Ghost Host

Trepidation

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Tick, tock, tick, tock. The steady rhythm of the grandfather clock kept me awake, ticking away in the back of my head like a horribly off-time metronome. It was a breezy afternoon, the perfect day to go outside, to breathe and have tea with friends—but here I was, spending the afternoon reading instead. Plucking books off an old bookshelf, reading and rereading every chapter until I could recite the book word for word. It was a chilly winter, though. The harsh winds picked up upcoming snowfall just to drop, so it wasn’t weird of me to stay inside.

I’ve done this with three books so far, there was little purpose behind it. But for one, I was bored. Needless to say, wallowing in loneliness behind the closed doors of an outlying estate would do me no good. And second, the discoloured books gave me an odd sense of familiarity—as if I’d already read them over and over, front to back, transcribed them thousands upon thousands of times. But how could that be?

It was a stupid thought, really. I’ve lived here all my life. Everything, from the sooty and dusted red carpets to the grandiose chandeliers feel familiar to me, it’s no wonder that the books do too.

For as long as I could remember, I lived here with my uncle. My uncle who, unfortunately, recently passed away. He was in a better place now. For a long month, I grieved, but as dejected as I was, we promised that we wouldn’t linger onto sorrowful memories if one of us were to pass; now I was fulfilling that promise. There were no other estates aside from mine. The mansion was always shrouded in seas of castleton evergreens, so secluded the trees were a blanket, swaddling the house and keeping it out of sight. And once something is out of sight, it is out of mind. Thus, many years have passed since I last had human interaction. Well, aside from greeting the newspaper boy.

I think that is why I was so surprised when something sounded at my door. It wasn’t the wind, or the rustling of leaves, but a heavy drop. A blunt plunk that echoed into the silence before any trace of it was carried away by the wintry wind. Not the sound of a pebble or stray screw, but the chime of something metallic. It was the sound of my door chain plummeting to the ground, followed by the click of what was, unmistakably, my doorknob.

The next thing I knew, the thud of footsteps filled the foyer, echoing through the corridors as the sound of laughter resounded throughout the room.

Someone, or something, was inside the house.

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