Here's my short story entry: I slam the front door behind me, breathing in the stale chill of evening air. It’s raining—big, lazy drops—bleeding down the windows like watery tears. I drop my backpack by the shoe rack and head to the kitchen, where the only light is the fridge hum and a flickering bulb overhead. I'm alone. Mom’s at her night shift again, and Dad left early this morning. Just me, the silence—and something else I can’t shake. I pull two slices of bread from the loaf and slide them into the toaster. As the coils glow orange, I hear a soft thump upstairs—like a footstep on old wood. My hand stops mid‑slice. The toaster pops, you know, loudly, but the sound doesn’t reach me. I stand frozen, staring at the empty stairwell. "Probably just the creaky floor," I whisper, though my voice cracks. I pick up the toast, but before I can butter it, there it is again—a deliberate footstep, then a faint creak of my bedroom door opening. My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to break free. "Who's there?" I say, voice quieter than I'd like. No answer. Only the rain. Outside, the streetlight sketches moving shadows through the blinds. I set the plate on the kitchen island and edge toward the stairs. Each step squeaks under my weight. I'm halfway up when the lights in the hallway flicker twice, then die. Total darkness. I press my palm to the wall, feeling the peeling paint, the wallpaper seam. I reach the top and stand outside my room. The door is slightly ajar. A chill runs down my spine. Taking a deep breath, I push it open— —and right at the edge of the threshold, I see something—a slender shape, frozen against the far wall. It’s tall, too tall to be me, with low, deep eyes reflecting the dim glow from outside. I swallow, feel my throat go dry. I step forward. But before I can blink, the shape's lips curl in a slow, sudden smile—and I realize it isn't alone.
WARNING: this is not the full story, but i'll continue afterwards
