SHORT HORROR STORIES

Someone in the House

-anonymous

I am awake. I don't recall falling asleep and am not real sure how I got into bed, but I am awake now. There is a very distant ringing in my ears, sort of like the aftermath of a concussive blast that makes you deaf, only this ringing seems far off inside my head. Must have had a rough night I suppose, although honestly I can't really recall the previous evening or any evening for that matter. Yep, must have been one hell of a night. I roll out of bed and my feet hit the cold, hard tile floor of my bedroom. Rubbing my hands over my face I try to shake the cobwebs of sleep – and whatever I may have drank last night – out of my head. Glancing out of the nearby window I see a gloomy, overcast sky and a light rain falling on the leafless forest of trees that surrounds my property. Is it Fall? I honestly cannot remember. Ugh! I swear, God, I will never drink that much again. I have made that same hollow promise a hundred times before I am sure. Moving off of the bed, I walk down the hall and descend the staircase that leads to the main level of the house, the top three stairs creaking under my weight as they always do. Midway down the stairs, I can see outside through the Amityville Horror-style window over the entryway that the drizzle and clouds have settled in and are likely going to be hanging around a while. I'm not going to go to work today. Wait. I don't have to work today, right? It's the weekend, isn't it? I shake my head vigorously and make that same hollow promise to God again. This day is going to be far worse than my night must have been. The kitchen has a digital clock, so I stumble in to check the day and time just to be sure I don't need to call in – ahem – sick. Clock says 9am – I'm late if it's a weekday – and it is Sunday. Excellent. Time to crash on the couch and do nothing. My God I am tired. That couch is calling my name right now. I leave the kitchen and move through the archway into the living room, noticing that the hardwoods are just as cold as the tiled floors upstairs. A small shiver moves up my spine and I make a turn towards the thermostat to crank the heat up before lying down and covering up with the throw blanket hanging over the back of the couch.

The worn, cold leather of the couch creaks under my weight. I hear the familiar click of the thermostat as the heat kicks on and pull the blanket in tighter, close my eyes and try to fall asleep. Maybe this hangover – worst one I ever had and I still can't remember the party. Hell yeah! – will be gone after a good, late morning nap. The whispers start immediately. I bolt upright on the couch, throwing the blanket aside as I do, and scan the room. Aside from me, the living room is empty. The upstairs bathroom fan is running. Did I leave it on? Did I even go in the bathroom this morning? I sneak quietly from the living room, through the kitchen and peek around the corner. Silent as a church mouse. I had to have been a ninja in a past life or something. I look up the stairs and see that the bathroom light is on and the exhaust fan is definitely running. Maybe I destroyed the toilet last night and left it running to kill the smell before stumbling to bed, I think. But the whispering starts again and it is coming from the bathroom. No time for subtlety now, so I bolt up the stairs – the top three creak as usual – and burst into the bathroom. If there is someone in here they are about to get their ass kicked. But the bathroom is empty and the whispering has stopped. Okay, I am far more hung over than I thought. I flip the bathroom wall switch to kill the lights and the fan then realize my bed isn't far away at all. Sleep. I need sleep. I am so tired. The bed is there, in my room, dark and inviting. I will just sleep this off and wake up feeling much better. Time for that nap. I lay down on the bed, sinking into the mattress like butter melting on a hot pan, pull the covers up to my chin, close my eyes and sleep. Or at least I think I went to sleep. I am definitely awake but I don't recall falling asleep or dreaming. The darkness has crept into the room like a cat burglar, casting shadows on the far wall that look like little demons ready to jump out of their two dimensional wall canvas and attack as full blown three dimensional horrors. Must be night time because I can't see anything through the window, but I can still hear the faint pattering of the rain on the roof. I throw the blankets back, sit up and rub my face again. Still tired and groggy. And hung over. I leave the demons behind me on the bedroom wall and head to the bathroom. The light is still off so I flip it on. The light from the molded glass fixture dances all over like miniature crystal ballerinas and the exhaust fan comes on. I sneak a peek into the toilet – Nope. No prayers offered up to the porcelain god in here, I think to myself. As I turn to the mirror to face myself and dreading the site I will behold in this rough state, sounds from downstairs freeze me in my tracks. It is the unmistakable sound of silverware on plates. Someone is eating dinner in my house. The top three stairs creak once again as I fly down to the first floor, burst into the kitchen – throwing the door wide as I enter – and head towards the dinner table by the bay window. There are plates here, remnants of a half-eaten meal on each of them. But whoever was here, eating my food, left in a hurry when they heard me coming. The hardwood floor leading to the front door sounds like a herd of elephants is holding a track meet on it. The bastards are running out the front door. As I quickly head to the entryway, I see the door close and hear the deadbolt click into place. They have a key? They must have because they just locked the door from the outside. I peer through the stained glass window slits that are on either side of the front door but I cannot see anyone in the blackness of this rain-soaked night. Enjoy the weather you pieces of shit.