Holly

I thought I’d enjoy the quiet. Three weeks alone, no hovering parents, no guilt for skipping the Mediterranean cruise that makes my stomach twist the moment a boat rocks. “Enjoy the house,” Mom said. “You deserve the rest.” I smiled, waved them off, and meant it. The first night was fine—wine, a bad movie, my phone glowing beside me. But by the third, the house began to sound… different. Every creak lingered a fraction too long. The vents whispered in patterns almost like words. I told myself, old houses talk, yet I turned the TV louder than necessary, trying to drown out my imagination. On the fifth night, the refrigerator hummed—a low, steady pulse like someone holding their breath. I froze, spoon midair. “Stop it,” I whispered to the empty kitchen. The hum seemed to deepen, rhythmic, deliberate, human. I pictured a crouched figure behind the wall, face pressed close, breathing slow. “Okay,” I said aloud, voice cracking on the second word. I crept to the kitchen, heart hammering in my ears. I yanked open the fridge. Silence. Just cold air, the faint tang of citrus. But the stillness wasn’t relief—it was waiting. Every reflection in the window trembled as if alive. Footsteps echoed somewhere down the hall, slow, deliberate, impossibly close. My own heartbeat answered them, erratic. Keys slipped from shaking fingers. I left them. The front door slammed behind me, frame shuddering. Outside, the night air hit raw against my skin. I ran until the house was a dark silhouette in the distance, its hum fading, yet somehow still there—watching, breathing, waiting.