Patrick arrived at Hollow Street just as the rain started. The house stood at the very end of the road, crooked and peeling, as if the earth itself had grown tired of holding it upright.
"Cheap rent," he muttered, forcing a smile. The kind of smile you make when you're trying to convince yourself you've made a good decision. "It's just a house. Nothing special."
The key rattled in the lock like it hadn't been turned in years. When the door finally creaked open, the smell hit him first. Damp. Dust. A strange metallic tang, like rust. Or blood.
He pushed the thought away.
The realtor had been quick on the phone: The last tenant left suddenly. You're lucky to get it so cheap. But Patrick noticed she hadn't made eye contact when she handed over the keys.
And the neighbors? They stared from their porches as he carried his boxes inside, whispering behind cupped hands. He caught fragments:"Poor guy… doesn't know.""The house… always takes them."
Patrick shook it off. Small towns loved their ghost stories. He wasn't a kid anymore.
But by midnight, the house felt alive.
Floorboards creaked when he wasn't moving. The walls whispered with drafts that sounded too much like voices. And in the mirror over the mantle, he swore his reflection lingered half a second longer than it should.
He laughed nervously. "Just an old house."
But then he heard it.
Footsteps.
From the attic.
Part II: Seraphine
Patrick climbed the narrow stairs with a flashlight, every step groaning under his weight. The attic door stood at the end of the hall, slightly ajar, as if it had been waiting.
He nudged it open.
And there she was.
A girl standing in the corner, pale as moonlight, her hair dark and tangled. Her dress clung to her like it was soaked, though the air was dry. Her eyes—black pools that didn't reflect the beam of his flashlight—locked on him instantly.
He froze. His throat dry. "Who… who the hell are you?"
She tilted her head. For a long moment, she didn't speak. And then, in a voice that was barely a whisper, she said:
"You shouldn't be here, Patrick."
His name.
Patrick's skin crawled. "How do you—?!"
But she was gone.
One blink. One heartbeat. The corner was empty. Only dust.
He staggered back, nearly dropping the flashlight.
"Stress," he muttered to himself. "Moving stress. No sleep. I imagined it."
But that night, he dreamed of her. Standing over his bed. Whispering.
"Leave before he wakes."
Part III: The Shadows Stir
The days blurred together. Strange things crept in.
Doors that he swore he had locked stood wide open.
His phone glitched, the screen filling with static, but only in the house.
At exactly 3:07 AM every night, the sound of chains dragging echoed from the attic.
And always, Seraphine appeared.
Sometimes in the corner of his eye, vanishing when he turned. Sometimes behind him in the mirror, her lips moving but no sound reaching him. Sometimes close enough that he felt her icy breath on his neck.
Patrick started to unravel. Coffee didn't help. Music didn't drown it out. The house consumed his thoughts, and Seraphine consumed the house.
Finally, he snapped.
"WHO ARE YOU?" he screamed into the attic one night, flashlight shaking in his hands. "What do you want from me?!"
Seraphine appeared. This time she didn't vanish. She stepped closer, her eyes bottomless.
"I want nothing," she whispered. "I'm here to keep you alive."
Patrick's heart pounded. "What do you mean alive?!"
Her gaze shifted over his shoulder. "Because he's awake now."
Part IV: The Thing in the Attic
The air grew heavy. The shadows in the attic corner twisted, stretching like tar spilling across the floor.
Patrick stumbled back, eyes wide as something began to take shape. A figure, tall and crooked, stitched together from darkness. Its mouth opened impossibly wide, teeth jagged like shattered glass, a low growl rumbling deep inside it.
Seraphine's hand shot out, clutching his wrist with icy fingers.
"Don't run," she hissed. "He hunts movement."
But Patrick couldn't help it. The thing's head snapped toward him, the chains dragging closer with every heartbeat.
He bolted.
The house shifted against him. Doors slammed shut. Windows rattled. The hallway stretched endlessly, wallpaper peeling as though the house itself was rotting around him.
Behind him, the chains scraped. Closer. Louder.
And Seraphine's voice screamed inside his skull: "You're not trapped with me. We're trapped with him."
Part V: The Last Truth
Patrick collapsed in the living room, chest heaving. The front door loomed ahead, but every time he tried to touch it, the knob burned his hand, searing his skin.
He turned to Seraphine, who now stood in the center of the room, her face twisted with something between sorrow and rage.
"You're a ghost," he panted. "You've been haunting me—"
Her laugh was hollow. "If I were just a ghost, you'd be safe."
Her form flickered, shifting like smoke. Beneath her skin, he saw glimpses of wounds, deep slashes across her throat, wrists bound in chains.
"I was like you once," she whispered. "I moved in. I thought the house was only… haunted. But he caught me. And now I can't leave. My soul is bound here, warning others. Trying to stop them from feeding him."
Patrick's blood ran cold.
"What happens… if he catches me?"
Seraphine's black eyes glistened. "Then you'll stay. Forever."
The lights flickered.
The chains screamed.
The shadow loomed behind him, closer than ever, its grin stretching wider, hungering.
Patrick turned to run—
And the house swallowed his scream.
By dawn, the house on Hollow Street stood silent again. Its windows dark, its door locked tight.
In the attic, a new voice whispered now. Patrick's voice. Calling for help.
The figure in the corner didn't just move — it bled darkness. The shadow oozed across the floorboards, swallowing the moonlight, leaving only a suffocating black. Its head snapped, bones crunching as if its neck broke and healed in the same second.
Patrick froze, breath shallow.
The thing opened its mouth.
And screamed.
The sound wasn't human. It was knives on glass, steel grinding steel, and the wet tearing of flesh all at once. His ears rang. Blood trickled from his nose.
Chains dragged as it lurched forward. The air reeked of rot and iron. Patrick's flashlight flickered — just long enough to show what hung from the chains.
Hands. Fingers. Skulls.
They clattered as the thing moved, trophies stitched into its existence.
Patrick gagged. His knees gave way.
"Don't move!" Seraphine hissed, clutching his arm. Her fingers were so cold he felt his skin burn. "He smells fear."
But Patrick couldn't help it. His heart thundered. His body trembled.
The shadow grinned wider, impossibly wider, until its jaw cracked open down to its chest. Rows upon rows of jagged glass-teeth shimmered in the dark, dripping with something black and viscous.
It lunged.
Part V (extended): The Last Truth
Patrick stumbled, sprinting through the hallway, but the house was shifting against him. The wallpaper peeled into strips, revealing pulsing veins beneath the walls. The floorboards warped like ribs. Every step sank into something wet.
"GET ME OUT!" he screamed, slamming himself against the front door. The knob turned molten red beneath his hands, flesh blistering instantly. He howled, skin peeling off as he staggered back.
Seraphine appeared, her form glitching in and out of existence. Her once-pale face now revealed chunks of bone, her jaw split where chains had once bound her.
"You don't leave," she whispered. "No one ever leaves."
"Help me!" Patrick begged, tears streaming, voice cracking. "You're supposed to warn me!"
"I did," she hissed, voice splitting like static. "I told you to leave… but you stayed."
The shadow surged into the room. Its chains whipped around Patrick's body, biting deep, cutting through skin and muscle. Blood poured down his arms, his legs. The smell of copper filled the air.
He screamed, thrashing, but the chains tightened, slicing deeper until bone crunched.
The shadow dragged him toward its gaping mouth. Patrick clawed at the floor, nails ripping clean off, blood smearing wood. His screams turned hoarse, broken sobs choked by pain.
Seraphine's face flickered inches from his. Her empty black eyes watched him without pity.
"This house needs to eat," she murmured. "And now… so will you."
The shadow's mouth engulfed him.
Teeth sank in, crunching ribs like twigs. His chest burst under the force, blood spraying the walls in thick, hot arcs. His scream cut off mid-breath as his lungs were torn free, the sound replaced by a wet, horrible crunching.
The last thing Patrick saw before darkness consumed him was Seraphine, standing silent, her lips curling into a small, tragic smile.
Epilogue (extended)
At dawn, Hollow Street looked the same as ever. Quiet. Forgotten.
But if anyone walked close enough to the door, they'd hear it: a faint scratching from inside, nails dragging wood. A broken, ragged whisper repeating the same word over and over:
"Please."
In the attic, Seraphine waited by the window, her hollow eyes fixed on the road. Another tenant would come. They always did.
The house would always eat.
And now, Patrick's voice had joined the chorus of screams that never ended.