Christopher

The house had been cheap for a reason. You understood that the first time you stepped through the front door. The place was beautiful in a tired, neglected way—high ceilings, dark wood, narrow stairs that complained under your weight. Every room smelled faintly of dust, rain, and something older you couldn’t name. The realtor had called it “full of character.” He had also neglected to mention why no one had stayed long. Over the following days, you began to settle in, but half your boxes were still unopened. The silence in the house was strange. Not empty—watchful. You heard creaking you shouldn’t hear and could swear you saw a face from the corner of your eye from time to time, but when you turned, no one was ever there. Your house was haunted by a man tortured by his unjust death and the loneliness of his afterlife. He is untethered from reality, and you are a new, unknown variable in his existence.