THE HOUSE WHERE DEATH WAITS

"Did You Hear That?"

The question slipped from my lips, though I knew no one could answer. I hovered in the thick shadows of the old house, watching the couple by the fire. The man shifted, eyes scanning the room, a furrow growing between his brows. His wife's fingers trembled around her wine glass, the deep red liquid shimmering in the flickering light.

They couldn't see me.

Not yet.

It's strange being dead. Time loses its grip, and all warmth becomes a distant memory. I no longer feel the pulse of life in my veins. Only flashes remain of rushing water, my hands clawing at nothing, sinking deeper into an abyss. Then, I woke up here, in this house, trapped like a scream suspended between breaths.

They've been living here for months, filling the rooms with laughter and useless attempts to reclaim the space. They painted over the scars and laid new carpets to cover the stains. But no matter how many layers they add, this house will always be mine.

And soon, so will they.

I drifted closer, feeling the pull of the air as it thickened, reacting to my presence. The woman shivered, her breath catching, the faintest flicker of recognition in her eyes. "Did you feel that?" she whispered, trembling beneath her words.

The man shrugged, his fingers gripping the fire poker too tightly. "It's an old house. Drafts," he said, the explanation falling flat as if even he didn't believe it. He stabbed at the embers, which flared angrily before settling into a weak, dying glow. Shadows danced grotesquely across the walls, stretching like twisted limbs as if the house were waking up.

I smiled, though the memory of how to form one had long since rotted away.

They think they're safe. They believe they are alone.

I moved behind the man, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, though it did nothing to warm me. My cold, hollow breath brushed against the nape of his neck, and I watched as the fine hairs stood on end. He froze, eyes widening as he swatted at the air, but his hand passed me.

"What the hell?" His voice wavered, low but trembling.

The woman looked at him, startled, her grip tightening around her glass. "What's wrong?"

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes darting into the shadows where I stood, unseen. "I don't know... It felt like someone was standing behind me." He shook his head, trying to dismiss it, but I could taste his uncertainty. The sweet, sharp tang of fear was intoxicating.

I turned toward the window, watching the rain slash against the glass driven by winds that rattled the broken panes. Outside, the trees writhed, their branches scraping at the sky like skeletal fingers desperate to escape the earth. I could almost feel the cold rain again, the way it had once chilled my skin to the bone, but that was gone like everything else.

The woman set her glass down with a trembling hand. I watched her closely. She could sense me now, even if she didn't understand it. They always do. Eventually.

I drifted toward her, my fingers brushing through her hair, the strands slipping like silk between my dead hands. Her body jerked violently, knocking the wine glass to the floor. It shattered with a sharp crack, red liquid spreading like blood across the hardwood.

"What the…" She leaped back, eyes wide, chest heaving. Her breath came in shallow, panicked bursts. "Something touched me."

The man frowned, his shoulders tense, betraying the calmness he tried to hold. "It's just your imagination," he said, but his voice was hollow. He stood up, glancing around the room, searching for what he didn't want to find.

I moved closer, my presence thickening the air. The fire flickered and sputtered, casting the room in twisted shadows that seemed to reach out and claw at its edges. A creeping cold wrapped around their limbs and seeped into their bones, replacing the room's warmth.

The woman clutched her chest, a whimper escaping her lips. "Please..." she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

I wasn't sure if she was talking to her husband or me.

It didn't matter. Begging wouldn't save her.

I like it when they beg.

The man's eyes flicked toward the door, panic growing in his gaze. He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward it, but I was already there. I felt the wood beneath my fingers, twisted and rotten from years of abandonment. They rattled the handle, yanking at it with increasing desperation, but it wouldn't budge.

It never does.

The woman pounded on the door, her fists slamming against the wood, her screams rising and pitching. The man was beside her, clawing at the door like a trapped animal. But the house had swallowed their cries, muffled them in its decaying walls so no one would hear them.

I let the cold deepen, creeping into their lungs and wrapping around their throats. The fire dimmed to a flicker, leaving them in near-total darkness. I circled them close enough to see the fear glistening on their skin, the sweat mixing with tears. I could taste their dread. It tasted like metal, like blood on the back of the tongue. And it made me stronger.

"Who's there?" the man shouted, his voice cracking. "What do you want?"

I let them feel it. The weight of the water that had pulled me down filled my lungs with cold, choking brine. My fingers had clawed at the surface, breaking and bleeding as they searched for something, anything, to hold onto. But there was nothing. There was only the dark and the suffocating realization that I was drowning.

The woman gasped, falling to her knees, her lips turning blue. "It's so cold," she whispered, her words barely escaping as she clutched her chest.

He tried to pull her up, but his hands shook too much to grip her. "We need to get out!" His voice was shrill, desperate. They both knew there was no escape.

I drifted closer, my face inches from theirs, close enough to feel the heat radiating from their panicked bodies. I could let them go. I could stop now, leave them with only the memory of this terror, let them live out their lives, haunted by the cold touch of death that never quite left.

But why would I?

This is my house.

My death.

And now, it will be theirs, too.

I felt the house shudder as it closed in around them. The wood groaned, and the walls seemed to contract, shrinking in on them. They screamed, voices cracking under the strain, but it was already over. I could feel their bodies growing limp, collapsing into the cold that I had wrapped around them.

And then, silence.

I hovered over their lifeless bodies for a moment, watching as the last vestiges of warmth bled from their skin, leaving nothing but cold, pale corpses. I could feel the house sigh, satisfied, as the storm outside raged on.

But something shifted. The air in the room felt wrong, thick, and oppressive, as though the house had taken something from me. The woman's eyes fluttered open, blank, glassy, but moving. The man's hand twitched, fingers curling as if grasping for something.

They stood slowly, their movements stiff and unnatural. Their faces were expressionless, their eyes dull, but they were looking at me, now seeing me.

I tried to move, but I couldn't. My limbs felt heavy, frozen as if the weight of the water had returned. The cold was inside me now, suffocating me.

I realized too late.

This is their house now.