The Hunger In the Shadows

I have forgotten the exact year I died. Time dissolves in the darkness, becoming an endless night. I remember flashes—the sound of wind howling through the trees, the sharp sting of frost on my face, and the cold, relentless grip of death as it sank its teeth into my soul. But the details blur, fragments of a life I can barely remember, overtaken by the hunger.

I think I was a man once. I think I had a name. I lived, I breathed, and I walked among the living. But now, I am something else, something far older and more sinister. I have become a part of the house—a thing that lurks in the shadows, that feeds on fear and the warm, pulsing life of those foolish enough to cross the threshold.

The house was built long before I came to rest within its walls, before I became part of its very foundation. It is old, decrepit, and crumbling. But it has power, a malignancy that draws people in, like flies to rotting meat. They come, unsuspecting, thinking it is abandoned, a relic of the past to be explored, or sometimes restored. But they do not know. They do not understand the thing that sleeps within these walls.

I watch them when they come, my awareness stretching across every creak and groan of the floorboards, every breath of cold air that slips through the cracks in the windows. I see their wide eyes and hear their trembling voices, laughing nervously as they joke about ghosts and curses. They do not know that I am listening, waiting.

And when they sleep—that is when I begin to move.

It was a family this time. A mother, a father, and their young daughter. They had been told the house was a good investment, that it had potential if they could restore it to its former glory. The realtor, a woman who stank of desperation, had glossed over its history—murmuring something about the house being uninhabited for decades. The family didn't ask questions. They were too excited by the price, too eager to make the old mansion their own.

Their names mean nothing to me. They are just more meat. But their faces... their faces still linger in my mind. The mother was beautiful, in that fragile, fleeting way that mortals are. Dark hair, pale skin, a nervous smile that never quite reached her eyes. The father was more robust, broad-shouldered and confident, the type who thought he could fix anything with enough elbow grease. And the child... her innocence clung to her like a sweet perfume, drawing me in. She couldn't have been more than seven, maybe eight. Her laughter echoed through the house as she ran through the halls, her small feet pattering against the worn wooden floors.

They settled in quickly, unpacking their things and talking about plans for renovations. The first night, they built a fire in the massive stone hearth, sitting together on a threadbare couch they had brought with them. They didn't notice the cold that seeped in around them, the way the flames flickered in unnatural patterns, or the shadows that danced along the walls, moving in ways they shouldn't.

I stayed silent that night. Watching. Waiting.

The second night, the house began to speak to them. It started with small things—a door that wouldn't stay closed, the sound of footsteps in the hallway when no one was there, a faint whispering that seemed to come from the walls themselves. The mother was the first to notice. I could see the tension in her, the way her eyes darted around the room, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. She was beginning to sense me.

I crept closer, sliding through the cracks in the walls, the spaces between the bricks. My form is not solid, not anymore. I am mist, shadow, and hunger. I am the darkness that waits at the edges of your vision, the chill that raises the hair on the back of your neck.

The third night, I made my presence known.

It started with a whisper, a low, guttural sound that echoed through the house. The family had gone to bed, the mother and father in the master bedroom, the child in a smaller room down the hall. The mother heard it first, her eyes snapping open in the darkness. She sat up, her breath quickening, straining to hear.

"Mama..." The voice was soft, barely more than a breath. It came from the walls, from the very air around her.

"Mama, help me."

She stumbled out of bed, heart pounding, rushing to her daughter's room. The child was asleep, curled up under the blankets, her breathing slow and steady. But the mother could still hear the voice, louder now, insistent.

"Help me."

She shook her husband awake, her voice trembling as she told him what she'd heard. He groggily brushed her off, telling her it was just a dream, her imagination playing tricks on her in the unfamiliar house. But she knew. She could feel me watching her, lurking just beyond her sight.

That night, she barely slept.

The father was next.

I waited until he was alone, downstairs in the dim light of the early morning. He was fixing a broken cabinet, muttering to himself about the endless repairs the house seemed to need. The hammer slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor. As he bent to pick it up, he saw something—just a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye.

He straightened up, staring into the shadowed corner of the room. There was nothing there. But he felt it—a presence, something heavy and oppressive, pressing down on him.

I whispered his name.

He froze, his breath hitching in his throat. He tried to tell himself it was just the wind, or his tired mind playing tricks on him. But he knew. He could feel the cold fingers of fear wrapping around his spine, sinking into his skin.

The child... she was different. She was curious. She sensed me from the moment they arrived, though she didn't understand what I was. Children are like that. They see things that adults can't, things that lurk in the corners of their minds, just out of reach.

She talked to me. In the dead of night, when her parents were asleep, she would sit up in bed, staring into the shadows.

"Are you there?" she would whisper. "I know you're there."

I didn't respond at first. I watched, amused by her innocence, by the way she tried to coax me out of the darkness like a timid animal. But then, on the fifth night, I answered her.

"Yes," I whispered back.

Her eyes widened, but she didn't scream. She was brave, this one. Or perhaps just too young to understand the danger.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I am the house," I told her. "I am everywhere."

She shivered, pulling the blankets tighter around her. "Are you a ghost?"

"No," I hissed. "I am something much older."

She didn't speak after that. She curled up under the blankets, but I knew she was awake, her eyes wide in the darkness. I let her be—for the moment.

It was the sixth night when I finally made my move.

The mother was the first to wake. The whispering had grown louder, more insistent, a chorus of voices that seemed to come from every corner of the house. She shook her husband awake, panic in her voice, but he was groggy, dismissive, still refusing to believe what was happening.

But then the door slammed.

Hard.

The sound echoed through the house, shaking the walls, rattling the windows. The child screamed, a high-pitched wail that pierced the air. The mother rushed to her daughter's room, finding her sitting up in bed, tears streaming down her face, her small body trembling.

"It was here!" she cried. "It was in my room!"

The father was downstairs now, pacing, trying to figure out what could have caused the door to slam. He kept muttering to himself, trying to rationalize it, but I could see the fear creeping into his eyes.

I was in the walls now, stretching, spreading, my form growing, twisting. I whispered their names, each one in turn, filling the house with my voice.

They gathered together in the living room, the mother clutching the child to her chest, the father standing in front of them as if he could protect them from me. I could taste their fear, thick and sweet in the air. It filled me, nourished me, made me stronger.

I began to move through the room, my presence flickering in and out of sight. They could see me now—just glimpses, shadows that shouldn't be there, shapes that slithered across the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

"Get out!" the father yelled, swinging a fire poker at the air, his voice shaking. "Leave us alone!"

I laughed, a low, guttural sound that echoed through the house. "You can't leave," I whispered. "You belong to me now."

The lights flickered, then went out completely, plunging them into darkness. The mother sobbed, clutching her child, the father frantically trying to find a flashlight, a candle, anything to ward off the oppressive blackness.

But it wouldn't help. Nothing would help.

I came for the father first. He was the strongest, the one who would fight the hardest, so I wanted to break him.

He turned, the flashlight beam dancing across the room, casting long, twisted shadows. And there I was—just for a moment—a pale, twisted figure, my face a grotesque mask of decay, my eyes hollow and empty.

He screamed, dropping the flashlight, stumbling back. I was on him before he could run, my cold,

formless hands wrapping around his throat. He struggled, gasping for air, his eyes wide with terror, but it was useless. I squeezed, feeling the life drain from him, feeding on his fear, his pain.

The mother screamed, her voice raw and desperate, but she didn't move. She couldn't. She was paralyzed by the sight of me, by the horror of what I was.

The child was sobbing, hiding her face in her mother's chest, but she could still hear the sound of her father dying, the gurgling, choking noises as I snuffed out his life.

When it was done, I let his body drop to the floor with a sickening thud.

The mother was next. She didn't run. She didn't fight. She just held her daughter, whispering soft, broken words of comfort as I approached. Her eyes were wide, her face pale, but she didn't move.

"Please," she whispered. "Please don't hurt her."

I hesitated, just for a moment. The child was innocent, untainted. But the hunger... the hunger was too strong.

I reached out, my cold, twisted fingers brushing against the mother's skin. She shuddered, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as I began to feed. Her life, her essence, flowed into me, filling me with warmth, with power. She slumped forward, her body limp, her breath gone.

The child screamed.

I turned to her, my empty, hollow eyes meeting hers. She was trembling, tears streaming down her face, her small hands clutching her mother's lifeless body.

And then I stopped.

Something flickered in the back of my mind—a memory, perhaps, of what I once was. Of what it felt like to be alive. To have warmth, love, family.

For the briefest of moments, I felt something... something like pity. But it was fleeting.

The hunger returned, sharper than ever.

I reached for the child.

She screamed again, a sound so high and piercing that it seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. But it wasn't fear I tasted this time. It was something else. Something stronger.

The child... she was fighting me.

I recoiled, confusion filling me as I felt a force push back against me. Her small body trembled, her eyes squeezed shut, but she was resisting. Somehow, she was pushing me away, her fear transforming into something fierce, something powerful.

The walls began to tremble, the air growing thick with energy. And then, with a blinding flash of light, I was thrown back—thrown out of the room, out of the house, into the cold, dark night.

I screamed, rage and frustration boiling within me as I tried to return, tried to break through the barrier that had suddenly formed around the house.

But I couldn't. I was trapped outside, banished from the very walls that had been my home, my prison, for so long.

And the child... she was safe. For now.

But I will return.

I always return.