Adrian didn't sleep that night. The scraping upstairs had gone on for hours, faint but steady, like nails dragging across floorboards. When morning came, he forced himself into clean clothes, brushed the gray stubble off his chin, and decided to face the world.
He needed bread. Coffee. Anything that made life feel normal.
By the time he reached the corner store, his nerves were stretched thin. The bell above the door jingled as he stepped in, and conversation inside stopped.
Adrian blinked at the silence. Three women by the produce aisle froze, whispering quickly to each other. The cashier, a teenager with a messy ponytail, looked up then dropped her gaze like the floor had become fascinating.
Adrian cleared his throat. "Morning."
No one answered.
He walked down the aisle, grabbing a loaf of bread. The women's voices rose again, low and sharp.
"…always smells like something's dying…"
"…says the house is cursed, just like him…"
"…no wonder she left him. Who wouldn't?"
Adrian stopped, the bread crumpling in his fist.
He turned his head slowly. "You want to say that louder?"
The women froze, faces pale. One shook her head and nudged the other. "Come on." They hurried away, skirts swishing, the smell of cheap perfume trailing behind.
Adrian chuckled under his breath, bitter. "Cowards."
He grabbed coffee and walked to the counter. The teenager scanned the items without meeting his eyes.
"Seven fifty." Her voice trembled.
Adrian handed her the money. He leaned forward slightly. "You hear them?"
She swallowed. "Hear who?"
"The neighbors." His gaze was steady. "They whisper. They curse. You hear it too, don't you?"
The girl shifted nervously. "I—I don't know what you mean."
Adrian tilted his head. "Don't lie. Not to me."
The machine beeped, and she shoved his change into his hand. "Have a good day, sir."
Her fingers shook.
Adrian smirked. "Yeah. Sure."
He left the store. Behind him, the bell jingled, and the whispers started again before the door even closed.
By afternoon, Adrian sat on his porch, the bread untouched on his lap. Across the street, two men in work boots were talking by a pickup. Their eyes flicked toward him again and again.
Adrian cupped his hands around his mouth. "If you've got something to say, say it!"
The men stiffened. One muttered something, and they climbed into the truck. The engine roared, and they drove off without looking back.
Adrian laughed harshly. "That's what I thought."
The wind carried voices. Children chanting, high-pitched and cruel:
"Smelly house, smelly man,
Cursed forever, that's the plan—"
Adrian shot up. "Hey!"
The kids shrieked and scattered, their bicycles squealing as they sped down the block. Laughter trailed behind them.
Adrian's hands shook. "Little demons."
The front door creaked open behind him. He turned too fast, heart slamming—only to find the empty hallway waiting, the smell of rot wafting stronger than ever.
He slammed the door shut and muttered, "Not today."
That evening, he heard it again. Whispers, but not from children this time. From adults.
He stood by the window, half-hidden behind the curtain. Across the street, Mrs. Hargrove and old Mr. Decker stood close, speaking in hushed tones.
"…can't believe the council hasn't forced him out…"
"…house should've been condemned years ago…"
"…you know what they say. Misfortune clings to men like that…"
Adrian pushed the window open. "I can hear you!"
Both froze, faces snapping toward him.
"Yeah, that's right!" Adrian shouted. "You think I don't know? You think I don't hear the curses you spit behind my back? You're cowards, all of you!"
Mrs. Hargrove's mouth tightened. "Lower your voice, Mr. Cole. Some of us have children."
Adrian barked a laugh. "Children who learn curses from their parents!"
Mr. Decker shook his head. "You brought it on yourself, Cole. You let the rot in. Now it spreads."
Adrian's chest heaved. "What did you say?"
The man's eyes were hard. "You heard me."
Adrian slammed the window shut so hard the glass rattled. He leaned against the sill, sweat dripping down his temples.
"Rot spreads," he whispered. "Rot spreads."
The words gnawed at him long into the night.
The next morning, Adrian went to collect his mail. The box creaked open, stuffed with envelopes. Bills, always bills. But today, there was something else.
A single sheet of paper. Folded once. No return address.
He unfolded it.
LEAVE.
That was all. Just one word, written in thick black marker.
Adrian's throat tightened. He crumpled the paper in his fist and spun toward the street.
A woman walking her dog glanced at him. Her eyes widened, and she quickly crossed to the other side, tugging the dog along.
Adrian called out. "Did you put this in my box?"
She kept walking.
"Answer me!"
She broke into a near run.
Adrian's voice cracked with fury. "You all want me gone, don't you? You think you can scare me?!"
His words echoed down the street. Curtains twitched in windows. Doors shut quietly.
Adrian stood in the silence, the paper crushed in his hand, the stench curling around him like smoke.
That night, the whispers grew louder. Not from the street this time. From the walls.
Adrian sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, the crumpled note lying beside the bills.
"You hear them, don't you?" he whispered to the house. "The neighbors. They think I'm cursed. They think this house is cursed."
The pipes groaned in answer.
Adrian's voice grew sharper. "But you know the truth. Don't you? You know it's not me—it's you. You follow me. You stink. You whisper. You scrape across the floors."
The fridge hummed. The smell thickened.
Adrian slammed his hand on the table. "Say something! If you're so alive, then say something!"
Silence.
Then, faint, almost inaudible—laughter.
Adrian froze. His eyes darted to the staircase.
It had come from upstairs.
A child's laugh.
Soft. Sweet. Familiar.
"Ella?" Adrian's voice trembled. "Is that you?"
The laugh faded into the drip of the pipes.
Adrian staggered to his feet, heart pounding. "No. No, you don't get to do this. Not her. Not my daughter."
He stumbled toward the stairs, the smell thick and choking.
Behind him, through the kitchen window, he thought he saw faces at the fence. Neighbors. Watching. Whispering.
He turned sharply, but the yard was empty.
Only shadows moved.
Adrian sat on the bottom step, head in his hands. "They'll never let me live in peace. Not the neighbors. Not the house. Not even the dead."
His voice cracked into the silence. "And maybe they're right. Maybe I am cursed."
Upstairs, the scraping began again.
This time, it didn't stop.