When Arman moved to Greyford Town, he wasn't looking for adventure. He was looking for silence.
After his father's sudden death, city life felt too loud. Too fast. Too alive.
Greyford was the opposite.
It was a small, quiet town wrapped in constant mist. The houses were old, built with dark wood and narrow windows. Even during the day, the streets felt dim.
Arman rented a two-story house at the edge of town. It was cheaper than anything else available. Suspiciously cheap.
"You sure about this place?" the landlord had asked, avoiding eye contact.
"Why wouldn't I be?" Arman replied.
The landlord hesitated. Then forced a smile.
"Old houses make noises. Don't let your imagination run."
That first night, Arman understood what he meant.
At 2:17 AM, he woke up.
Not from a dream.
From a sound.
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Walking across the hallway outside his bedroom.
Thud.
Pause.
Thud.
Arman sat up, heart racing. He lived alone.
The footsteps stopped right outside his door.
He stared at the handle.
It didn't move.
But he could feel something standing there.
Listening.
After a long minute, the steps continued down the hall… and faded.
He didn't sleep again that night.
In the morning, he convinced himself it was wood expanding. Old houses shift.
That explanation lasted exactly one day.