Creepypastas

House of Rules

  
CREEPYPASTA WIKI

HOUSE OF RULES

I live in a house of rules.

I should explain.

I moved here three months ago. Flat number 27. The flat was a repossession. I never met the previous owner, and to date know him only from the post I receive in his name. I could make up stories of him vanishing, or his screams being heard in the darkness one night... I could make exaggerated claims about all of this, but this is not a work of fiction, nor is it written to entertain.

I had just got a new job—a promotion I had waited years for. This was meant to be the next step to greater things, but I needed to move quickly to save on the long drive each day. When I found this place, I was overjoyed. It was well-located, within my price range and, a part from being extremely run down and dirty, had so much potential. It's a duplex apartment, with a guest room and spare bathroom on the ground floor, and a dressing room and several storage rooms on the top floor.

The purchase was a complicated one—due in part to poor record keeping and the loss of deeds and plans of the house. What should have taken a month from start to finish took four times as long. Because of the length of time, I took several viewings and each time was amazed by windows and cupboards that I could not recall from previous visits. Rooms seemed bigger and lighter—more inviting. Even the estate agent was baffled that her property listing documents were constantly wrong.

The neighbors in the block of flats are a strange lot. They don't talk. They keep to routines you can set a clock by. When I first moved in, I tried to invite them to a housewarming, so desperate was I to meet new people. Not one of them came. They get in at the same time every day and never leave the house. I never hear them moving around at night.

One of them, a nervous man from upstairs who constantly fidgets and glances around, apologized afterward. He explained his lack of attendance was simply that "he wasn't allowed to." At the time, I presumed he meant his wife, but now I'm not so certain. As he was the only one I had got to know since the move, I did my best to become friendly... and even felt like I was making headway. Then I made the mistake about asking about the previous owner, to which he made and awkward and short response before making his excuses—I have not seen or heard from him since.

"The rules," as I came to understand them, became apparent over time. The first was sleeping only in my bedroom. I only slept once in the lounge on purpose, dozing on the sofa, until I woke up to my arm trapped between the sofa and the wall... a wall that was several feet away from the sofa when I closed my eyes a few hours earlier. I was overcome with a feeling—a very familiar feeling—that I was somewhere I shouldn't be.

This feeling wouldn't leave me until I hurriedly stumbled up to my bed, where I only felt truly safe when I hid under the blankets like a scared child. I only fell asleep once more in the lounge after that, by accident. I was woken once again with a feeling that I should leave, that it would be unsafe to stay and that I should not be there. This time, however, a sweater I had left across the room on a radiator was tied around my neck and pulled tightly enough to leave a striking mark on my throat.

The rule of sleeping only in my bedroom stands alongside others—countless others. I learned that I should clean up my dishes immediately, when I stepped out of the kitchen after depositing my plate and sat down on a safety pin that was jutting out of the back of the sofa. I learned not to take too long showers when the water suddenly turned scaling hot and remained so, no matter how much I desperately tried to turn it off... and then was inexplicably normal temperature when I tried it moments after. I learned that I must hoover and keep the place tidy, that I must not waste electricity, and that no matter what noises I hear at night I should never EVER explore.