He woke to the sound of something falling.
A dull thunk, sharp enough to jolt him upright.
His flashlight rolled off his chest onto the floor.
He blinked, throat dry. The room looked different in daylight — less haunted, more sad. Dust floated lazily in the air. The dresser he'd shoved against the door stood crooked.
He listened.
Nothing now. Just the moan of wind through the broken panes.
"Just a house," he whispered. "Just an old house."
His voice sounded unsure.
He moved the dresser aside, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway. The air felt colder.
"What fell?" he muttered. "What the hell fell?"
He walked downstairs. The living room greeted him with silence. The chair he'd knocked over last night was still lying on its side.
Then he saw it — a book. A small, leather-bound notebook lying facedown on the floor, right beside the chair.
He frowned. "I didn't see that yesterday."
He picked it up carefully, as if it might whisper back.
The cover was scratched, the binding nearly undone. He rubbed dust off the surface and opened it.
Blank pages. The first ten were empty, yellowed with age. Then, on the eleventh, a shaky scrawl:
DON'T TRUST THE CORNERS.
He closed it instantly, heart hammering.
"Nope," he said out loud. "Nope. Not doing this."
He tossed the book onto the chair. It bounced and landed on the floor again.
He stared at it.
"Stay there," he whispered.
He checked the kitchen for food — nothing but rusted pans. He chewed a protein bar instead, pacing the length of the counter.
His stomach twisted with every creak.
He kept glancing toward the hallway. His eyes darted to the corners of the room more often than they should.
The corners felt darker than they had yesterday.
"Corners," he murmured. "Why corners?"
He leaned forward, trying to see into the sharp edges where shadow met wall. He saw nothing unusual… but the shadows felt thicker. Too thick.
"Stop it," he snapped at himself. "You're letting a stupid note mess with your head."
Still, he found himself inching away from the nearest corner.
He turned on the sink faucet again, half hoping for a miracle.
A sputter.
A hiss.
Then nothing.
He sighed. "Figures."
He stepped back into the hallway. The house seemed to exhale deeply as he did, a floorboard settling beneath his feet with an almost conversational groan.
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you," he muttered. "Always need attention, huh?"
He walked toward the front door.
He grabbed the handle.
Paused.
Twisted.
The door didn't open.
He tried again, harder. It rattled, but the lock wouldn't budge.
"What—? No. No, no, don't pull this crap."
He shoved his shoulder against it.
It didn't even move.
"I didn't lock it," he whispered.
He grabbed the bolt. It slid freely — unlocked.
Yet the door felt sealed shut, like someone held it closed on the other side.
His pulse roared in his ears.
"Okay," he said, stepping back. "Alright. That's fine. That's okay."
He paced in a circle.
"You're panicking. This house is old. Wood swells. Doors jam. It's perfectly normal."
He didn't believe a word of it.
He turned away — and froze.
At the far end of the hallway, the door he had inspected yesterday was open again.
No.
Wide open.
He stared.
His voice came out raw. "I… closed you."
The door offered nothing in return but a dark mouth of shadow.
He held the flashlight tight, though it was off, as if its weight alone could save him.
"Right," he breathed. "We're checking this out. We're not afraid."
He was absolutely afraid.
He stepped toward the door slowly, each footstep soft and deliberate. The house felt alive around him, wood groaning like bones shifting.
Halfway down the hall, he said, "If someone's in there, just—say something."
Silence.
He reached the doorway. The room was dim, the broken window letting in only thin stripes of light.
He stepped inside.
Nothing moved.
Nothing breathed.
He walked to the window, nudged the branch aside, listened to it scrape the outside wall.
"Stupid branch," he muttered. "Scared me half to death."
He turned—
Something stood in the corner.
Tall. Dark. Motionless.
He dropped the flashlight. It clattered loudly, beam spinning.
"NO—!"
He stumbled backward, hitting the bed frame, falling onto the floor. The flashlight spun to a stop, its beam landing on—
Coats.
Just coats.
Two old coats hanging from rusted hooks, their silhouettes sinister in the dim light.
He covered his face with both hands and let out a shaky laugh. "You almost gave yourself a heart attack. Over coats."
He forced himself to stand.
But something felt wrong. The coats seemed… closer.
He swallowed hard, reached for them, pushed them. They swayed gently, nothing more.
"See? Just fabric. Just shadows."
He took one more breath.
Then a whisper brushed right beside his ear:
"Wrong."
He flinched away, spinning. "Who said that?!"
The room was empty.
His chest heaved. Movement caught his eye—his reflection in a cracked shard of glass on the floor.
"Get it together," he hissed at himself. "You're seeing things. Hearing things. You're tired. Hungry. Just tired."
He grabbed the flashlight again, hands shaking. He backed out of the room, not turning until he had to.
The moment he crossed the doorway, the wind shut it behind him with a hollow slam.
He jumped.
"No more upstairs," he said firmly. "Not now."
He went down the stairs, gripping the railing too tight.
On the first floor, he started barricading. He moved furniture in front of every door except the front one. He pushed a bookcase against the basement entrance.
He paused.
Why the basement?
He shook his head. "Just instinct. Basements are… bad vibes."
He laughed nervously.
Something knocked from the other side of the basement door.
Three deliberate taps.
He froze.
"Just settling," he whispered. "Just settling."
The knocking came again.
Louder.
His breath shuddered out of him.
"Okay," he said shakily. "Change of plan. We stay in the living room. Living room is safe."
He sat in the center of the room, the chair upright again, the notebook on the floor.
He picked up the notebook.
He flipped one page ahead.
Another message, scribbled in the same frantic handwriting:
IF YOU SEE IT, DON'T BLINK.
He dropped the book immediately.
"Nope. No. Nope. Not doing this today."
He backed away from the notebook like it had teeth.
Then he heard something move in the hallway. Soft footsteps. Slow.
He couldn't breathe.
He whispered, "I'm not scared of you."
A voice replied — not loud, but perfectly audible:
"Yes you are."
He fell backward onto the floor, scrambling to the corner of the room.
He stayed there until the sun slipped down and the house grew cold again.
And all the while, he kept hearing footsteps pacing just outside the room — patient, deliberate, waiting for him to blink.