Shadows inside the House

Another short story - I had plans to make this into a longer one, but other things kept me from doing so! 

 

The sun slipped away behind a wall of bruised grey clouds as we left the city behind, vanishing so abruptly it felt deliberate—almost as if it wanted no part of what waited for us out here. London faded into a distant memory as I stared through the spider-webbed cracks of the rear window, searching for something—anything—that felt familiar or safe. Nothing answered back. The clouds cracked open instead, unleashing a downpour so heavy it seemed to smother the world.

I turned to the side window with another sigh. Towering hedgerows pressed against the narrow, twisting road, swallowing everything but the path directly ahead. I couldn’t tell where we were going, nor where we had come from—only that the last town we passed felt impossibly far away, as if it had never existed at all. Between there and here lay only this suffocating lane, dissolving into a churned path of mud as the rain beat it into submission.

Then, without warning, something materialised out of the murk—a rust-scabbed metal gate, hunched in place like it had been waiting for us. Beyond it crouched a decaying house, its silhouette warped and sagging. This couldn’t be the place. It simply couldn’t. Yet Ben slipped out of the car in an instant and wrestled open the gate. Its groan dragged across my nerves as I stared at the structure looming ahead, too still, too watchful.

A sickening shiver rippled through me. The isolation clenched around my ribs like a pair of cold hands, tightening until my breath came thin and sharp. I blinked hard. Was that—someone—standing in the upstairs window? The shape vanished before I could convince myself it had been real. Above us, a ring of birds wheeled silently, not calling, not breaking formation, as though tethered to the house by some unseen force.

We rolled down the last stretch of the driveway, the long, wet grass whispering against the car doors. Each brush felt like a warning.

“Isn’t she beautiful?!” Jessica’s voice burst through the heavy quiet, too bright, too sharp—like a nail scraping against glass. “Just needs a little TLC.”

“Since when were houses people?” I muttered, hoping the tremor in my throat wasn’t obvious.

No one answered. The green front door swelled larger and larger until it filled my view. Jessica shoved me forward, urgency in her hands, and the moment I crossed the threshold, the truth hit me so hard it hollowed my stomach.

Something was wrong here. Terribly wrong.

The air itself felt tainted—thick with a presence that wasn’t merely unfriendly.

It felt hungry.

_________________________________________________________________________________

The moment I stepped over the threshold, the house seemed to inhale. Cold air curled around my ankles, creeping upward like it wanted to taste me. The entryway was dim, thick with a stale smell—damp wood, old dust, and something metallic beneath it all.

Jessica’s hand pressed lightly on my back as if guiding me forward, but the pressure felt wrong—too eager, too insistent. My pulse thudded in my ears and the world around me blurred. The walls stretched, bending. The floor swayed. A knot of panic twisted tight as something tugged behind my eyes, pulling me somewhere else—

Suddenly the house was gone.

I stood in our old living room, washed in warm golden light. Streamers drooped from the ceiling, pink and silver ribbons catching the glow of birthday candles flickering on a cake shaped like a castle. Laughter rolled through the room—light, pure, familiar.

Mum twirled me around, her dress brushing my legs. Dad clapped off-beat to the music, laughing so hard he nearly doubled over. She teased him for it. He pulled her close anyway. They danced, breathless, spinning and laughing as if nothing bad could ever happen to us. Mum’s smile was bright enough to warm the whole house.

For a moment, I let myself believe this was real…that we were back there again…that everything after had been a nightmare.

But then—

Mum’s laughter faltered.
Her hands slipped from mine.
Her smile dimmed, then vanished completely.

She began to fade, her edges dissolving like smoke caught in sunlight. I tried to grab her, to hold onto her, but my fingers passed straight through her silhouette.

“Don’t go—Mum—Mum!”

She dissolved, leaving only Dad. He was no longer laughing. No longer dancing. He sat in his old armchair, perfectly still. Shadows clung to him, swallowing the edges of his shape.

His head lifted slowly, and his face turned toward me with a stiffness that made my stomach twist. His eyes—dark, hollow, knowing—locked onto mine.

“You’ll come home eventually,” he murmured. “They always do.”

Reality snapped back.

Ben’s voice cut through the thick silence of the hallway. “When’s my birthday? When can I open a present?” he asked from somewhere behind me, his tone hopeful, unaware, innocent.

Dad’s voice drifted from the open doorway, finishing a sentence he had started long ago, the one that had bled from the memory into now.

“—thought I’d see you again,” he said softly, stepping into the house. His eyes found mine with unsettling ease. As if he had been waiting.

Ben tugged at his sleeve. “Dad? When can I open a present?”

Dad didn’t look down at him.

A chill skittered down my spine.

---

It was only then that I noticed the corridor stretching ahead—longer than it should be, almost pulsing with darkness. At the very end, a locked door waited. I had seen that door before.

In my dreams.

Night after night, the same vision: me standing before that door, blood seeping out from beneath it in slow, warm rivers, soaking the wooden floor. I’d wake up gasping, heart hammering, certain someone on the other side was whispering my name.

Now that door was real. Exactly where it had been in my dreams.

Jessica brushed past me, humming under her breath, pretending not to notice the way the hallway lights flickered. “We’ll make this place perfect,” she said, too brightly.

Ben dashed ahead, stopping halfway down the corridor, staring at the locked door with curiosity rather than fear. “Who’s in there?” he asked.

“No one,” Jessica said quickly—too quickly. “It’s just a storage room.”

But Dad didn’t answer. He watched the door. His jaw tightened. Something in his expression curdled the air, turning it sour.

The police didn’t know what happened to Mum. No one did.

No one but him.

The house groaned again, deeper this time, like it was remembering.

And as I stared down that dim corridor, the taste of iron rose in the back of my throat. Because I suddenly knew the truth:

The house wasn’t hiding secrets.

It was keeping them.

And now… I was inside.