The shriek comes again. Then hurried footsteps overhead.

Something crashes—wood hitting wood, glass shattering.

Then nothing.

Not calm. Not quiet.
A suffocating stillness, heavy as breath held too long.

I lie back slowly, staring at the ceiling, the faint smile from earlier still lingering on my face—leftover from the moment she smugly shoved my clothes into garbage bags. My breathing remains even, controlled, as though I’m not part of whatever horror just unfolded upstairs.

The next morning, I sip coffee at the kitchen table, pretending to scroll on my phone. My father’s wife—Marla—paces near the window. Her posture is rigid. Her skin looks gray beneath her makeup, shadows carved deep beneath her eyes.

She stops abruptly.
“Did you hear anything last night?”

I glance up, bored. “Hear what?”

Her fingers twitch at her sides. “Screaming.”

Dad peers over his newspaper. “Marla, you said you had a nightmare.”

“It didn’t feel like one,” she insists. “There was someone in the room with me.”

I hide my expression behind the rim of my mug. “Old houses make noise,” I say casually. “Grandma used to say this one breathes at night.”

Dad snaps the paper shut. “That’s enough. Don’t start this nonsense.”

Marla looks at me then. Her eyes search my face, landing on something she doesn’t understand—yet. She says nothing, but the fear stays with her as she walks away.

By afternoon, she locks herself in the bedroom.
By evening, she’s drinking.
By midnight, she’s crying.

And I am still smiling.

Because this house remembers.

It remembers my grandmother’s laugh echoing down the stairs. It remembers her gentle humming late at night, the whisper of her slippers on the floor. It remembers the nights she held my hand after my father vanished for months at a time.

It remembers the day she pressed the will into my hands.

“This is your home,” she told me softly. “No matter who comes back pretending otherwise.”

The house listened.

The second night, the scream is worse.

This time, my father hears it.

He charges down the hallway half-dressed, shouting her name, panic tearing through his voice. I stay in my room, counting sounds—the running, the sobbing, the dull thump against the wall.

“There’s nothing there,” he insists shakily.

“There was,” Marla cries. “Something was standing at the bed.”

“You’re imagining things,” he snaps, fear bleeding into anger.

She whispers something I can’t hear.

Then the door slams.

On the third night, she refuses to sleep upstairs.

She curls up on the living room couch with every lamp blazing. I watch from the stairwell as she drifts off and jerks awake again and again, like prey waiting for the strike.

At 2:17 a.m., the air turns icy.

Her breath fogs.

The grandfather clock ticks backward.

She bolts upright.

Her scream shakes the windows.

That’s when my father finally breaks.

By morning, he looks hollowed out. His confidence is gone, splintered like rotting wood. He grips the counter as if the house itself is dragging him under. “This place isn’t right,” he mutters.

Marla stares at me. “You did this.”

I tilt my head. “Did what?”

“You’re feeding the house,” she whispers.

Dad slams his fist down. “Stop it! You sound crazy!”

She flinches as if struck.

I almost feel bad.

Almost.

By the fourth night, the house stops pretending.

Doors open without touch.
Reflections distort.
Footsteps echo in empty halls.

Dad drowns himself in denial and alcohol, muttering about stress and faulty wiring—until a handprint slowly appears on the inside of the fogged bathroom glass at 2:17 a.m.

His scream joins hers.

Continue reading…