The House That Waits

The previous owner vanished without a trace from this house, and now I know why.

The rocking chair moved by itself, no wind, no draft, just back and forth

in the corner. I heard scratching upstairs, thick and deliberate, like something dragging

itself across wood. The air smelled like old pennies mixed with decay. Then came the whisper,

wet and raspy, forming words I couldn't understand but felt deep in my gut.

The silence after was worse than any sound. I realized Mr. Silas didn't leave this

place. He became part of it. The scratching started again,

closer this time, and that's when I understood. The darkness wasn't empty.