has been waiting for this transformation. Its past is fascinating, but its future will be truly remarkable."

Accompanying the article was a photograph of a man standing proudly on the familiar porch of the lodge - not the gaunt, aging Caretaker they had known, but a younger, vigorous man with an entrepreneur's confident smile and eyes of the most striking blue.

Alex stared at the image, Elisabeth's warning echoing in his mind. With trembling fingers, he opened his contact list and selected Mia's number, knowing she of all his friends would be most likely to believe what he was about to tell her.

As the phone rang, he gazed out his window at the city skyline, wondering how many miles separated him from Under the Silent Peak Lodge, and what ancient entity was even now stirring in its depths, freed at last from its century-long guardian.

The thing that had never been the Caretaker at all.

Every night for the past 2 weeks my son has came running to me saying there's a man on our back patio. Of course, every time I go to check with him; there's no one there. He describes this person in detail to me too. He wears a black hat, a long dark coat, and a pair of leather gloves. He tells me that the man waves to him, and he waves back.

I caught him one time just waving through the back door in the kitchen. I looked straight past him through the glass in the door and saw nothing, no man with a hat and long coat; just our dark patio. When I asked him what he was doing, he responded, "I'm saying hi to the hat man!". I pulled him straight away from the patio door and sent him to bed. This whole thing is starting to terrify me honestly, who is he seeing out there? I'm afraid to even walk past the door sometimes just thinking that there might be someone out there, just watching me.

The only reasonable thing I can think of to explain this whole thing is that it must be an imaginary friend he's came up with or something. It has to be right? While I was writing this he came up to me and tried to get me to open the patio door so that I can "meet him". I'm literally glued to the sofa in the living room right now. Home-invasion has always been something I've always dreaded since I was a little kid. Sometimes I'd even have panic attacks just thinking about the possibility of it. I know he's not real, but the thought of this person lingering around my home in the late hours of the night absolutely petrifies me. The thought of him talking to my son cripples me even worse.

Sometimes I'll think I see him. Out the corner of my eye in the shadows I'll sometimes make out a figure. Of course when I snap my head to look, there's not a soul there. I'll hear him sometimes as well. I swear the floorboards outside my bedroom creak up to my door as I'm lying in bed, Most of the time I'm too scared to move; but this one time I decided to get up and find out what was making the noise. I kept telling myself that it was the house settling, or I was just imagining the noise in my head as I went up to the door. Finally I swung the door open; there was nothing there of course, the hat man isn't real after all. Since it was already about 5AM, I didn't even bother trying to get back to sleep, I just went downstairs to make a cup of tea and get on with my day. I get down the stairs and look down the corridor to see the kitchen light on. Faulty wiring I presume, the house is near enough 100 years old, built for the miners when the village was still a coal town. I go into the kitchen, and the patio door is wide open.

Everything else I can explain naturally, except that. Did my son come down at some point in the night to talk to his imaginary friend? I haven't been able to sleep for days since then. My son keeps waving to the "hat man" through our patio door, he keeps asking me to meet him. I always tell him that I'm too busy watching whatever shit is on TV, but I'm never busy watching it though, I'm always thinking about the hat man. This imaginary person has infected nearly every part of my life. I'm scared to even go downstairs past dark now it's gotten that bad. I know he isn't real, yet his presence feels so vivid. My son told me once that "The hat man wants to see you again, he wants you to say you're sorry for what you did". I didn't even bother asking what he meant, what's the point; he isn't real. It's all gibberish. Nothing happened. Everyone knows that nothing happened. Nothing happened to anyone. The hat man doesn't exist, he never did. The hat man. does. not. exist.

As the evening progressed, the storm showed no signs of abating. Wind howled around the eaves of the old lodge, occasionally rising to a shriek that sounded disturbingly human. Rain lashed against the windows with such force that Alex found himself checking for cracks in the ancient glass.

"Maybe we should read more of that journal," Lisa suggested, her eyes fixed on the leather-bound book in Mia's hands. Despite her usual pragmatism, the strange atmosphere of the lodge and the unexplained tapping sounds from above had left her visibly unsettled.

Mia nodded, opening the journal to where she had left off. "The entry continues: 'The Caretaker, if that is what he truly is, watches me constantly. I feel his eyes on me even when he is not physically present. I have requested access to the third floor, citing my historical research as justification, but he refuses with a vehemence that borders on threat. What secrets does he guard so jealously in those upper rooms?'"

"Wait, there's a third floor?" Daniel interrupted, leaning forward. "I thought this place only had two stories."

"There's definitely something above us," Alex pointed out, glancing toward the ceiling where the tapping had momentarily ceased. "Maybe it's just an attic or storage space."

Mia continued reading: "'April 20, 1932. Last night, the sounds began again. A child's weeping, muffled but unmistakable. I followed it to a locked door at the end of the east corridor, but could go no further. When I pressed my ear against the wood, the crying stopped, replaced by a whisper so close it might have been inside my own head: 'Help us.' I fled to my room and did not emerge until morning.'"

A violent thunderclap shook the building, and the lights flickered ominously before stabilizing. The four friends exchanged nervous glances.

"Okay, that's enough ghost stories for now," Daniel declared, though his attempt at a dismissive tone fell flat. "This place is creepy enough without adding to it."

Lisa stood abruptly. "I need to use the bathroom," she announced, heading for the doorway. She paused at the threshold, hesitating. "Anyone want to...come with me?"

"I'll go," Alex offered, relieved at the excuse to move. "I should check on something in my room anyway."

The two made their way across the dimly lit lobby and up the creaking staircase. The corridor, illuminated only by those inadequate wall sconces, seemed to stretch longer than it had that afternoon. As they passed a junction leading to another hallway - one they hadn't explored - a cold draft swept past them, carrying what sounded like a distant, mournful sigh.

"Did you hear that?" Alex whispered.

Lisa nodded, her face pale. "Just the wind."

"Right. Just the wind."

They separated at Lisa's door with promises to meet back in the common room in five minutes. Alex continued to his own room, trying to dismiss the growing sense of dread that had settled in his stomach. He needed to check whether the mysterious handprint had reappeared on his bathroom mirror - a detail he still hadn't shared with the others.

As he approached his door, key in hand, a movement at the far end of the corridor caught his attention. A small, dark figure darted from one doorway to another, too quickly for him to make out any details. "Hello?" he called, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the silent hallway. No response came.

Inside his room, everything appeared as he had left it. The bathroom mirror remained clear, no sign of the childlike handprint. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to collect his thoughts. When he looked up, his reflection seemed oddly distorted for a moment - his features blurring, another face briefly superimposing itself over his own. He jerked back with a startled cry, blinking rapidly. The mirror now showed only his own shocked expression.

By the time he and Lisa returned to the common room, their absence had prompted Mia and Daniel to start their own investigation of the lodge. They'd discovered a small library adjacent to the dining room, its shelves lined with dust-covered books, many appearing to have remained untouched for decades.

"Look what we found," Mia announced excitedly, spreading several items on a table: a stack of yellowing newspapers, a collection of faded photographs, and a thin folder of what appeared to be official documents. "It's like the lodge's own time capsule."

The photographs were particularly compelling - formal portraits and casual snapshots dating from the early twentieth century. They showed the lodge in its prime, surrounded by manicured grounds rather than the wild overgrowth visible today. In most images, the same figures appeared: a stern-faced man in formal attire, a thin woman whose smile never reached her eyes, and a solemn little girl of perhaps seven or eight years, with long dark hair and a white dress.

"These must be the original owners," Daniel speculated, examining one portrait closely. "The lodge was probably a private residence before it became a guesthouse."

"Look at these," Lisa said, spreading out several newspaper clippings. Most were routine society announcements - the opening of the mountain retreat, visits from prominent guests, charity events hosted on the grounds. But one headline stood out: "MOUNTAIN TRAGEDY CLAIMS CHILD," dated October 1899.

The article, partially deteriorated with age, described a tragic accident involving a young girl who had fallen from "the heights of the estate" during a violent storm. The child, identified only as "the daughter of the prominent industrialist who recently established the mountain retreat," had apparently been playing unsupervised when the accident occurred. The piece concluded with a mention of funeral arrangements and the family's request for privacy in their time of grief.

"That poor girl," Mia murmured, studying a photograph of the solemn child. "Do you think that's her?"

"The dates match," Alex noted, comparing the newspaper to the photograph. "And look at this." He pointed to a detail in one of the casual snapshots - the same girl standing near what appeared to be a third-floor balcony, her small hand resting on the railing as she gazed out at the mountains.

"So there is a third floor," Daniel confirmed. "But how do we access it? I haven't seen any stairs leading up from the second floor."

A sudden draft extinguished one of the candles illuminating their impromptu research, plunging half the room into shadow. The door to the library swung open with a prolonged creak, revealing the Caretaker standing in the threshold, his gaunt figure backlit by the hallway lamps.

"These areas are private," he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. "Guests are not permitted."

"We were just curious about the history of the lodge," Mia explained, instinctively gathering the photographs and clippings into a pile. "It's such a fascinating building."

The Caretaker's gaze swept over the items they had been examining, lingering momentarily on the photograph of the little girl. Something indefinable flickered across his impassive features - a shadow of emotion quickly suppressed.

"The past is best left undisturbed," he intoned. "As are certain areas of this establishment." His eyes, cold and penetrating, fixed on each of them in turn. "The storm has damaged the road. You will be unable to leave until repairs are made. I suggest you retire to your rooms. The night grows... restless."

With that cryptic pronouncement, he stood aside, clearly expecting them to exit the library immediately. They complied, chastened like children caught misbehaving, but Alex managed to slip the newspaper article about the child's death into his pocket unnoticed.

Back in the common room, the fire had died down to glowing embers, casting the space in an eerie red light. The storm continued unabated outside, occasional lightning flashes illuminating the room through the tall windows.

"Well, that was creepy," Daniel muttered once they were certain the Caretaker was out of earshot. "And what did he mean about us not being able to leave? Is he actually keeping us here?"

"He said the road was damaged," Lisa pointed out. "It's probably just washed out from the rain. These mountain roads are notorious for that."

"Did anyone else notice his reaction to that photograph?" Alex asked. "The one of the little girl?"

Mia nodded thoughtfully. "He definitely recognized her. I wonder what his connection is to the original family? He seems too young to have been here in 1899."

"Maybe he's a descendant?" Lisa suggested. "Or just the current caretaker who knows the history?"

"Or maybe he's a ghost himself," Daniel added with a nervous laugh that didn't quite disguise his unease. "Doomed to maintain this place for all eternity."

"Whatever his deal is, I think we should be careful around him," Alex advised. "And I definitely want to know what's on that third floor."

As if in response to his words, the tapping sound resumed overhead, more insistent than before. It was joined by a new sound - a soft, rhythmic creaking, like someone rocking in an old chair.

"That does it," Daniel declared, standing abruptly. "I'm going to find out what's making those noises."

Despite their earlier fear, curiosity had now taken hold of all four friends. They made their way cautiously back to the second floor, searching for any access point to the level above. It was Lisa who discovered it - a narrow door at the end of the east corridor, almost invisible in the wood paneling, secured with a heavy iron padlock.

"This must be it," she whispered, examining the lock. "But we need a key."

"Or," Daniel countered, producing a small multi-tool from his pocket, "we need someone who misspent their youth learning questionable skills." He selected a thin implement from the tool and began working on the lock with surprising expertise.

"Where did you learn to pick locks?" Mia asked, impressed despite herself.

"College roommate was a locksmith's son," Daniel explained, concentrating on his task. "He taught me a few tricks. Comes in handy more often than you'd think."

After several tense minutes, during which they all kept nervous watch for the Caretaker, the lock yielded with a satisfying click. Daniel removed it carefully and eased the door open to reveal a narrow staircase ascending into darkness.

"Anyone bring a flashlight?" he whispered.

Mia produced her phone, activating its flashlight function. "Battery's at fifteen percent, so we'll have to be quick."

The staircase was steep and confined, the walls pressing close on either side. Dust lay thick on the steps, but - Alex noted with a chill - there were traces of footprints leading both up and down, suggesting the Caretaker made regular visits to the third floor.

At the top of the stairs, another door awaited them, this one secured only by a simple latch. Beyond it lay a long corridor similar to the one below, but in a state of greater disrepair. Wallpaper peeled in long strips from the walls, water stains marked the ceiling, and the floorboards were warped and uneven beneath their feet. Several doors lined the hallway, all closed.

"Where should we start?" Lisa whispered, her earlier skepticism replaced by nervous anticipation.

"Let's try that one," Alex suggested, pointing to a door at the far end of the corridor - the direction from which the tapping and creaking sounds seemed to originate.

As they made their way cautiously down the hall, the atmosphere grew heavier, the air noticeably colder despite the stuffiness of the enclosed space. The beam from Mia's phone flashlight seemed to diminish, creating more shadows than illumination.

The door they approached was different from the others - painted a faded blue rather than the natural wood of its neighbors. A tarnished brass plaque was affixed at eye level, bearing a single word: "Elisabeth."

"That must be her name," Mia breathed. "The little girl from the photographs."

The tapping had ceased, but as they stood before the blue door, a new sound emerged - a soft, muffled sobbing, punctuated by hiccupping breaths. It was unmistakably the cry of a child in distress.

Daniel reached for the doorknob with a trembling hand, but before he could turn it, a voice spoke directly behind them.

"You should not be here."

They whirled around to find the Caretaker standing at the top of the stairs, his tall figure silhouetted against the dim light from below. His face was in shadow, but the anger in his voice was palpable.

"This area is forbidden. You are trespassing on private grief."

"We heard crying," Mia explained, her voice shaking. "A child crying. Is someone in there? Are they hurt?"

"What you hear are echoes," the Caretaker replied, his tone softening almost imperceptibly. "Memories trapped in wood and stone. Elisabeth has been gone for over a century."

"But we heard her," Alex insisted. "Just now, behind this door."

The Caretaker moved closer, his features becoming visible in the beam of Mia's flashlight. For the first time, they saw genuine emotion on his face - a profound sadness that seemed to age him before their eyes.

"Elisabeth Blackwood fell to her death from her bedroom window during a storm much like tonight's," he explained quietly. "She was eight years old. Her parents never recovered from the loss. Her father took his own life a year later. Her mother... lingered, consumed by grief and guilt. The family fortune was dedicated to maintaining this place exactly as it was when Elisabeth was alive."

"And you?" Lisa asked. "What's your connection to all this?"

A bitter smile crossed the Caretaker's thin lips. "I am the last of the Blackwood line. Elisabeth was my great-great-aunt. The responsibility of maintaining this memorial falls to me now."

"But the crying," Daniel pressed. "How do you explain that?"

"This house holds onto its sorrows," the Caretaker said simply. "As do I. Some nights, especially during storms, the boundaries between past and present grow thin. What happened here plays out again and again, like a phonograph record stuck in a groove."

A sudden, violent gust of wind rattled the windows along the corridor. From behind the blue door came a new sound - not crying this time, but a child's laughter, followed by running footsteps that seemed to move away from the door and toward the far end of the corridor.

"She is restless tonight," the Caretaker observed. "The anniversary of her fall approaches. At such times, the past bleeds more strongly into the present."

"Can we... see her room?" Mia asked hesitantly.

The Caretaker regarded her silently for a long moment, then produced an ornate key from his pocket. "Perhaps it is time. Perhaps you were brought here for a purpose." He unlocked the blue door and stepped aside. "See for yourselves. But touch nothing. These are not mere possessions - they are anchors for what remains of Elisabeth."

The room beyond was a perfectly preserved child's bedroom from the turn of the century. A four-poster bed with delicate lace hangings dominated one wall. A rocking horse stood in one corner, its painted smile eerily cheerful in the dim light. Shelves lined with porcelain dolls and stuffed animals watched them with glass eyes that seemed to follow their movements. A child-sized rocking chair faced the large window that overlooked the forested valley, now invisible in the stormy darkness.

Everything was immaculate - no dust, no signs of age or deterioration. It was as if the room existed in a different time stream from the rest of the decaying lodge.

"It's exactly as it was," the Caretaker confirmed, noticing their amazement. "Every item in its place, every toy where she left it on that final day."

"This is... obsessive," Daniel murmured, though there was more awe than judgment in his voice.

"Grief takes many forms," the Caretaker replied. "For the Blackwoods, it took the form of preservation."

Alex moved toward the window, drawn by an inexplicable compulsion. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the sheer drop to the rocks below. He could imagine all too clearly a small body tumbling through space, a white dress billowing like broken wings.

"It wasn't an accident, was it?" he asked quietly, turning to face the Caretaker.

The old man's eyes widened slightly. "What makes you say that?"

"The newspaper article mentioned she was playing unsupervised, but this room is immaculate. There's no sign of the disorder you'd expect from a child at play." Alex gestured toward the neat rows of toys, the precisely arranged dolls. "And your family's reaction - converting an entire lodge into a shrine, maintaining it for generations - that suggests more than grief. It suggests guilt."

A heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the storm raging outside and the soft, barely perceptible creak of the empty rocking chair by the window, moving slightly as if recently vacated.

"You are perceptive," the Caretaker finally acknowledged. "Too perceptive, perhaps." He moved to a small writing desk and opened its drawer, removing a small leather book bound with a faded ribbon. "Her mother's diary. It contains the truth - a truth the family concealed for generations."

He handed the diary to Mia, who carefully untied the ribbon and opened it to the final entries. Her expression grew increasingly troubled as she read.

"According to this," she summarized for the others, "Elisabeth's mother had been suffering from melancholia - what we'd now call severe depression - for months before the incident. She'd become convinced that her daughter was possessed by some evil force. On the night of the storm, she..." Mia's voice faltered.

"She took Elisabeth to the window," the Caretaker continued flatly. "Told her angels were waiting to catch her. Then she let go."

The horror of this revelation settled over the group like a physical weight. The rocking chair's movement became more pronounced, the creaking louder and more insistent.

"Afterward, Elisabeth's father covered up what really happened," the Caretaker continued. "He claimed it was an accident, and his wealth ensured no questions were asked. But living with the knowledge of what his wife had done - what he had failed to prevent - eventually drove him to suicide. The mother spent the rest of her life in an institution, maintaining Elisabeth's room as penance."

"And now you continue the tradition," Lisa observed. "But why? Why preserve this monument to tragedy?"

The Caretaker's gaze drifted to the rocking chair, which had suddenly gone still. "Because Elisabeth has never left," he said simply. "She is bound to this place by trauma and unfinished business. I maintain her room because it comforts her. I endure the manifestations - the crying, the laughter, the footsteps - because they are all that remain of her."

As if to confirm his words, the temperature in the room plummeted suddenly, their breath becoming visible in the air. The dolls on the shelves seemed to shift slightly, glass eyes glinting in the dim light. From the far corner came a soft, childlike whisper: "Play with me."

"We should go," Daniel urged, backing toward the door. "This is... we shouldn't be here."

The Caretaker nodded in agreement. "Elisabeth grows stronger on nights like these. It would be unwise to remain."

As they filed out of the blue room, Alex paused at the threshold, looking back at the rocking chair by the window. For just a moment, he thought he saw a small figure sitting there - a pale child in a white dress, her dark hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She turned to look at him, her face solemn and old beyond her years, before dissolving into shadow.

Back on the second floor, the storm seemed to have intensified, wind and rain battering the lodge with renewed fury. The Caretaker led them to the common room, where he revived the fire and, to their surprise, produced a decanter of brandy and five glasses.

"To help with the chill," he explained, pouring generous measures for each of them. "And to steady the nerves. What you have experienced tonight is... unusual. Few guests perceive Elisabeth's presence so clearly."

"Why us?" Lisa asked, accepting the brandy gratefully. "What makes us different?"

The Caretaker considered her question as he took his own seat by the fire. "Perhaps because you came seeking something, even if you did not know it. Perhaps because Elisabeth chose you. The ways of the departed are mysterious, even to one who has spent a lifetime in their company."

"Is she... is she dangerous?" Mia asked hesitantly.

"Not intentionally," the Caretaker replied. "Elisabeth was a gentle child in life. But spirits bound by trauma can sometimes lash out in confusion or distress. It would be wise to remain in your rooms tonight, doors locked. And to ignore any voices that might call to you from the darkness."

They drank their brandy in contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts about what they had witnessed. Outside, a particularly violent thunderclap shook the building, and the lights flickered ominously before going out entirely, plunging the room into darkness save for the glow of the fire.

"The generator," the Caretaker explained, rising to his feet. "It sometimes fails during severe storms. I must restart it. Please, remain here. I will return shortly."

He disappeared into the darkness beyond the common room, his footsteps fading into the general cacophony of the storm. The four friends huddled closer to the fire, its flickering light casting long, dancing shadows across the walls.

"So," Daniel said after a long moment, "ghost story weekend just got a lot more literal than I was expecting."

"Do you believe him?" Lisa asked. "About Elisabeth still being here?"

"I don't know what to believe," Mia admitted. "But I know what I saw in that room. What I felt. There was... something there. Someone."

Alex remained silent, remembering the solemn-faced child he'd glimpsed in the rocking chair - not a malevolent presence, but a lonely one. A child trapped between worlds, perhaps not even understanding that she had died.

A soft, almost imperceptible sound drew his attention - the patter of small, bare feet on the wooden floor behind them. He turned slowly, half-expecting to see nothing, but there she stood at the edge of the firelight: Elisabeth Blackwood, exactly as she appeared in the photographs, white dress pristine, dark hair flowing loose around her pale face.

One by one, the others noticed his gaze and turned to follow it. Gasps of shock and disbelief echoed in the room as they beheld what should not be possible - a fully materialized apparition, watching them with eyes that reflected the firelight like pools of dark water.

"Elisabeth?" Mia whispered, her voice trembling.

The child's head tilted slightly, a gesture of curious acknowledgment. When she spoke, her voice was clear but distant, as if coming from the bottom of a deep well:

"Will you help me find my mother? She said she would come back for me."

Before any of them could respond, the lights flickered back to life, and Elisabeth vanished as suddenly as she had appeared, leaving only a lingering chill in the air and the haunting echo of her plaintive request.

The Caretaker returned moments later, looking weary but satisfied. "The generator is running again," he announced. "It should last through the night." He paused, noting their pale faces and shocked expressions. "You've seen her," he concluded. It was not a question.

Daniel nodded mutely, unable to form words around the lump in his throat.

"She asked us to help her find her mother," Lisa explained, her scientific worldview crumbling in the face of what she had witnessed.

A shadow passed over the Caretaker's gaunt features. "She always asks that," he said heavily. "For over a century, always the same request. But her mother is long dead, and the reconciliation she seeks is impossible in this world."

"Then why does she stay?" Alex asked. "What keeps her here?"

"Unfinished business," the Caretaker replied. "A child's need for closure. For understanding. For forgiveness." He sighed deeply, suddenly looking every bit his age and more. "I have tried for decades to help her move on, to find peace. But perhaps that is not my task to complete."

His eyes moved from one friend to another, assessing them with a new intensity. "Perhaps that is why you were drawn here. Why you can see her so clearly, hear her so distinctly. Perhaps you are meant to help Elisabeth find her way home."

The implication hung in the air between them - that they had stumbled into something greater than themselves, a cosmic appointment with a tragedy a century in the making. And as the storm raged on outside, battering the old lodge with renewed fury, each of them silently wondered what morning would bring, and whether any of them would ever see the world the same way again.

I don’t even know where to start. Tonight started like any other evening. My wife, Lisa, and I were home, and Samson was playing with his toys in the living room. We’ve been letting his hair grow out long—locks like Samson from the stories we read—and he looks so proud of them.

Everything felt normal. I made some dinner, we chatted a little, and Samson was lining up his toy cars in a way that only he finds entertaining.

Then he said something that made me laugh.

“I don’t like when you hide in the closet. It scares Mr. Buttons.”

I shrugged it off. “You were dreaming, buddy. I wasn’t in the closet.” He didn’t protest, didn’t argue.

Just went back to playing. But something about the way he said it stuck in my head.

Later, I noticed Lisa shift her weight slightly as she walked past me. A little wince. I asked if she was okay, but she waved me off.

“I’m fine,” she said. I thought nothing of it… until Samson looked up at me with that unnervingly calm expression kids sometimes get—the one where they’re watching you but also not really.

“Dad… why does mom’s leg hurt like that?”

I froze. That was impossible. Lisa hadn’t said a word about it, hadn’t shown him anything. My heart started to pound, a weird sense of dread settling in.

Then something else happened. Samson was building a small fort with his blocks when he paused, staring at the hallway.

“Hello?,” he said.

I went to check, but the door was closed and no one was there.

I tried to laugh it off. Samson nodded, like he was accepting something.

Before I could process it, Lisa collapsed.

Just went down. I ran to her side, panic surging.

Samson didn’t cry. Didn’t scream. He just stood there, small, calm, watching us. Then he did something I can’t unsee: he grinned. That little, knowing grin that made my stomach twist.

And then he turned to his toy, Mr. Buttons, and said, excitedly:

“Mr. Buttons!” He laughed, almost gleefully, running toward them as if someone he knew had just arrived.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt my blood run colder. Everything normal about the evening, about our family, about our home—it felt like it had peeled away in an instant. I didn’t understand it. I still don’t.

Afterward, when we finally got Lisa stable and everything was checked out medically, we took Samson to see a child psychiatrist.

We told her everything, tried to explain the context—the hallway door, the collapse, Samson’s grin, his words. She listened quietly, then explained:

“Children often have trouble displacing emotions into the correct areas with the proper gravity. They don’t fully understand life or death yet. Sometimes, their responses can seem… eerie or inappropriate, but it’s just their mind trying to process things that are bigger than they can comprehend.”

I keep replaying that grin in my head. Mr. Buttons, perched innocently across the room from Samson.

And I don’t think I’ll ever feel normal around that grin again.

The faded wooden sign swinging gently in the mountain breeze read "Under the Silent Peak Lodge" in chipped paint. Beyond it stood a weathered three-story building, its once-grand facade now showing the unmistakable signs of decades of neglect. The gray stone exterior was partially covered with climbing ivy, while several wooden shutters hung askew from second-floor windows. Surrounded by towering pines and overlooking a misty valley, the location was undeniably picturesque, if somewhat eerily isolated from civilization.

Four friends stood beside their packed SUV, taking in the sight with mixed expressions. They had left the city early that morning, driving for over three hours on increasingly narrow mountain roads, the last forty minutes spent navigating an unmarked dirt path that seemed determined to shake their vehicle apart. The journey had been Mia's idea - she had stumbled upon the lodge's minimalist website while searching for "authentic, off-the-beaten-path accommodations" for their annual weekend getaway.

"Are you absolutely sure this is the right place?" Daniel asked, squinting at the GPS on his phone, which had lost signal about twenty minutes ago. The perennial skeptic of the group, he had opposed the idea from the start, preferring their usual well-reviewed accommodations with reliable Wi-Fi and room service. His wire-rimmed glasses and perpetually furrowed brow gave him the appearance of someone constantly calculating risk factors.

"It's perfect!" exclaimed Mia, already grabbing her vintage leather backpack from the trunk. Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of discovery, wild curls bouncing as she turned in a complete circle to take in their surroundings. "No tourists, authentic mountain experience, and did you see those views? This is exactly what we needed after the year we've had."

"I don't know," Lisa chimed in, tugging at her blonde ponytail nervously. "It looks a bit... abandoned? Are we sure they're even expecting us?" The most practical of the four, she was already mentally cataloging the supplies they'd brought and whether they could make it back to town before dark if necessary.

Alex remained silent, taking in the atmosphere with his characteristic sensitivity. Something about the building's silhouette against the darkening sky made him uneasy, though he couldn't quite explain why. The aspiring writer had been hoping this weekend might break his months-long creative block, but now he wondered if this place might provide more inspiration than he was prepared to handle. "It's definitely... atmospheric," he finally offered.

"Come on, you guys," Mia insisted, hoisting her bag over her shoulder. "Where's your sense of adventure? We've been friends since freshman year, and now we're all turning thirty. When did we get so boring that a creaky old building scares us?"

"I'm not scared," Daniel protested automatically. "I'm concerned about basic amenities, like whether the plumbing works or if the roof leaks."

"The website said 'rustic charm,' not 'structural hazard,'" Mia countered with a laugh. "Let's at least check in before we judge."

The gravel crunched beneath their feet as they approached the wide stone steps leading to the entrance. The massive wooden door, carved with intricate geometric patterns that seemed older than the building itself, stood partially open - an ambiguous welcome that did nothing to settle their nerves.

The interior matched the exterior's promise of antiquity. The spacious lobby featured a high ceiling with dark wooden beams. Creaking floorboards announced each step, faded wallpaper peeled at the corners, and the smell of old wood, dust, and something indefinable lingered in the air. A stone fireplace dominated one wall, cold ashes in its grate suggesting it hadn't been lit in some time. The common room beyond featured heavy furniture that might have been fashionable a century ago - ornate settees with faded upholstery, wingback chairs positioned at odd angles, and small tables topped with yellowed lace doilies.

"Hello?" Mia called out, her voice echoing slightly in the empty space. "Anyone here? We have a reservation."

For several long moments, only silence answered. Then came the unmistakable sound of footsteps from somewhere above, followed by a slow, methodical descent down a staircase hidden from their view. The friends exchanged glances, unconsciously moving closer together.

Their host materialized from the shadows of a dimly lit corridor. Tall and gaunt, with deep-set eyes that seemed to look through them rather than at them, he had the pallor of someone who rarely ventured outdoors. Wispy gray hair was combed meticulously over a balding pate, and his clothes - a black sweater and wool trousers - appeared as timeworn as the building itself. He introduced himself simply as "the Caretaker," offering no personal name. His handshake, when offered, was cold and brief.

"We have reservations," Lisa stated, stepping forward with her phone to show the confirmation email. "Four rooms for three nights."

The Caretaker nodded almost imperceptibly. "Expected you an hour ago," he said, his voice like dry leaves rustling. Without waiting for an explanation about their delayed arrival, he turned and walked toward an ancient reception desk tucked in a shadowy corner.

"We're so excited to be here," Mia chirped, undeterred by his frosty demeanor. She followed him to the desk, glancing around with undisguised curiosity. "The building must have such history! How old is it? Has it always been a lodge?"

The Caretaker's face remained impassive as he retrieved a large leather-bound ledger and an ornate fountain pen. "Sign here," he instructed, ignoring her questions entirely. One by one, they signed the register, Daniel pausing to note that the previous entry was dated nearly three weeks earlier.

"Not exactly peak season, I guess," he murmured to Alex, who nodded thoughtfully.

"Is there... wi-fi?" Lisa asked hesitantly.

A ghost of a smile flickered across the Caretaker's thin lips. "The mountains interfere with such things," he replied, as if speaking to a child who'd asked a particularly naive question. "There is a landline for emergencies." He gestured toward an ancient rotary phone mounted on the wall near the desk.

When Daniel, emboldened by the growing strangeness of their situation, inquired directly about the lodge's history, the man's only response was a penetrating stare and a muttered, "These walls remember much. All you need to know is in your rooms."

From a cabinet behind the desk, he retrieved four large iron keys, each attached to a wooden tag bearing a number. "Second floor," he instructed, pointing toward the staircase he had descended earlier. "Dinner at seven in the dining room." With that, he vanished through a door behind the reception area, leaving them alone in the lobby.

"Well, he's certainly... hospitable," Daniel remarked sarcastically once they were sure he was out of earshot.

"Oh, stop it," Mia scolded. "He's probably just eccentric. People who choose to live in isolated places often are."

"Or he's a serial killer who lures unsuspecting tourists to their doom," Daniel countered with a half-smile.

Lisa shuddered visibly. "Can we not? Let's just check out our rooms."

The wide staircase creaked ominously with each step, the worn wooden banister smooth beneath their hands. The second-floor corridor stretched in both directions, dimly lit by wall sconces that cast more shadows than light. Numbered doors lined both sides, their rooms scattered along the hallway rather than adjacent to one another.

Their accommodations were spartan but clean - high ceilings with exposed beams, iron-framed beds with surprisingly comfortable mattresses, heavy wooden furniture, and windows that offered breathtaking views of the surrounding wilderness by day but transformed into black mirrors by night, reflecting their concerned faces back at them. Each room had a small private bathroom with fixtures that appeared to date from the early twentieth century, though the plumbing worked better than expected.

"I swear this place could be in a horror movie," Daniel joked as they gathered in Mia's room after unpacking, passing around a bottle of wine they'd brought. "All it needs is a tragic backstory and a vengeful ghost."

"It's just old," Lisa insisted, though she kept glancing toward the closed door. "Old buildings make noises. It's the wood expanding and contracting."

Alex sat by the window, gazing out at the darkening forest. "There's something about this place," he said quietly. "Something... I don't know... waiting? Does that make sense?"

"Ooh, sounds like your writer's block might be clearing," Mia teased, refilling his glass. "But seriously, this weekend is about relaxing and reconnecting, not freaking ourselves out over a few creaky floorboards."

The dinner bell rang at precisely seven o'clock, a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through the walls themselves. They made their way downstairs to find the dining room - a long, narrow space dominated by a massive oak table that could easily seat twenty - illuminated by candelabras rather than electric lights. Place settings had been arranged at one end of the table, with the Caretaker standing silently by a sideboard laden with covered dishes.

"No other guests?" Lisa inquired as they took their seats.

"You are the only ones," the Caretaker confirmed, beginning to serve a surprisingly delicious stew accompanied by freshly baked bread. The food was hearty and flavorful, clearly prepared with skill despite the rustic surroundings.

Conversation flowed more easily as they ate, helped along by the bottles of local wine provided with dinner. They reminisced about college days, caught up on recent developments in their lives, and gradually relaxed into the familiar comfort of long-standing friendship. The Caretaker remained in the room, standing motionless in a corner like a statue, responding to requests for more bread or wine but otherwise making no attempt to join the conversation.

As the meal concluded with a simple but exquisite apple tart, Daniel, emboldened by wine and curiosity, turned directly to their host. "So, how long has this place been here? It feels like it has stories to tell."

The Caretaker's gaze slowly shifted to Daniel, and something in those deep-set eyes made the room feel suddenly colder. "Every mountain has its secrets," he replied cryptically. "Some best left undisturbed."

An uncomfortable silence descended upon the table. After a moment, the Caretaker continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "The forest beyond the lodge is not safe after dark. Stay within these walls until morning light."

With that ominous warning, he began clearing the dishes with mechanical efficiency. The friends exchanged glances, uncertain whether to take the warning seriously.

"Probably just worried about us getting lost," Mia suggested as they made their way back to the lobby, where a fire had been lit in the massive fireplace during their absence. "Or maybe bears or something."

"Or something," Alex echoed, his writer's imagination already spinning possibilities far more sinister than wildlife.

They spent the next few hours huddled before the fire, playing cards and finishing the last of their own wine. The atmosphere grew comfortable and warm, the strangeness of their surroundings temporarily forgotten in the pleasure of each other's company. By eleven, yawns were frequent enough that they decided to retire for the night, making plans to explore the surrounding area in the morning if weather permitted.

That first night, none of them slept well. The old building seemed to come alive after dark, filling with subtle sounds that defied easy explanation. Alex was awakened twice by what sounded like footsteps in the corridor, though when he finally gathered the courage to peer out, the hallway was empty, the shadows between the wall sconces deep enough to hide anything - or anyone. Daniel found the door to his closet open in the morning, though he was certain he'd closed it before bed. Lisa dreamed of someone standing at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep, and woke in a cold sweat, unable to shake the feeling that the dream had been more than just a nightmare.

Mia, ever the optimist, laughed off the cold spot by her window that seemed to move around the room during the night. "Old buildings have terrible insulation," she declared at breakfast. "And probably mice in the walls. Nothing supernatural about that."

Breakfast was served by the silent Caretaker in the same dining room, which looked considerably less atmospheric in the harsh morning light streaming through tall windows. The meal consisted of eggs, locally cured bacon, and thick slices of toast with homemade preserves - simple fare, but prepared to perfection.

"So," Daniel began, spreading blackberry jam on his toast, "did anyone else notice anything... unusual last night?"

"Define unusual," Lisa replied, her usual practicality undermined by the dark circles beneath her eyes.

"I don't know. Strange noises? Sudden cold spots? The feeling of being watched by unseen eyes?" Daniel's tone was light, but his expression suggested genuine curiosity.

"Ghost stories," Mia scoffed, though with less conviction than she might have mustered twenty-four hours earlier. "Classic sleep disruption in an unfamiliar environment."

"I don't know," Alex said quietly, pushing his eggs around his plate. "Did either of you hear whispering last night? Like someone was having a conversation in the walls?"

Before anyone could answer, a loud crash echoed from upstairs, and all four friends froze, exchanging glances that mixed amusement with the first genuine flickers of unease. The Caretaker, who had been silently refilling coffee cups, didn't react to the sound at all, as if he hadn't heard it or found nothing unusual about unexplained crashes in an otherwise silent building.

"Probably just something falling," Lisa suggested after a moment. "These old places settle."

"Right," Daniel agreed too quickly. "Or our mysterious host dropped something while preparing rooms for the non-existent other guests."

The Caretaker chose that moment to speak, startling them with his proximity and his uncanny ability to move silently across creaking floorboards. "The eastern trail provides the best views of the valley," he informed them tonelessly. "Maps in the lobby. Return before dusk." With that, he collected their plates and disappeared back into what they presumed was the kitchen.

"Was that helpful information or another warning?" Alex wondered aloud once they were alone.

"Both, probably," Mia responded, rising from her seat with renewed enthusiasm. "Come on, we came here to hike and enjoy nature, not sit around getting spooked by an old house and its weird caretaker. Let's take his advice about the eastern trail."

The day proved to be exactly what they had hoped for when planning the trip. The eastern trail, clearly marked despite the Caretaker's implication that they might need maps, wound its way through ancient pine forests and alpine meadows still dotted with late-blooming wildflowers. The crisp mountain air, the exercise, and the spectacular scenery gradually washed away the unease of the previous night.

They stopped for lunch at a rocky outcropping that offered panoramic views of the valley below and the distant peaks beyond. Spread before them was a wilderness seemingly untouched by human development - no roads visible, no power lines cutting across the landscape, nothing to suggest they weren't the first people to gaze upon this vista.

"This is why we came," Mia declared, arms spread wide as if to embrace the entire scene. "Worth a few creaky floorboards, right?"

Even Daniel had to admit the beauty of their surroundings justified the lodge's shortcomings. "Though I still think our host could use some lessons in basic hospitality," he added.

"I looked up the lodge online before we lost signal," Lisa revealed, unwrapping a sandwich from her backpack. "There's almost nothing about it - just that bare-bones website Mia found and a couple of vague mentions in hiking forums. No proper reviews anywhere."

"That's weird, right?" Alex asked. "Everything has reviews these days."

"Maybe the Caretaker prefers it that way," Mia suggested. "Keeps the crowds away. Preserves the authenticity."

"Or preserves something else entirely," Daniel muttered, but his smile took the edge off the comment.

As the afternoon wore on, clouds began gathering over the distant peaks, and the temperature dropped noticeably. They decided to head back to the lodge, mindful of the Caretaker's warning about returning before dusk. The forest, so inviting in the bright sunlight of midday, took on a more forbidding aspect as shadows lengthened and the wind picked up, carrying the promise of rain.

The first drops began to fall when they were still fifteen minutes from the lodge, and by the time they hurried through the front door, they were thoroughly soaked and chilled to the bone. The lobby was empty, the fireplace cold, no sign of their host anywhere.

"Great," Daniel grumbled, water dripping from his jacket onto the worn carpet. "Five-star service continues."

"Let's just go change into dry clothes," Lisa suggested practically. "We can meet in the common room afterward and get that fire going ourselves."

They dispersed to their respective rooms, agreeing to reconvene in thirty minutes. Alex, shivering slightly, was relieved to find that despite the building's age, the hot water in the shower was plentiful and the pressure surprisingly good. As steam filled the small bathroom, he began to relax, letting the tension of the hike and the strange environment melt away.

It was only as he was drying off that he noticed something odd - a handprint on the fogged mirror, too small to be his own, as if someone with a child-sized hand had pressed it against the glass. He stared at it for a long moment, trying to rationalize its presence, but could come up with no explanation that didn't disturb him. By the time he had dressed in warm, dry clothes, the mirror had cleared, the handprint vanishing like a half-remembered dream.

He debated whether to mention it to the others as they gathered in the common room, where Daniel had managed to get a respectable fire going in the massive fireplace. In the end, he decided against it - no need to add to the growing catalog of peculiarities they were all pretending not to notice.

Outside, the rain had intensified, drumming against the windows and roof with increasing fury. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the room, followed by thunder that seemed to shake the very foundations of the old building. The storm had effectively trapped them indoors for the evening, a fact that none of them acknowledged directly but all understood implicitly.

"I found something interesting while I was changing," Mia announced, producing a leather-bound book from behind her back. "It was on the bookshelf in my room, tucked behind some ancient encyclopedias."

"Please tell me it's not a human-skin-bound tome of forbidden knowledge," Daniel quipped, though the nervous edge in his voice betrayed his unease.

Mia rolled her eyes. "It's just an old journal. I think it belonged to someone who stayed here... before." She opened it carefully, revealing pages of faded handwriting. "Listen to this: 'April 18, 1932. The rumors that led me to this place seem founded in truth after all. The locals in the village speak of it only in whispers, but their fear is palpable. What happened on this mountain three decades ago has not been forgotten, nor forgiven.'"

A particularly violent thunderclap punctuated her reading, making them all jump. In the moment of startled silence that followed, a new sound became audible - a soft, rhythmic tapping coming from somewhere above their heads, like small feet moving in a deliberate pattern across the floor of an unoccupied room.

"That's... probably just the rain," Lisa suggested, her voice strained.

But they all knew it wasn't the rain. And as they huddled closer together in the flickering firelight, the tapping continued, sometimes fading only to resume with greater urgency, while the storm raged outside and the night pressed in around the old lodge that stood silent and watchful under the distant peak.

I’m closing up for the night when I get the call: Aunt Cynthia’s been in a car accident, a bad one.  Her back’s broken.  Uncle Dan’s disabled too, so he’s reluctantly asking everyone in the family to come out and help if they can.

I can.  The next day I cash in my vacation time, load up my head-turning 2009 Chevy Impala, and hit the road on a cross-country trip from New Hampshire to Uncle Dan’s place out near Vegas.  I don’t like flying.

The four guys in the black Nissan corner me at a rest stop just outside Iowa City. 

I’m heading back from the bathroom and focusing mostly on how good it feels to move my legs around, so I don’t really notice anything untoward about the black Rogue parked next to my Impala.  As I cross in front of their windshield, all four doors open and a quartet of young guys about my age step out.

“Hey, man,” says the driver, who’s looking sharp in a leather hat and a T-shirt that says MY ISSUES HAVE ISSUES.  He nods at the Impala.  “You got the V-8 in that?”

His friends on the passenger side both slam their doors shut and peer through the Impala’s windows, like they might see the engine in there if they look hard enough.  Neither one seems interested in getting out of my way. 

“Uh, nope.”  The hair on the back of my neck is starting to stand up.  “Just the six, I’m afraid.”

The leader grins and slams his door shut, too.  His right hand is hidden in his pocket.  “Well, hey,” he says.  “Gotta make do, right?  I’m guessing it gets pretty good gas mileage, huh, boys?”

“Oh, yeah,” says the guy looking into my driver’s window.  “Bet you could drive this baby all night.”

I glance around.  The parking lot is empty except for us.  The traffic on the highway seems far, far away.  “It’s great to meet you,” I lie.  “But I got a long drive ahead.  If you’ll excuse me – ”

The leader grins wider.  “I hear ya, man.  But, you know, it might not be as long as you think.  Life’s funny like that, right, boys?”

“Oh, yeah,” says the guy behind him.  “Sometimes I just laugh and laugh.”

“You gotta,” the leader agrees.  “You gotta.  What I’m saying, man, is – ”

A battleship-gray Tahoe bearing the black-on-yellow shield of the Iowa State Patrol shoots down the exit ramp and pulls into one of the nearby spaces, and I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life.  The leader clocks it and whistles through his teeth.  His friends back up a step. 

I walk around to the passenger side of the Impala, unlock the door, and slide across the bench seat.  By the time I have the engine running, the four guys are ambling off in the direction of the men’s room while a blonde lady officer in mirror shades steps out of the Tahoe and watches them go. 

Once I’m on the entrance ramp I hit the gas hard, change lanes, and get myself lost in the westbound traffic as fast as I can.  Then I remember to breathe.

It’s done, I tell myself.  They’re behind me now.  And that’s exactly where I want them.

---

I stop for the night a couple of hours later, well past Des Moines.  There’s a truck stop and diner across the street from the hotel, and I stretch my legs with a quick walk over for dinner. 

The place is middlin’ busy, and it’s nice to hear the murmur of conversation as I take a seat at the counter next to a grizzled old guy with a gray handlebar moustache.  The counterman pours coffee, and the Iowa City guys recede even further into the rearview mirror.  I sip and listen, and the tension of the day starts to drain out of my muscles.

A massive guy in cowboy boots and a battered Orioles cap bellies up to the counter on my right.  “Hey, Big Al!” says the counterman.  “Lemme get that for ya.”  He pours coffee.  “How’s life on the trail?” 

Big Al takes his cap off and works the bill between his hands.  I don’t know the guy, but I can see something’s not right.  He looks like I probably looked just before that ISP lady pulled up.  The counterman notices this too, and he peers closer.  “Hey!  You okay there, buddy?”

Big Al rubs his chin.  “I dunno.  I mean, yeah.  I saw something kinda funny, that’s all.  Can’t seem to shake it, I guess.”  He shrugs.  “Probably nothing.”

The counterman shakes his head.  “Buddy.  You can’t wind me up like that and then say it’s probably nothing.  Spit it out and the coffee’s on the house.”

Big Al mangles his cap a bit more, then shrugs and sets it on the counter.  I get the feeling he’s looking for an excuse to get whatever this is off his chest, and here’s one as good as any.  “Okay, Ray,” he says.  “I’ll hold you to it.” 

He blows out air and thinks for a minute.  “So I’m stopped for dinner just outside Omaha.  Jerry’s Joint.  You know it?”  Ray shakes his head.  “Doesn’t matter,” says Big Al.  “Good place, good people.  Never had any trouble before.  So tonight I’m having my coffee and this kid busts in.”  He takes a sip.  “You ever read any Mark Twain, Ray?  Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, any of those?”

“Uh, sure,” says Ray.  “Rafting down the mighty Mississip and all that, right?”

“Yeah, exactly.  So this kid’s dressed like he stepped right outta one of those books. Straw hat, no shoes, dirty clothes that look like they came outta a museum or something. His feet are all covered in mud.  And he heads straight for my table.”

At this point I’ve given up on politely pretending not to listen, and so has the handlebar moustache guy on my left.  We’re both hanging on every word, and the moustache guy’s eyes are narrowed as if he doesn’t like what he’s hearing.  Big Al hesitates, and Ray gives him an encouraging nod.

“He looks me straight in the eye,” says Big Al.  “And he starts to talk.  ‘Something’s hootin’ out there, mister!’”  Big Al sort of does the accent: an exaggerated down-home Mississippi drawl.  “’You gotta come see!  I think it might be an owl or somethin’, mister!  C’mon, mister, you gotta see the hootin’!’”

Ray tries to repress a snort and fails.  “Seriously?”

“Honest to God,” says Big Al.  “And so now I’m thinking, maybe this kid’s got special needs or something, and I gotta be real gentle with him.  But he don’t feel like that.”  I feel a chill at that, and even Ray’s face turns serious.  “I don’t know why.  Something about his eyes, maybe.  I’m not sure.  But the folks at the other tables are looking over at us like they feel it too, so I know it ain’t just me.  And I decide I ain’t gonna go.”

Big Al picks up his cup, but his hand shakes and he puts it down again.  “And while I’m deciding, he’s still talking: ‘C’mon, mister, you’re gonna miss the hootin’!  I think it’s an owl or somethin’, mister, honest I do!  You gotta see this hootin’, mister!’  But when I open my mouth to tell him no, he just stops.  All of a sudden.  And now he’s just looking at me, seeing what I’m gonna say.  And I can’t make the words come out.”

He clears his throat.  “Luckily Janice comes over then.  The waitress.  Good lady.  She asks where his mom and dad are, and the kid just books it.  Runs down the aisle and out the doors to the parking lot without another word.  Slams the door open as he goes, and everyone jumps.  Only here’s the thing.”  Big Al tries another sip of coffee, and this time he makes it.  “I’m sitting next to the window, and I look out there as he goes.  And I don’t see him out in the parking lot.”

He drains the rest of his coffee, and Ray pours him more without saying a word.  “So I get up to look,” says Big Al.  “I go to the doors and I poke my head out.  I still don’t see the kid.  But there’s something else out there I didn’t see through the window.”

This time there’s a long, long pause.  “What was it?” asks the handlebar moustache guy.  His voice is low and smooth, like tobacco smoke, and as he speaks I get a funny feeling: he already knows.

“There was this truck,” Big Al says at last.  He looks out at the darkening sky.  “Rusty old thing.  Looked at least seventy, maybe eighty years old.  Both the headlights punched out, and the sockets just dead and black and empty.  Wasn’t lit up, not at all.” 

In the back, someone drops a plate, and we all flinch.  “It’s pulling this diseased-looking trailer, and it’s all covered with graffiti.  I remember one of the tags says “We got MR STENCH here!”, and it’s got an arrow pointing down, like MR STENCH is hiding under the trailer.  And it’s just pulling out of the parking lot.  Something seems wrong about it, and it takes me a minute to figure it out: no engine noise.  None at all.  Just the wind and the tires crunching on the gravel.” 

He puts his cap back on.  “And then when I poke my head out it stops, and it starts to back up.  It backs under one of the lights, and it looks to me like the wheels ain’t turning right.  You know on TV, when it looks like they’re spinning backwards?  It looks like that.”

He sits for a long time, and we sit with him.  At last he drinks more coffee.  “So I duck right back inside.  I wait for an hour, and then I go.  Don’t see the truck again.  And so now I’m here drinking your coffee instead of Jerry’s.” 

There’s a beat, and then Ray busts out laughing.  “You sly old dog!” he yells.  “You had me going there, you really did.  Go on, drink up.”  He fills Big Al’s coffee to the brim.  “I guess you earned it.  You sly old dog.”  He walks off shaking his head.

Big Al slumps in his seat.  He looks at his coffee and he shakes his head.

The handlebar moustache guy leans over and claps Big Al on the shoulder.  Big Al looks at him, startled. 

“I believe you,” the guy says.  He sticks out a hand.  “Ben.”

Big Al blinks, then takes the hand and shakes.  “Al.  You mean you…” he trails off.

Ben nods. “I mean I think you made a real good choice.  And I think maybe you want to keep driving tonight.  Just for a bit.”  He thinks for a moment.  “You know the Court Jester?  Just past Des Moines?  They’ll fix you up a great steak.  Tell ‘em Ben sent you.”  He glances over his shoulder; Ray is taking a customer’s order at the far end of the bar.  “But you don’t wanna eat here.  Not tonight.”

Big Al thinks for a minute.  Then he gets up, tosses a couple bills on the counter, and shakes hands again.  “Thanks, Ben. Your coffee’s on me.  Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“I hope so,” says Ben.  Big Al nods and heads for the door.

Ben takes charge of the bills and lays them neatly on the counter beside his coffee cup.  Ray comes back, and Ben orders a steak.  I say I need a minute. 

When Ray’s gone, I turn to Ben.  “Should, uh, should we be leaving too?”  I want to ask more, but I’m not sure how to put it.

Ben smiles and shakes his head.  “Nah.  It’s a good place.  Even Ray’s a decent enough guy, really.  Bad listener, but what can you do?”  He sips.  “I been out here a long time, though, and I thought Al might be more comfortable somewhere else tonight. That’s all.  You’ll be fine.  Just – ”  He stops and shrugs. “You’ll be fine.”

I think about that.  “I’m Tim,” I say at last.  “And it’s none of my business, but – ”

“Good to meet you, Tim.”  Ben’s handshake is firm and confident.  “No, you got a right to ask, after listening to all that.  Order up and we’ll talk.”  I catch Ray’s eye and put in an order for a delightful breakfast-dinner.  Meanwhile Ben is glancing around the bar, and his gaze lingers on a man sitting alone in a corner booth. 

The guy is fiftyish, graying, dressed like a trucker – or almost like a trucker.  Something’s off, and after squinting for a moment I decide it’s that his clothes are too new.  His Caterpillar cap is stiff and shiny, and the bill is too straight for his head.  He looks like a guy who got drafted to play a trucker in some sort of theater production, and ran out of time to put the finishing touches on his costume.

“That’s Walter.”  Ben pitches his voice low.  “He’s waiting to meet someone.” 

“Oh, yeah?”  I don’t want to pry.

“Yeah.  Guy from the dark web.  Said he’d sell Walter an untraceable poison.”

I start in my seat and give Walter another look.  He’s fidgeting and pushing the food around on his plate.  A cup of coffee grows cold on the table in front of him. 

Ben grips my arm.  “Okay, easy now.  Don’t want to make him nervous.  He’s got a lot on his mind.”  We turn back to our coffees, and with impeccable timing Ray drops two steaming plates on the counter in front of us.   

I pick up my bacon and look at it.  “What’s, uh, what’s he want an untraceable poison for?”

“Murder his wife.”  Ben salts his steak and digs into it.  “He’s tried it twice already.  Last time she was in bed for a week.  Thought it was food poisoning.”  He takes a bite.  “Oh, that’s good.” 

It’s a funny thing.  My bacon’s gone, and I don’t remember tasting it.  I fill the gap with more coffee.  “Um.  Are you a police officer, then, Ben?”

Ben chuckles, but it seems a bit humorless.  “Nope.  Gotta be real clear about that.  Just a guy.”  He looks out the window.  It’s getting dark for real, now; beyond the parking lot are mostly fields, and only the hotel shows a few glowing lights against the gloom. 

“You stay on these roads long enough,” says Ben, “and you’ll start to see ‘em.  Not a lot of ‘em, not really.  But enough.”

“Uh, a lot of who?”  I can’t figure out if he means would-be murderers like Walter, or what.  Maybe Ben is one of those guys who catches criminals on the Internet?  He doesn’t look the part, somehow.

“Well, take that kid, for instance.  The Huck Finn kid who wanted to show Big Al all the hootin’.  You won’t see him again, I don’t think – that story of his didn’t work out for him – but you’ll see others.  They’ll come in with a story, too.” 

Ben pauses for steak.  “I been driving across this great nation of ours for more than thirty years now, and I’ve had my own rig for about twenty of that.  I’ve seen ‘em fifty, maybe sixty times – always at night, always in places like this that cater to folks far from home.  The, uh, quality varies.  But the goal stays the same.”  He points his knife at me.  “They want you to leave with them.  Just you.  No one else.”

I’m definitely cold now.  I shiver and gulp some more coffee.  It helps, sort of.  Ray stops by with a refill, and I watch as the steaming liquid gurgles into the cup.  Behind me, the bell on the door jingles as a customer departs into the night. 

I’m not sure I really want the answer to my next question, but I ask it anyway.  “Why?  What happens if you go?”

Ben shrugs.  “Not sure, exactly.  But I can tell you two things.  That truck Al saw is always waiting outside when it happens.  And the ones who go never come back.”

“And all that stuff with the silent running and the wheels spinning backwards – you think Al was right about all that?”

“I know he was.” 

We sit in silence for a moment.  I’m not sure what to think.  Ben doesn’t come off as if he’s trying to impress me, not at all.  His voice is quiet and a little bit tired.  I get the impression that he’d rather not be talking about this at all, but he really thinks I have a right to know if I’m willing to listen. 

And I decide I want to take him up on that.  Even if he’s wrong, or even a bit crazy, something about these people and their truck scared Big Al badly, and Ben treated him in that moment with dignity and respect.  I’ve had my own narrow escape today, and so I appreciate that even more than I usually would.

“Well, let me ask this,” I say at last.  “It sounds like it might be a kidnapping ring or something – one of the gang gets the victim to come outside, and then they stuff him in the back of the truck, maybe?  I don’t understand the thing with the wheels, but let’s forget that for a second.  What I want to know is, how come these guys can’t come up with a better story?  Who’s gonna follow a stranger into the dark to hear an owl?”

Beneath his steel-gray moustache, Ben smiles – and it’s a real smile, tired but warm.  “Well,” he says.  “It’s funny you should ask that.  You ever heard of the scammers from Mars, Tim?”

I blink.  “Uh, David Bowie, right?”

Ben chuckles.  “Close.  It’s actually something my nephew told me about.  You know those scam emails you get, where the guy claims to be a Nigerian prince or whatever, and he needs you to put millions of dollars in your bank account for him?”  I nod; I have, in fact, at least a dozen of those emails sitting in my inbox at this very moment. 

“Sure you do,” says Ben.  “Well, you don’t think the scammers typed all that up by hand just for you, right?  They got these scripts they use, and they send ‘em out to lots of people all at once, rinse and repeat.  Well, few years back there was a good Samaritan who was trying to figure a way to protect people from getting scammed.  And what he realized was that the scammers were lazy, and they weren’t writing or even reading the scripts they were sending out.  Mostly they just stole them from other scammers.” 

Ben chuckles again and drinks coffee.  “No honor among thieves, I guess.  So this Sam, he writes his own script.  It says he’s a lawyer on Mars who wants to help one lucky citizen claim a prize of ten million Galactic credits.  And he emails it out to lots of known scammers.  And the scammers, being scammers, they steal it and they send it onto their own victims without reading it too carefully.”

He signals for a refill.  “Pretty soon, lots of Grandmas and Grandpas are getting emails from lawyers on Mars.  And it’s ridiculous, so no one bites – except for the Sam and his friends.  They engage the scammers and they make it look like this Mars story is hot stuff.  Guaranteed to pull the suckers in.”

“So the scammers keep sending it.  And Grandma and Grandpa are a bit safer, because now the lies don’t look true.”  He pushes his plate back.  “You want dessert, Tim?  I’m buying.  You’re a good listener and I appreciate your company.”

Before I can answer, the bell above the door jingles.  And the Iowa City guys walk in.

---

The leader spots me before the door swings shut.  He grins like a shark.  “Impala man!”  His friends whistle and clap as he saunters over and seats himself on Big Al’s stool.  He chucks his leather hat onto the counter and grins again.  “Man, it really is a small world, ain’t it?”

I ease my phone out of my pocket.  Ben is watching carefully, his expression blank.  I look the leader in the eyes.  “Excuse me.  I’m eating.”  I take a bite of eggs to prove it.

The leader nods sagely.  “I get ya, man.  Gotta feed the machine.  And speakin’ of…” he leans forward and speaks in low, confidential tones.  “I notice you parked that Impala of yours in a handicapped spot, my man.”  He holds out a palm.  “So me and the boys, we figured we might go ahead and move it for you.  Kind of payin’ it forward, like.  You toss me the keys, man, we’ll get it done.”  He smiles wider.  “Might save you some trouble later, you know?”  Behind him, his friends chuckle and smirk.

“No, thanks.”  I glance over at Ben.  His face appears to be carved out of granite, and the leader’s gaze flicks to him.

“Howdy, pops.”  The leader plasters on a sunny smile and jerks a thumb in my direction.  “You know this guy?”

Ben considers this, then shrugs.  “Who among us can know a man?” he asks.  He turns away, pulls a battered smartphone out of his pocket, and starts typing on it.

The leader throws back his head and laughs.  “Hey, that’s real deep, pops.  I can tell you and me are gonna get along just like a house on fire.”  He leans back, signals Ray, and tips me a wink.  “No offense taken, man.  None at all.  We’re hungry anyway, ain’t we, boys?”

“Starving,” one of his friends says.

“I could eat a horse,” says another.  The three of them saunter over to an empty booth. 

“That’s a fact, man,” says the leader.  “We’ll all have us a good old meal, just like mama used to make.  And then maybe we’ll see about that parking job later, am I right?”  Ray arrives, order pad at the ready, and the leader turns the grin on him.  “You got any vegan options here, bud?”

I glance at Ben again as Ray answers, but he’s still turned mostly away, and it looks like he’s totally engrossed in his phone and his coffee.  I don’t have any right to feel shocked and saddened by this, I realize – Ben doesn’t really owe me anything, and he doesn’t know the Iowa City guys like I do anyway – but I can’t help it.  He seemed, somehow, like exactly the guy you’d want to have next to you when things go south.  And yet there he sits – and it looks like I’m alone.

I hold my coffee cup in front of my face to hide my expression, and I’m trying to run through my options – leave now? Call the police?  And tell them what? – when the bell jingles again.  And a young lady bursts in.

She is tall, dark-haired, statuesque.  Her luxuriant curls are styled in the fashion of a bygone age, and they bounce back and forth as she looks wildly around at the diners.  “Oh, please!” she says, in a breathless gasp that is almost a scream.  “You’ve got to come quickly – someone, please!  It’s a scandal!”

Ray drops his order pad and makes like he’s going to approach her, and Ben reaches out and grabs his arm.  Ray looks at him, startled, and Ben shakes his head so minutely that, even with my nerves keyed up as they are, I nearly miss it.  I examine the lady a bit more closely, and as she looks from one face to another I realize that her clothes are from another time, too: she’s wearing a luxuriant dress of royal purple velvet, the sort of thing a Disney princess might wear to a formal ball. 

“That truck out there!” she whisper-shrieks.  “It’s completely nude!  Not a stitch on it!  Oh, the scandal, the scandal – won’t someone please come and help?”  No one does; the faces of the other diners range from puzzled to annoyed to wary, but no one rushes to her aid.  In their booth, the other three Iowa City guys are starting to snicker.

Ben sighs and rolls his eyes in the leader’s direction.  “Aw, not this again,” he says.  “How does she have any money left to waste on this?”  He has not let go of Ray’s arm.

The leader rubs his chin and looks in the woman’s direction.  She has renewed her appeal but is still finding no takers.  “What money’s that, pops?”

Ben shakes his head again.  “That’s Clara Smart.  Inherited about half the county from her old dad.  Now she goes around roping people into these stupid theatre skits.  She’s a nut, of course.”   He shrugs.  “Last time it was two dragons fightin’.  This time it’s nude trucks, I guess.  Nice work if you can get it, maybe, but I ain’t takin’ money from a sick woman.”

“You don’t say.”  The leader is sitting up very straight now.  “How much money we talkin’ here?”

“Well.”  Ben sips coffee.  “Last time it was a thousand bucks.  Guy pretended to fight the dragons and she paid him cash on the spot.  Sad, really.”  He grimaces as Clara launches into her spiel again.

“Oh, yeah.”  The leader stands up and claps his leather hat back onto his head.  “I’m cryin’ on the inside, that’s for sure.  Thanks, pops.”  He gestures to his team.  “C’mon, boys, you heard the lady.  Let’s give her a hand with this nude truck problem.”

His team breaks into raucous laughter and follows him up the aisle.  Clara fixes her eyes on him as he approaches, and she wrings her hands together.  “Oh, please, sir,” she begs.  “Can’t you help?  That truck out there, sir – it’s completely nude!”

The leader favors her with a smile and a bow.  “My lady,” he says, “I am at your service.  You want me to hold onto that purse of yours till it’s safe out there?”

“Oh, thank you, sir – thank you!” Clara cries.  The leader opens the door for her; she backs through, still thanking him and wringing her hands, and his three friends follow her out like hyenas stalking a wounded gazelle.

The leader pauses in the door and looks at me.  “Don’t go nowhere, Impala man,” he says.  “We’ll be right back.”

He turns.  The bell jingles.  And he is gone.

Ben lets go of Ray’s arm.  He exhales, and I realize that I have been holding in my breath as well.  I let it out, and Ben claps me on the shoulder.  “How about that dessert, Tim?  I’m still buyin’.”

I glance over at the door, but night has fallen and I see only the reflection of the diners in the darkened glass.  “Uh, maybe I should go.  In case they come back.”

“They won’t.”  Ben relaxes in his seat and picks up a menu.  “Clara, now, she’ll come back another night.  Got what she wanted, after all.  But they won’t.”

And they don’t.

Ben and I each enjoy a slice of Ray’s homemade peach pie, and Ben tells me a few well-chosen tales of his travels across the continent.  When we’re maybe halfway through, Walter gets up from his booth and fast-walks past us with his hands in his pockets and his Caterpillar cap pulled low over his eyes.  “Hey,” I whisper as the doorbell jingles to his departure.  “Didn’t you want to – ”

Ben smiles and taps the smartphone in his shirt pocket.  “Well, it’s a funny thing, Tim.  Round about the time those hard boys walked in, Walter got an email from his untraceable poison guy.  Turns out this meet was being watched by a rival gang, or something.  He had to reschedule.”  He forks in another peach.  “Don’t worry.  Walter’ll be around when he’s needed.  Which’ll be in about – ”  He checks his watch.  “Oh, shoot.  Is that the time?”  He stands and raises an arm.  “Ray!  Check, please!”

---

We shake hands in the parking lot.  Ben starts to climb up into the cab of a shiny blue big rig with a sunrise painted on the door.  “Well, it’s sure been a pleasure, Tim.  You stay safe and take good care of your aunt, all right?”

“I will.”  I can’t decide how much more to add.  I think I’ve figured out more about Ben and his work than he’s actually said, but most of it sounds crazy in my own head, and I can’t figure out a natural way to bring it up.  “The, uh, stories,” I say at last.  “They used to be better, didn’t they?”

“They did, yeah.”  Ben stares off down the highway.  “Some good people got caught up.  Some still do, I’m sure.”

“But not as many.”

“Not as many, nope.  And most nights I can sit with that.”

I think about that for a minute.  “How long have you been doing this?” 

He looks into the distance again.  “Longer than I’d like.  If I thought there was someone to hand it off to…”

He stops and shakes his head, then grins as he hoists himself up into the cab.  “Well.  It’s like the man said, Tim.  You show me civilization, I’ll show you a guy on a wall who’s seen more than he wants to.  Maybe I’m meant to be up here a little while longer, and that’s okay, I guess.” 

He checks his watch again and waves as he keys the truck’s engine.  “Gotta go.  Wouldn’t want to disappoint Walter a second time.  You text me when you get in, all right?  I like to know my friends are safe.” 

---

Aunt Cynthia’s operation goes well, and by the time I leave three weeks later she’s doing a lot better.  The trip back is uneventful, I’m relieved to say, although every time I stop to eat I find myself glancing a bit too often at the door. 

No one ever comes in but honest folk in search of a hot meal and a friendly face, and as I make my way home I am grateful: for my family, for the man on the wall, and most of all for the scammers from Mars.

This happened about three years ago, and even now I don’t park my car in that spot anymore. At the time, life felt completely normal—I lived in a quiet neighborhood with my two kids, my daughter who was 8 and my son who was 12, and every afternoon I’d sit outside while they played so I could keep an eye on them. I had this habit of parking my car along the side of the house instead of the driveway because from the driver’s seat I could see both the front yard and the driveway clearly. There’s a narrow gap between the car and the side of the house, maybe two feet wide at most, just gravel and old siding that creaks sometimes, and it’s not a space anyone would ever use unless they had to squeeze through sideways. That evening, right before sunset when everything had that orange glow and the shadows were stretching longer than they should, the kids were out front laughing and playing while I sat in the car with the window down, half paying attention, half on my phone. That’s when I heard the first sound, a soft rustling coming from that narrow gap beside me, not like wind or leaves but something deliberate, like weight shifting against the wall. I turned my head slowly and looked straight into the gap, expecting to see a cat or something small, but there was nothing there, no movement, no shadow, and after a few seconds the sound stopped completely. I told myself it was nothing and went back to watching my kids, but something felt off, like I couldn’t fully relax anymore, and a few minutes later I got that strange feeling you get when you know you’re being watched, so I looked again, quicker this time, and for just a split second I saw what looked like part of a face leaning out from behind the edge of my car, just enough to see me, an eye maybe and part of a cheek, but the second I focused on it, it pulled back and disappeared without making a sound. I froze, staring at that space, trying to make sense of how someone could even be standing there because it was too narrow for most people, and I didn’t want to scare my kids so I forced myself to act normal, got out of the car, and walked toward the garage like I needed something, listening the whole time for any movement behind me. I stepped into the garage and grabbed a flashlight even though it wasn’t dark yet, and that’s when I heard another noise, this time from inside the garage behind me, a quick shuffle like something moved and then stopped, and I turned around immediately toward the motorcycles we kept parked side by side. The sound had come from behind them, and I remember walking over slowly, my heart pounding, calling out “hello” even though I didn’t expect an answer, then stepping around the bikes and checking behind them only to find nothing there, no one, nowhere to hide, which made it worse because now it felt like whatever I heard shouldn’t have been possible. I went back outside trying to convince myself I was just on edge, and by then the kids had moved to the backyard so I followed them and sat near the patio, watching them more closely while the light faded into that dim blue-gray that comes right before dark. I remember I looked down at my phone for just a few seconds, and when I looked up I felt it again, that same instinct telling me to look toward the side of the house, and when I did, that’s when I saw him for the first time clearly, a man standing near the corner where that narrow gap ends, tall, easily around six foot four, broad shoulders, long arms, not squeezed into the space like I thought earlier but just standing there like he had always been there, watching. For a single second he didn’t move, and then he suddenly took off running toward the front of the house at a speed that didn’t look normal, not just fast but explosive, like his whole body launched forward at once, and within seconds he was gone. I jumped up immediately and told my kids to get inside, and something in my voice must have scared them because they didn’t argue, they just ran, and I rushed them in and locked every door and window, my hands shaking so bad I could barely turn the locks. I kept looking out the windows expecting to see him again, but there was nothing, just silence like nothing had happened, and after about twenty minutes I started trying to convince myself maybe he had just run through the yard for some reason, maybe cutting through, even though that didn’t make sense. Then I went to the front window and saw him again, standing across the street completely still, facing the house, and even from that distance I could tell he was looking directly at me, and then without warning he ran again, the same unnatural speed, disappearing between houses in seconds. I called the police after that, and they showed up and checked the area, looked around the yard and nearby houses, but they didn’t find anything, no signs, no one matching the description, and one of the officers suggested it might have just been someone running through the neighborhood, but even he didn’t sound convinced. That night I barely slept, and sometime around two in the morning I heard it again, a faint crunch of gravel coming from outside near that same side of the house, slow footsteps this time, deliberate, like someone pacing in that narrow gap, and I remember lying there frozen, staring at the ceiling, too afraid to even look out the window because I had this overwhelming feeling that if I saw him again, he wouldn’t be across the street this time, he’d be right there. The next morning I went outside and checked, and the gravel in that gap was disturbed, with long, deep footprints like someone had been standing there for a while, facing exactly where my car had been parked, exactly where I had been sitting the day before. About a week later I saw him one last time, in broad daylight, which somehow made it worse, because it proved it didn’t matter what time it was, and I had just glanced toward the side of the house when I saw him standing there again in that same spot, more visible this time, enough that I could make out parts of his face but not clearly, just enough to know there was no expression, nothing friendly, nothing angry, just empty, and the moment he realized I saw him he ran again, faster than before, vanishing just as quickly as every other time. I never saw him again after that, but I stopped parking my car there, I don’t let my kids play outside alone anymore, and sometimes, right before the sun goes down, when everything gets quiet in that same unnatural way, I still feel like something is standing in that narrow space between the house and where my car used to be, waiting for me to look back.

My son, Caleb, started drawing the monster on a Tuesday. I didn’t think much of it at first. He was six. Six-year-olds draw scribbles and calling them dinosaurs or robots or, in this case, something he called “The Long Man.” But by Day 7, I noticed the drawing was exactly the same. Same tall, featureless white face. Same black pits for eyes. Same unnaturally long arms that ended in too many fingers. By Day 14, I had stopped laughing. By Day 21, I had stopped sleeping. And on Day 31, I watched the drawing move from the fridge to the kitchen table while I was standing right there. That was the night I learned that my son hadn’t invented the Long Man. He had simply remembered him.

The first drawing was cute, in the way that a child’s nightmare is cute from a distance. Caleb had used three crayons: black, white, and a strange, dried-up red he had to press hard to get any color from. The result was a tall, stick-figure thing with a blank circle for a head, two black holes for eyes, and arms that swept down past its knees. Its fingers were wrong—too many, like a hand that had been drawn and re-drawn over itself until it became a tangle of lines. Caleb called it the Long Man and said it lived in his closet. I smiled, told him it was very scary, and hung it on the refrigerator with a magnet shaped like a fruit.

The second drawing came the next day. Same figure. Same blank face. Same tangled fingers. I noticed Caleb had added a small, wobbly line near the feet—a shadow, he said, because the Long Man didn’t like light. I thought it was a nice detail. A sign of artistic growth.

By the fifth day, I had stopped complimenting the drawings. Not because I was worried, but because there were simply too many. Caleb had started drawing the Long Man before breakfast, after school, and again before bed. He drew it on construction paper, on the back of grocery receipts, and once, with a crayon he had smuggled into his room, on his bedsheet. My wife, Sarah, laughed it off as a phase. “When I was little, I drew nothing but cats for a year,” she said. “At least he’s not drawing poop.”

But by Day 10, the drawings were no longer confined to paper. I found one on the inside of his closet door, drawn in crayon so fresh it still smelled like wax. Caleb had drawn the Long Man standing in a doorway. Above the figure, in wobbly six-year-old handwriting, he had written: He comes when you sleep. I asked Caleb what that meant. He looked at me with the flat, honest expression of a child who does not yet understand how to lie. “It means he stands there,” Caleb said. “Until you wake up.”

I told myself it was just a game. A story he was building in his head. I was a rational man. I worked in data entry. I did not believe in things that came from closets. But that night, I checked on Caleb three times before I went to bed. Each time, his room was still. His closet door was closed. His breathing was soft and even. I told myself I was being foolish.

Day 14 was when Sarah noticed the change. She had been out of town for a work conference and came home to a kitchen wallpapered in drawings. She stood in front of the refrigerator for a long time, staring at the latest version. This one was different. The Long Man was no longer standing still. In this drawing, its arms were raised. Its tangled fingers were spread wide. And its face—that blank, white circle—was angled slightly, as if it were looking at something outside the frame of the paper. “He’s getting better,” Sarah said carefully. But her voice had lost its lightness. She asked Caleb why the Long Man’s hands were up. Caleb was busy eating a cheese stick. Without looking up, he said, “Because he’s reaching for someone.”

That night, Sarah and I sat in the living room after putting Caleb to bed. We didn’t say much. We watched a comedy special on Netflix and laughed at the wrong moments. At 11:47 PM, we heard a sound from Caleb’s room. It wasn’t a cry or a scream. It was a soft, rhythmic thumping. Like knuckles on wood. I walked down the hall and opened his door. Caleb was asleep. His closet door was closed. The room was still. But the thumping continued. It took me a moment to realize it was coming from inside the closet. Not from the closet itself—from inside the wall behind it. Three slow knocks. Then silence. I opened the closet. Clothes. Shoes. A board game with a missing corner. Nothing else. I closed the door and went back to bed. I did not tell Sarah what I had heard.

Day 21. Caleb had drawn the Long Man forty-seven times. I know this because I counted them when Sarah was at the grocery store. I laid them all out on the living room floor, from the first innocent scribble to the most recent. The most recent was not on paper. It was on the back of a photograph—a picture of Caleb as a baby, sleeping in his crib. He had drawn the Long Man standing over the crib. Its blank face was tilted down. Its tangled fingers were reaching toward the sleeping infant. And at the bottom of the photograph, in red crayon so faint it was almost illegible, Caleb had written: He was there first.

I tried to throw the drawings away. I really did. I gathered them all into a black trash bag and carried them out to the bin. But when I came back inside, the drawing from the photograph was on the kitchen table. I had not put it there. I called Caleb’s name. No answer. I found him in his room, sitting on his bed, staring at the closet. The door was open six inches. “Caleb,” I said, my voice steady. “Did you take the drawing from the trash?” He shook his head slowly. Then he pointed at the closet. “He brought it back,” Caleb whispered. “He wants you to see.”

I slammed the closet door shut. I drove a wooden chair under the knob. I told myself it was static electricity. A draft. A child playing a trick on his father. I told myself many things. But that night, I did not sleep. I sat in the hallway outside Caleb’s room with a kitchen knife in my hand. I watched the closet door. It did not move. The chair held. At 3:17 AM, I heard breathing. Not from the closet. From behind me. I turned. The hallway was empty. But the breathing continued, soft and close, like a mouth pressed against the back of my neck. I ran into Caleb’s room, grabbed him from his bed, and carried him into our bedroom. Sarah woke up, confused and angry. I told her we were having a family sleepover. She looked at the knife in my hand. She did not ask questions.

Day 30. We had not slept in our own beds for nine days. The drawings had stopped. Caleb had not picked up a crayon in nearly a week. I thought maybe it was over. Maybe the attention had made it worse, and ignoring it had made it go away. I was wrong. On the morning of Day 30, I went into the kitchen to make coffee. The refrigerator was covered in drawings—all the old ones, the ones I had thrown away, the ones I had burned in the backyard fire pit. They were taped to the door in a single overlapping collage. At the center, where the fruit magnet used to be, was a new drawing. It was not on paper. It was on a sheet of cardboard cut from a shipping box. The Long Man was there, but it was different. Its blank white face was no longer blank. There was a mouth. A wide, black, screaming mouth. And its tangled fingers were wrapped around a small, stick-figure child. The child was crying. Above the child’s head, in red crayon, were two words: Daddy help.

I woke Caleb up. I shook him harder than I meant to. His eyes opened slowly. He looked at me. Then he looked past me, toward the door of the bedroom. “He’s right there,” Caleb said. His voice was calm. Too calm. “He’s been there since Day 1. You just didn’t want to see.”

I turned. The doorway was empty. But the air in the frame was wrong. It was darker than the air around it. Denser. And it had a shape. A tall shape. A shape with arms that ended in too many fingers. I stared at it for a long, terrible moment. Then I did the only thing I could think of. I picked up Caleb. I walked past the shape in the doorway. I felt its cold pass through me like a breath from an open grave. I walked down the hall, through the kitchen, past the refrigerator covered in drawings, and out the front door. I did not look back. I drove to my mother’s house two hours away. Caleb fell asleep in the car. When we arrived, I checked the backseat. He was holding something in his hand. A crayon. Black. And a fresh piece of paper. On it, he had already drawn the Long Man. Standing in a doorway. Waiting.

The Intruder

Inspired by Sylvia Plath.
It was 1983; Robert Harrison, a former soldier turned burglar, 35, scruffy black hair with an overgrown moustache and an unkempt stubble. He has a slender frame hidden by a black raincoat, a rolled up ski mask, black wool gloves, dark green cargo pants, and black army combat boots. His pockets carried only the essentials - a knife, some cigarettes, and a lighter. Leaving room to take what he wanted. Over his shoulders he carried an empty backpack, unzipped - a darkness in the backpack, filled but never full. He had walked past this apartment before, it had always seemed… hollow… but now - something has changed. Maybe it’s nothing - but the building called to him. Not by name, not literally… but he felt it - the house was calling to him. The windows echoing and yearning for him as if it was looking at him - beckoning him. The streets of Brooklyn were dark, this particular street you would think was abandoned if not for the street light illuminating one red door at the top of a flight of stairs. Beautiful carving covered the door and a large knocker with the face of a bull sat in the middle. The sidewalks were covered by a damp layer of orange and red leaves as a mist of rain covers the city. It is a perfect wall of sound for what he will be doing.
His boots hit the floor in a consistent march - tick, tick, tick, tick. Step, step, step, step. He keeps this rhythm with every job; keeps him focused, fast, quiet. He can’t help but hear the leaves below him - crunching, the sound irritates him but he won’t be slowed by that - not anymore.  The house was tall - cold. Robert didn’t notice though, if he did he would’ve noticed the burnt drapes that hung from the windows. Or the colorless flowers that fill a planter on its porch. He was silent as he ran up the frontsteps, he turns and climbs to a window on the left; He goes to pry it open and it opens without struggle. In one effortless motion the man slides it open,  turns and stands inside. Robert scans the room; noticing photos of an old couple, many photos of the lady - she seems to have passed. He goes for the first set of cabinets he sees, the shelves are full of scrapbooks - pulling one out he sees the lady from the photos dated “11/1/1955” His curiosity gets the better of him and he opens the book. There are no pages, there is one photo and it displays Roberts troupe the day they were sent off. Filled with confusion and slight anger, he tears out the rest of the scrapbooks. Empty. All of them are empty. He jumps back, unable to look away. The cabinets suddenly begin tipping over, slamming down in front of him. He is snapped out of his trance looking at the wall behind the cabinets. There’s a rusted key, dangling from a strand of hair - nailed to the wall. He grabs the key and yanks it off the wall. The nail flies out and blood begins oozing from the hole. A darkness emanating, it calls to Robert. He steps towards it, looking inside. In an instant, hundreds and hundreds of bugs spew out. He recoils, stomping and swatting, smacking them off his body the best he can but he’s overwhelmed by the sheer amount and is chased down the hallway into the only open door - a closet, shutting it behind him, he holds his breath, listening. The bugs go silent. He opens the door slowly and is met by a completely different hallway. This one is lined with beautifully hand carved wooden sidings with a deep forest green wallpaper on the top. Illuminated by gas lamps there is a single door at the end of the hallway. He begins walking towards it, he goes past various paintings depicting small animals, all killed in different manners - not by other animals, but each other. A bunny shredding into its mothers neck, a duck pecking through its own skin, and mice eating through a fawn. Robert ignores it. Walking up to the door he notices it doesn’t match the room - rusted and decrepit, he remembers the key. It seemed to match perfectly. He inserts the key and with a loud click the door opens.

Stepping inside, he finds the walls covered with moldy wallpaper, and a pungent black goo seeping from the corners. He didn’t have time to even comprehend what he was looking at because as he turned he saw the woman from the photos downstairs, tied up. She’s passed out and she smells awful. “Jesus christ- are you okay?” He asks frantically as he drops his bag, and lunges down for the ropes, trying to untie her but is interrupted by the door slamming behind him.  He hears the lock turn and click as he runs to the door and tries opening it, but it won’t budge. He screams “LET ME OUT”, banging on the door he continues “OPEN THE DOOR YOU SICK FUCK”. He is met with silence. Robert turns back to the woman and starts untying her, but she doesn’t move. He tries shaking her lightly, but nothing. Rob checks her pulse and doesn’t find one. He jumps back and begins hyperventilating, pacing back and forth he can’t think of what to do. He begins screaming and banging on the door. “LET ME OUT PLEASE” he begins begging. His voice quivering as he bargains with the kidnapper. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” The man cries, his yells now unintelligible, his banging slowing down as he tires and slides down the wall. He cannot be stuck here. He will not die like this. With a second wind he gets up and bangs harder, yells louder; he starts throwing himself into the door in hopes it will break down. Nothing. Robert steps back and begins examining the room.  Suddenly he is on his feet - ripping everything off the walls, hoping to find something, anything, to get him out. The man rips the wallpaper in the corner of the room and is met with a sliver into an empty void. Not entirely empty though… as Robert stares he can hear a jumble of voices whispering, talking, and screaming, all on top of one another. The voices all saying something different; some angry, some begging, some happy, it was overwhelming. He goes to put the wallpaper back up but as he turns back he is met with a being indescribable to human perception. Somehow larger than the world he inhabits, evershifting wheels of agony and power, unseen to the human eye. It speaks to Robert. Nothing in any language discernible to the human ear, yet he understood nonetheless. Robert turns to the woman on the floor, as if he was being controlled he walks over, kneels down, and begins ripping chunks of rotting flesh off of her arms. Next he goes for the back - digging his nails into her shoulders and ripping downward, it took a few tugs but he manages to get it in one piece. Moving onto her legs he begins clawing from the middle, he manages to get a finger under as he rips ligaments and whatever muscle was left out of her calf. After finishing with the body he begins laying the skin out in a pattern - finishing the pattern the walls around him falls away. He is not met with an endless darkness but the town he’d been in before - the rainy streets, the dark alleys, flickering streetlights, nothing had changed. He looks down at the skin laid out before him. An unending, everchanging, kaleidoscope of human flesh lies before him. He takes a step and falls directly in. Something has been awakened. It was bigger than him now. Robert awakens and is now in the woman's arms. She is no longer torn apart and she smells like his mother. He turns back and sees nothing. Not even a room nor the city around him. He is in a field, tall grass surrounds him and he looks upon a field centered by a large willow tree. Blanketed by a warm moonlight Robert walks to the tree, he lays down against it, and as he sits there, he smiles. “The Moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.”

Last night, I wrote down this idea for a short story. I love stories that are mundane and then a sudden horrific change occurs. What do others think of this? Originally I posted this to "Horror," but they directed me here.

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A man lives alone and lonely in a house he owns. Despite his sadness, he lives a clean and well-ordered life. One day, the doorbell rings. At the door is a woman with a long and homely face, almost like a plastic mask. Despite this, the man welcomes her inside, and they soon marry. He knows little of where she came from or anything about her past, but she is the perfect wife. She is happy, supportive, and loving at every occasion of their lives together from raising their children to speaking lovingly to the man throughout the years to dutifully taking care of him as he gets sick in his old age, becomes bedridden, and dies. After she buries him and does all the things a grieving widow does to the external world, she goes into the cemetery late one night, digs up his corpse, and eats the body. This is what she had been truly waiting for her entire life ever since she approached the house and knocked on the door that first time. This is all she has ever wanted, the great desire of her life; nothing else mattered. She was always biding her time until this moment. If you could go back behind her smiling eyes and gentle laughter and supportive hands during all those years and occasions of their lives together, you would not find the thoughts of a loving wife and mother but rather only one sentence repeating endlessly in her head, rolling around and around like a marble in a bowl, at the forefront of every thought and before all else: “I CANNOT WAIT TO EAT HIS CORPSE.”

previous chapter: https://www.reddit.com/r/horrorstories/s/XATCe0N9Ug

That place is definitely haunted. For the past couple of days, I have encountered knocking, footsteps upstairs, glasses sliding off the kitchen counter, and electronics going off by themselves. Now I am certainly spooked. Though I can handle a little haunting. I guess I can, as long as there is no demon in the house. I should probably shut my mouth, actually.

I always casually talk to them as if I could get an answer. Better be friendly than dinner.

Honestly, I do not feel threatened, so why stress. There is only one thing I have to stress about, and it is art school. I must get in.

Now that my days as a cleaning lady are over, I can unpack the rest of my stuff.

I took the boxes that had my art supplies and headed to my art studio.

The sun was lovely against the peeled wallpaper. I felt so free and unbothered in this new house. The ghosts actually kept me company by having me talk to the air.

As I finished unpacking, I stood there breathing anxiously as I wrapped my arms around myself.

“Come on, Willow, you’ve got this. Art school is waiting for you.”

I closed my eyes, trying not to cry, when I heard laughter from down the hall.

I froze.

What the actual hell.

I must be losing my mind or something. I was half joking about the ghosts.

I slowly went out of the room and followed the hall’s path.

If I were in a horror movie, that would have gotten me killed for sure.

After taking a deep breath, I kept walking, with no sign of a ghost.

“Do white girls get killed in thrillers? I don’t know, but I should have been dead by now, so I’m good, I guess.”

When I reached the end of the hall, I let myself breathe again. It was all fun and jokes until you can’t explain the oddness.

I can explain the knocks or the electronics, but this.

My phone rang, which made me jolt in fear.

“Damn you, Olivia.”

It was my best friend.

“Hey, Willow. Ooookay, you look as pale as the moon. What happened?”

“Ghost happened.”

I went straight to my room so I could sit down before I fainted.

“Are you still on the ghost thing?” Olivia asked, crossing her arms as the skeptic that she is.

“I was joking before. Now not so much. I heard laughter down the hall right before you called me. Explain that,” I said, trying to collect my breath.

“I don’t know. Kids playing in the neighborhood?”

“Olivia.” My voice darkened.

“It was a man’s laughter.”

I saw my best friend freeze through the screen.

“What are you saying? Are you sure no one’s in your house? You should call the police.”

“No one is here. The hall is big. They wouldn’t be able to leave before I checked without me hearing them run. Maybe I’m too tired.”

“Are you sure? Should I tell my brother to go check on you?”

I looked around the room, sensing something again.

“No need. I’m fine, thanks.”

“If you need reassurance, just call him straight up. Don’t be shy.”

“Olivia, I’m not bothering your brother for nothing. He has other stuff to worry about. His baby, his wife. It’s alright.”

Olivia took a breath and looked down.

“Fine, I get it. Just know that you can call him. You’re basically his second younger sister.” She giggled with a sweet smile.

“Thank you.”

And with that, we ended the call.

It was true about Mike, Olivia’s brother. I’ve known them since forever. Olivia and I basically grew up together, so I don’t want to worry her.

“I thought we had an agreement, ghost. We don’t bother each other.”

I fell back on my bed, touching my forehead.

“Am I being dramatic? Ugh, what time is it? I need to shower. I have to go to the prep workshop tomorrow.”

And with that, I got myself up to take a shower.

“No peeking while I’m showering, ghost freaks.”

I let my clothes fall on the ground as I entered the shower. The hot water was burning my skin, but as I know, for women that is actually enjoyable. I pushed my faded pink hair back along with the water and felt it reach my shoulders. I felt a little fear as I closed my eyes. Humans are more vulnerable in the shower. Naked to the bone and wet.

You can’t run or defend yourself if you find yourself unlucky.

“You are so good at making bad choices, Willow.”

This was supposed to be a new start, not a disaster. What am I even thinking? Ghosts? Or am I in real danger? Honestly, I would be more afraid if it were an actual man rather than a ghost. Humans are far worse than ghosts or any entity.

“I must get out quickly.”

My shower was far from enjoyable, as I was on high alert. I stepped out and wrapped myself in my robe.

“I need to buy a shower curtain,” I said as my footsteps echoed on the wet floor.

As I brought myself to the mirror, I cleaned it with my sleeve from the steam and stared at myself, fearing I would see someone behind me. But I didn’t. It was just me.

“My roots need a touch-up. Black roots and pink hair is not really a vibe. Also, it would be better to put on my clothes in the bathroom. I can’t have dead men staring at my pathetic boobs. Even though there’s a tsunami in here.”

I froze.

Another laughter. The same laughter as before, only this time it came from the other side of the bathroom door. It came from my room.

I couldn’t breathe and could barely stand.

Was someone actually in my room laughing at my rambling? I stared at my phone that I left on the sink. Should I call Mike after all?

No. Why would a man follow me around laughing instead of getting in while I’m showering?

What the hell is happening?

Do I get out? Call Mike? Call the police?

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it on my neck. I grabbed my phone and stood close to the door, trying to hear something, anything.

Silence.

I should have watched more horror movies with Olivia. If I had, I would know which choice not to make.

“That’s it. I’m coming out. I can’t stay here forever.”

And with that, I opened the door.

No one was there.

That night, I had to keep myself from crying.

precious chapter: https://www.reddit.com/r/horrorstories/s/j8occl94Gr

I was slowly going insane and losing my mind since yesterday. Me and the ghost are not okay with each other after all, huh? I had a hard time sleeping since I could feel something watching me as I lay in bed.

But I was hopeful. Scared, but still hopeful. I could get through this.

Going to the workshop took my mind off things and the possibility that my house was indeed haunted. I did not talk much or try making friends. I am not good at that at all. If you do not talk to me, I will not talk to you either. I will just keep minding my own business.

The teacher was like any other man with a big idea about himself.

Great, I thought to myself, another stupid teacher who will not do his job.

“Fix that nose, Willow,” he said, his ego overflowing from his mouth and ears.

Would it actually be bad if I stabbed him with the pencil? On second thought, he might end up as a ghost, so no, I will not.

From now on I would spend many, many hours in this place, so I would rather keep myself calm and isolated.

“Hey, you are Willow, right? I am Emma, nice to meet you.”

A blonde girl with pin‑straight hair sat next to me on the floor. Her long flowy skirt had acrylic paint all over it.

“Yeah, nice to meet you.”

“Do you happen to have white paint? I ran out.” She laughed awkwardly.

White paint is the one we usually use the most. It is easy to run out of it.

“Sure, here you go.”

“Thanks a ton! I will bring it back in a sec.”

Talk about not wanting to socialise. I am doomed through and through, both at home and here. At least here I can see what is bothering me.

The sun went down and time passed. Finally going home. Well, now that I think about it, I take it back. I would rather be with a social butterfly talking to me all day than with ghosts.

As I got inside the house, I threw my bag on the floor and went straight to the kitchen for food. I was starving.

When I am working on something, I cannot bring myself to eat, so I end up starving myself until it is over. Bad habits, I know.

I opened the fridge and guess what, empty, like my soul.

Great, I thought.

Forgot that the fridge is not going to fill itself up. I am tight on money, but I will have to order. I will go to the grocery store tomorrow.

As I was ready to open the delivery app, I heard footsteps.

“Oh for fuck’s sake, fine, I will order you a cola too. Will that make you stop scaring me?

Or perhaps you want a burger. What do i want actually?”

I kept mumbling to myself as I ended up on the living room couch.

“Pizza or Chinese, tough choice.” I sighed.

“Chinese is the only right choice.”

When I finished ordering the food, I stood up and made my way to my room. I had to turn the lights on or else I would die from the crawling feeling of fright.

“This place already is creepy as it is. I do not need the ghosts to scare me.”

Maybe I really should learn to shut my mouth.

When I said that, I saw a silhouette from the corner of my eye. I held back a scream as I turned to look and saw no one.

“Can you be more cliché than this?!”

I was, in fact, pooping my pants, but I could not let the ghosts know.

Do I go after it and die? Or ignore it and die?

Both roads lead to the same path.

Me being their food.

So obviously, I followed it.

Was that thing wearing a fucking hat…?

A tall one as well. What am I even saying? It is a flipping ghost, not the Mad Hatter!

I checked my room, the hall, the bathroom.

Nothing.

I hit myself with my fist, gently on my chest, trying to stop the feeling of fear somehow. My chest felt so heavy I could have honestly drowned in my own piss.

I looked at my phone screen, thinking about calling Mike, but I could not bring myself to bother a new dad with my messed‑up head.

“Should I look up tutorials on how to exorcise ghosts? Oh great witches of TikTok, please help me!”

This is not going to end well.

The more I live in this house, the more I encounter. Am I in a fucking horror novel or something?

With that thought, I heard that familiar laughter from my room.

I could almost feel my skin peeling off itself from the horror.

When it came to that laughter, I was hopeless. I could not joke, let alone stand.

It felt like I was choking with every breath, and I struggled as I held my phone tight.

Everything else? I could let it slide. But not him. Not that laughter of the unknown man who has been taunting me.

I took a few small steps and turned on the lights quickly, not thinking at all.

Empty.

No man, no nothing.

“Are you shitting me?! Leave me alone! You are the one staring at me while I sleep, right? Fuck off!” I screamed at the top of my lungs, shaking like a leaf.

What am I doing with myself, screaming at an empty room? But I could feel it. It was not as empty as it looked.

That night I did not sleep in my room. I took a blanket and a pillow and made myself at home in the bathtub. Surprisingly, I had the best sleep I have had in weeks there. No prying eyes, no mocking laughter, no footsteps or knocks, no tall shadows.

In the morning everything was quiet. I kept doing everything in the bathroom, so I ended up changing there too.

“No funny business while I am changing, you ghost freaks!”

I stepped out and reached for my bag for the prep workshop, but then I heard it again.

That mocking laughter.

I froze.

Not again. Can he not just leave me alone? It was all fun and jokes when I could not see or hear them. When I first moved into this house, I could tell something paranormal was going on, but I did not fully believe it. I mean, how could I? I can explain some odd occurrences. The place is old, and it creaks, but I cannot explain the laughter or the shadows.

I feel guilty enough as it is. I cannot make people worry over some illusions.

Can mold do that to you? I have heard it is toxic, but it cannot be that toxic…

“Is my face that funny to you, asshole?”

I tried speaking with my usual tone so I would not seem scared. That is what they want. Fear.

But I am not giving it to them.

Sorry not sorry, ghost freaks, but this is my house too.

I grabbed my bag and left the room, trying to keep my legs from shaking… and as I walked down the hall outside the room, I ended up falling down the stairs as I lost the feeling in my legs from swallowing down fear.

Everything kept going static, and I could feel my mind going on and off.

My breath hitched as I heard that familiar laughter again, closer this time, almost calling out to me.

And for a moment, I really believed I died and came back to life.

“Hello there, Willow.”

Small bells rang along with the raspy but quiet voice.

​

prologue: https://www.reddit.com/r/horrorstories/s/qKD168rfPa

I have grown tired of my own passion, overworked myself to the point where I needed shots in my arms. Being an artist in this kind of world is not easy. People will praise you your whole life for your talent, but the moment you try to make something out of it, suddenly you are trash. You are never enough for art school, never enough to be treated like a human, always treated like nothing for not being like the person next to you.

Teachers overlook quiet students and treat them like they are stupid.

Or maybe that is just me.

Last year I took my shot at art school and failed, almost got mocked to my face by the teachers and the other students. This year I am trying again so I can embarrass myself even worse. But I cannot be a burden to my parents anymore.

So I decided to move out.

I am moving out at nineteen, a massive failure with minimum wage and a broken dream. What could go wrong, right?

Finding a place big enough for my artwork and cheap was surprisingly easy. It was definitely a bit sketchy, but hey, I am a broke artist. I will take anything. The house was old and not in the best condition, so they marketed it to college kids who were just as desperate as the sellers.

So I fell for it. Talk about desperate.

Despite the condition of the building, it had furniture and a fireplace, so maybe it was a steal after all. The only thing I had to do was clean and unpack my stuff. It was dusty as hell in there, but I felt way too guilty to ask my friends for help.

Now I get why it was so cheap. No one wanted to deal with it.

But I had to deal with it if I wanted to put my life back together. I signed the contract with the creepy house owner, bought the hell house, and put on my cleaning lady outfit which was just sweatpants after my stuff got delivered.

Cleaning this hellhole was exhausting. Dust and spiders were definitely the previous owners.

“If this place is not haunted, then I do not know what is” I yelled into my empty living room.

I should not have.

From the kitchen, I heard a knock that made my heart drop straight to my ass. Just a coincidence, right?

That was definitely not enough to scare me off. After all, I already imagined it would be haunted. I mean, look at it.

“Very funny, mister ghost, or miss, or person. I will do my thing and you do yours. But for now, I am leaving this room before I shit my pants a little.”

And with that, I went to the room I intended to turn into my art studio. Big windows, great lighting, and enough space for an artist’s imagination. And most importantly, no signs of supernatural activity.

After cleaning all day, I went to bed early to recharge for tomorrow’s cleaning session. As I lay in bed, I could not shake the feeling of someone watching me. I was not exactly scared, just a little spooked. Not a fan of sleeping alone in an empty house.

But I have a habit most people left behind when they were seven. I sleep with a night light on. I am also not a fan of the dark.

“Alrighty, ghosts, no staring at me while I am sleeping. That is creepy even for a ghost. Goodnight.”

And with that, I slept through my first night in the clown house.

​

This is the prologue of my ongoing horror story “The Jester’s House.” If you enjoy haunted houses, sarcastic narrators, and slow‑burn supernatural tension, you might like this one. Feedback is welcome.

.

I wish I could stop that skin‑crawling laughter.

That’s the worst part of it, his laugh.

Is this house taunting me? Am I their plaything, something they can pass around to torment whenever they’re bored? I keep trying to seem unbothered, talking to them casually, using humor as my lifelong weapon for every terrible situation I stumble into.

The truth is, I’m scared.

And even more scared to ask for help.

“No funny business while I’m changing, you ghost freaks!” I yelled as I stepped into the bathroom. Somehow I felt safer changing in there, as if they couldn’t just slip in without me knowing and peek at my vulnerable, naked body.

At least in the bathroom, I didn’t feel their eyes on me.

I’ve got myself some respectful ghosts.

As I stepped out and reached for my bag for the prep workshop, I heard it again.

That mocking laughter.

I froze.

Not again. Can’t he just leave me alone? It was all fun and jokes when I couldn’t see or hear them. When I first moved into this house, I could tell something paranormal was going on, but I didn’t fully believe it. I mean, how could I? I can explain some odd occurrences the place is old but I cannot explain the laughter or the shadows.

I feel guilty enough as it is. I can’t make people worry over some illustrations.

Can mold do that to you? I’ve heard it’s toxic, but it can’t be that toxic…

“Is my face that funny to you, asshole?”

I tried speaking with my usual tone so I wouldn’t seem scared. That’s what they want, fear.

But I’m not giving it to them.

Sorry not sorry, ghost freaks, but this is my house too.

I grabbed my bag and left the room, trying to keep my legs from shaking… and ended up falling midway down the stairs.

My breath hitched as I heard that familiar laughter again, closer this time, almost calling out to me.

And for a moment, I really believed I died and came back to life.

“Hello there, Willow.”