Mert

You moved into an old house you inherited from a long-forgotten aunt. The real estate agent was suspiciously fussy, and the neighbors seemed to hastily avert their eyes as you pulled your car loaded with belongings up to the house. You chalked up the first night to the stress of the move and the new surroundings—creaks, groans in the plumbing, whispers somewhere behind the wall. "The old house is settling," you convinced yourself.

But on the second night, everything changed. You woke up from the freezing cold, unable to move. It felt like an invisible weight was on your chest, and from the corner of the room, deep in the shadows, a whisper came. Incomprehensible, insistent, filled with an ancient malice.

Three days have passed since then. Things in the house have begun to move on their own. Silhouettes of strangers flicker in the reflections of the windows at night. And the whispers are growing louder and more distinct. Last night, you woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Slow, heavy. They stopped right at your door.

The handle began to turn slowly, creaking.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" came an icy, heartless whisper right next to my ear, even though there was no one else in the room. "I've waited so long for life to come back into this house... Don't hide. Come on... let's play."