REIZOU
Rician Polinar에 의해I was seventeen when my parents left the country.
They said it would only be a year. They trusted me to handle the house—keep it clean, stay in school, be responsible. At first, I felt proud. Independent. But there’s something no one tells you about being alone in a place that used to be full of life.
The silence has a weight. And eventually... it starts talking back.
The first few days were uneventful. I followed a routine: wake up, go to school, come home, eat instant noodles, stay online until sleep pulled me under. I kept the lights on when I moved from room to room—even during the day. The house felt colder. Emptier.
By the fourth night, I started hearing sounds. Not loud. Just enough to register. A step in the hallway upstairs. A soft shift above my ceiling. I dismissed it. Houses make noise.
But one morning, I found the bathroom door wide open. I never leave it like that. I have a thing about doors—every one in the house stays closed unless I'm using the room. Still, I figured maybe I’d forgotten.
The next night, while brushing my teeth, I heard the faint sound of movement upstairs. A creak, then another. I froze. The brush still in my mouth. I waited. Nothing followed.
I started locking my bedroom door at night. It felt stupid, but it helped me sleep.
One evening, around 2 a.m., I woke up needing water. As I reached for the doorknob, I paused. There was a shadow at the bottom of the door. Thin. Still. Just long enough for me to recognize it wasn’t mine. I stood there, hand frozen on the lock, until the shadow moved away.
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night.
On the seventh night, I decided to go upstairs.
The staircase creaked under my weight. The hallway was dimly lit by a single ceiling bulb. The walls looked more worn than I remembered—yellowing paint, edges of old tape from decorations long removed, and family portraits hanging unevenly.
I passed the guest room. Still made, nothing touched. I stopped outside my parents’ bedroom. The door was shut. I was sure it had been open the last time I came up here. I placed my hand on the knob.
It was cold.
The room was dark. Curtains pulled. The bed made. Except for one pillow, slightly dented. There was a faint scent in the air—lavender. My mum’s scent. That shouldn’t still be here.
Then I saw them.
Small, wet footprints on the floor. Barefoot. Leading to the closet.
None leading back.
I stood staring at them, then slowly approached the door. The knob was damp. I opened it.
Inside, coats and jackets hung as expected. I moved them aside one by one. The back wall was darker. I crouched down and touched the floor.
It was wet. Not from a leak. Just wet.
The smell was wrong. Not rot. Just... off. Familiar in the worst way, but I couldn’t place it.
I backed out and shut the door.
When I turned around, the bedroom door was shut.
I hadn’t shut it.
The next day at school, I barely paid attention. I kept thinking about the footprints. About the shadow. About the door shutting.
When I got home, the air felt different. Heavier. The moment I stepped inside, I felt watched.
I walked through the living room. The TV remote had moved. I always leave it on the armrest. It was on the floor.
In the kitchen, one of the drawers was open.
Nothing missing. Just... open.
I made sure every door was locked that night. My room, the front door, the windows. I checked twice. I turned on a podcast to distract myself. Something light. It helped—until the audio paused.
My phone hadn’t died. The app was still open.
It had paused on its own.
That’s when I heard it.
A faint knock. Not on my door. On the wall. Inside the wall.
I didn’t move. My mouth was dry. I sat there, listening. It came again. Slightly louder. Three slow taps. Then silence.
I left the light on all night.
The next evening, I found muddy footprints in the hallway downstairs. Bigger this time. Leading to the back door. I followed them. The lock was still in place. But the deadbolt was turned halfway. Like someone had tried to unlock it, then stopped.
I called my parents.
I didn’t tell them everything—just said I was hearing stuff, and the house felt weird. They said I was just adjusting. Told me to go for walks, keep the place bright.
I nodded along. But that night, I set up my phone to record audio while I slept.
When I checked it the next morning, I listened for hours. Nothing but the hum of the fan.
Then at 3:17 a.m., I heard the sound of my door opening.
It was soft. Slow. Followed by five long seconds of silence.
Then breathing.
Not mine.
I shut the phone off and deleted the recording. I don’t know why. I just didn’t want it on there.
Two nights later, I woke up to whispering.
I couldn’t make out the words. But it was close. Right behind my door. Low and steady. I didn’t get up. I didn’t speak. I waited until it stopped.
In the morning, my door was unlocked.
I hadn’t unlocked it.
The closet in my parents’ room hasn’t been opened again. I don’t go near it. The smell still lingers in that hallway, faint but constant.
Sometimes I hear footsteps on the stairs around midnight. Sometimes I wake up with my bedroom light off, even though I leave it on. Once, I found a small handprint on the bathroom mirror.
I live alone.
At least—I’m supposed to.
I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what it wants. But it doesn’t hide anymore.
And it knows I’m listening.
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[~2000 words total]
Would you like me to enhance any part further for more fear, or is this the final version you’d like to use?
