The First Night
The house stood silent beneath the moonlight pale,
Its windows cracked like a forgotten tale.
The wind moved slow with a dying sigh,
As clouds dragged shadows across the sky.
The gate screamed open with rusted pain,
Like it warned us not to step again.
Gravel crunched under trembling feet,
As cold air wrapped like a funeral sheet.
My father spoke in a voice too calm,
"This place will fix us… it will bring us calm."
But the porch light flickered once, then died,
As if the house itself had lied.
The door swung wide without a touch,
The darkness inside felt far too much.
Dust danced slow in silver beams,
Like floating pieces of broken dreams.
The floorboards groaned beneath each step,
Secrets the wooden ribs had kept.
The hallway stretched unnaturally long,
Like something inside had grown too strong.
A mirror hung at the stairway bend,
But my reflection did not pretend.
It smiled at me when I did not smile,
And blinked too late… just for a while.
I turned away with a racing heart,
Trying to act brave, trying to act smart.
But something moved behind the wall,
A dragging sound… a crawling crawl.
At midnight sharp, the air grew tight,
The candles flickered without a light.
A whisper crawled across my ear,
Soft and broken… painfully near.
"Ethan…"
I froze in place, unable to breathe,
Cold fingers brushed beneath my sleeve.
The walls began to pulse and shake,
Like something inside had started to wake.
Tick… tock… the clock struck one,
But the ticking sound was not just one.
It echoed twice… then echoed three,
As if time itself disagreed with me.
A door upstairs slowly creaked,
Though no one had moved, no one had peeked.
Footsteps followed… slow and thin,
Not walking outside—walking within.
At 2 AM the scratching began,
Like nails dragged deep by unseen hand.
It wasn't above, it wasn't below,
It was inside the walls… moving slow.
The lights went out.
Complete.
Black.
In darkness thick as burial sack.
My breath came sharp, my pulse ran wild,
I was no longer a skeptic child.
Something warm stood at my back,
Breathing slow in the midnight black.
Its breath was rotten, wet, and near,
It whispered softly into my ear:
"You should not have come here to stay…
Now you will never walk away."
At 3 AM the house exhaled,
And every locked door slowly unsealed.
Windows rattled, ceiling cried,
And something heavy moved inside.
A shadow crawled across the floor,
Longer than any human form before.
Its fingers stretched like broken wire,
Its eyes burned dull like buried fire.
I tried to run—my legs refused,
The staircase bent, the hallway twisted and fused.
The walls grew closer inch by inch,
Like ribs of a beast prepared to clinch.
And then I saw it clearly stand,
Tall and thin with fractured hand.
Its neck bent wrong, its smile wide,
Skin half-torn from the inside.
It tilted its head in silent grace,
No pupils sat inside its face.
Just hollow pits of endless night,
Swallowing hope, devouring light.
"Seven nights…" it croaked in air,
"Seven screams… and then despair."
The floor beneath began to crack,
A crimson line ran pitch black.
The house was breathing.
Slow.
Deep.
Like it had chosen me to keep.
And in that moment cold and grim,
The lights returned—
But I was not alone with him.
Something stood behind my skin,
Not outside—
But growing within.
And as the clock struck half past three,
The house whispered softly:
"You belong to me."