Hans froze, his heart hammering a muffled drumbeat against the lining of his cheap, on-sale jacket—the one he'd snagged from his favorite downtown store back when he was broke, not yet realizing he could easily afford to drop a hundred bucks on a coat, since he was, after all, a secret billionaire.
The sound. It was a dragging, a low shush of something that shouldn't be moving, and it was coming from inside the forbidden room of Abernathy Manor.
The house. Oh, the vicious, cursed house that was now his. It had belonged to the Abernathy line ever since his great-great-grandfather Silas raised it with a mix of sweat, bricks, and perhaps something worse—something definitely not on the city's blueprints. It fell to him, Hans, the last male heir, to inherit it. But the thought of living here was like swallowing sand with every breath, the mere notion of setting foot inside making every tiny organ in his body burn. It wasn't about dust or rats; it was the feeling. The history that the house stored in its walls, in its creaking, ancient timber frame.
His mother, before the cancer took her—the last thing life ever stole from him—had branded it onto his mind and heart like a fierce tattoo:
"Hans, darling," she'd said with those eyes that already saw beyond and would soon dim forever. "In this life, you have to fear the living more than the dead."
It was the same tired, boring old advice, the one he'd pass down to his children, and their children, until the damn world ended. But what if, Hans thought as the wood groaned again, right behind that sealed door, the hell wasn't in the suits and the business deals, but right here, across a dark hallway, in a house that had been waiting for him for far too long? What if, suddenly, the supernatural turned out to be the only honest, fking real thing* in the entire Abernathy inheritance?
Soon, moving day arrived.
Hans parked his old motorcycle. It had been his companion for over a year, riding the roads of his small Maine town, and it was still in perfect condition, good for a couple more years. He'd bought it used, and though he'd had to make a fix or two, it had never once abandoned him in the middle of nowhere, a fact Hans genuinely appreciated.
The man in the leather jacket, embossed with the Royal Enfield logo, took off his black helmet. His long hair, which reached his neck and was perfectly styled, he shook out from side to side, combing it with the crisp, mid-morning breeze.
The moving van appeared a few minutes later, rumbling up behind him. With a single horn blast, Hans turned to look. He felt a sliver of peace knowing that, at least, the one thing familiar to him in this whole cursed area—the only thing that would be familiar inside the house—were his own belongings. Even if they were going to be stored in the basement, since the mansion had been inherited complete with its own classic, vintage furniture.
Inside the mansion, the movers shuffled in and out, the furniture perfectly wrapped in sheets and plastic to keep it from being ruined. Though they weren't the most expensive quality, Hans had struggled hard to keep them, a legacy of his mother's lifetime of work as a waitress in a fancy restaurant.
It would be agonizing for him if anyone, even accidentally, broke them.
While the movers did their job, Hans walked through the mansion's living room, eyeing the vintage furniture with curiosity. They looked like pieces stolen from Queen Elizabeth's London castle, so ancient and elegant they appeared.
The dust was slowly consuming them, barely held back by the white sheets covering them as best they could. Hans had immediately realized the house's filth; the dust was drawing itself onto his fingers like the deep black of permanent pen ink.
But without his knowing, watching from outside through the sealed living room window, a very black shadow was meticulously observing Hans's every step.
The shadow stood motionless. It didn't seem to care that there were other people around Hans. It was as if no one else could actually see it, and it would only vanish once Hans noticed its presence—because that was its goal.
But Hans never noticed.
Hans continued his tour of the mansion, oblivious to the fact that something was lurking outside.
An hour and a half later, the movers finished their job. Hans paid them in cash, and they left. The mansion was so filthy inside that while he waited for his delivery from the nearest Pizza Hut to arrive, Hans grabbed the old broom from a kitchen corner and set about sweeping.
He would start with the first floor, then move upstairs. Finally, he would dedicate his rest time to checking the mansion's basement and attic. You never know what kind of treasures might be hidden there.
The doorbell rang.
Hans was gathering the trash with the dustpan, but hearing the chime, he stopped to go receive the meal he was so eagerly awaiting. He was ready to devour a delectable feast: a large salami and chicken pizza, accompanied by an ice-cold Coke and a sweet portion of cinnamon rolls.
Opening the door, Hans looked everywhere, but no one was there.
Did he hear wrong?
Absolutely not.
Hans couldn't have misheard. The doorbell had rung with such intensity, echoing against the walls like a loud boom that could have been heard even from the attic. Hans whispered with indifference and strangeness:
"Hmm, weird."
He closed the door again.
Maybe he was just confused.
The exhaustion of the previous days had been slowly consuming him, to the point that while driving his motorcycle on the way to Abernathy Manor, for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, Hans felt himself drifting off to sleep. He fought it back, though. He wasn't ready to end up dying in a fatal accident. He wasn't ready for death.
Or at least, not yet.
He went back to his chores.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang again.
Initially, Hans hesitated to answer the call.
What if it was just a group of annoying kids who liked to go around bothering neighbors with the game of randomly ringing doorbells and then fleeing like thieves who didn't want to get caught?
But then, Hans noticed the silhouette of a man dressed as a delivery driver, wearing a green jacket and a green cap, holding a large pizza box and a Coke, peeking through the windows adjacent to the door. This confirmed that, luckily, he wouldn't have to angrily scream at children to leave him alone.