#hallowhouse

The homeowner could remember it as clearly as if it were carved into his bones, probably because it had only happened yesterday. The stranger had arrived like a shadow crossing the threshold of the old house, different from any guest he had seen before. Hollow sockets where eyes should have been, raw and swollen, the edges dark with bruising, yet somehow, beneath the grotesque absence, there was a fragility that made the homeowner hesitate. It should have been suspicious. It should have made him slam the door and shut the blinds. But he didn’t.

He had seen enough of people to know appearances meant little. He had watched the formerly snitched-mouth foreigner mumble in a language he could not parse, had witnessed the brunt man sit rigidly on the wooden floor for hours without a word. None of them were less human. He had learned, painfully, the lesson of judgment long ago—when the bullet first tore through flesh that had once belonged to a man who was, perhaps, innocent.

“Fuck… I thought they were—They showed the signs I—”

His voice had broken then, disbelief and panic entwined. Was he a murderer? It had been a mistake, yes, a misfire, but once the blood hit the floor, there was nothing left but the sting of finality. He had disposed of the body like the others, yet the guilt gnawed at him like maggots in rotting flesh. He had to be more careful next time. Perhaps pity had played a part, too, when he let the stranger in—someone who rambled about nightmares, about a monstrous entity called IT. The poor man had been through something far beyond ordinary survival.

And now, here he was again, in the kitchen, the stranger seated at the table, hands resting against the worn wood as though the grain could anchor him to the present. He hunched over slightly, hair falling in messy strands, a shadowy curtain hiding what should have been eyes. Only the faint twitch of a finger or the subtle tension in a shoulder betrayed the weight of his thoughts.

Gently, the homeowner extended his own hand. Calloused fingers brushed against slender, almost fragile ones, and the small contact made the air between them thrum with an unspoken tension.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked softly, testing the waters of conversation, trying to kill the silence that threatened to grow too thick. “It’s not painful, right?” His hand hovered vaguely near the empty sockets. “I have some medicine if it is… You can ask anytime.”

The stranger’s head lifted—or would have, if not for the absence of eyes. A low sigh escaped him, long and fragile, hair brushing the table as he leaned forward. “I’m… fine. It doesn’t hurt anymore.” His voice was softer than the creaking floorboards, tremulous yet composed. “I’m surprised you cared… cared enough to listen to my rambling. I must sound like a madman to you.”

“No, you don’t,” the homeowner murmured, feeling the weight of his own judgment settle heavy on his chest. “I know it’s crazy when I hear it. You’re just… scared, like the rest of them. And me.”

For a while, only the flickering of the overhead light filled the room. Shadows moved across the tiles like drifting phantoms. Then, the blind man shifted slightly, voice almost shy.

“Do you know where the bathroom is? I need to wash up… I don’t want to bump into corners and hurt myself. Again.”

The homeowner nodded, rising to guide him. There was something in the way the stranger’s hand curled over his own sleeve, fingers pressing lightly, trusting. “Careful,” he said, letting his palm linger briefly on the stranger’s shoulder. “Room’s this way.”

The bathroom was sterile and cold, a harsh contrast to the suffocating warmth of the kitchen. “Sink’s center,” he instructed, voice low. “Upper faucet for hot, lower for cold. Don’t use too much cold water—we need it.” He meant that. There was a pause, glancing down at a woman sitting nearby, head in her hands, eyes red from crying. He hoped. His signal was subtle; keep it down. The man didn't need to know about the body in the tub. Not now.

Water ran over slender hands, pooling in the worn basin, the sound ringing in the sterile room like chimes. He watched silently as the blind man scrubbed at the dried blood, a fragile ritual of cleansing. Something in that motion—trembling fingers, the tilt of the head—made a knot tighten in the homeowner’s chest. There was a sweetness there, a almost softness to it, and it gnawed at a part of him he had long tried to bury.

Returning to the kitchen, he studied the stranger’s hands more closely. Thin, almost skeletal, a ghost of what life had given them. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten?” he asked, concern dragging the words out.

“Eaten? I… don’t remember. IT consumed everything I could think of,” came the low murmur. He ran a long, slender hand through his hair, hiding his face. “All I saw… all I saw was IT.”

The homeowner’s pause was heavy with calculation. “You need food,” his words left no room for argument. “I have some in the fridge. Not much, but it’ll do.”

The fridge revealed its humble contents.

A few dusty beers, a jar of pickles, some wrinkled bread—luxuries in this sun-scorched world. The stranger’s fingers brushed against a slice of bread, hesitant, as though touching it might fracture some fragile composure he had built.

Then, unexpectedly, he moved closer. Fingers brushed the homeowner’s arm—tentatively, almost shyly—as if testing the boundaries of this newfound closeness. The homeowner’s pulse quickened, a deep, stubborn heat creeping through his chest, a sensation he didn’t want and didn’t know how to contain.

For a brief, suspended moment, the stranger reached up, fingertips grazing the homeowner’s face. He felt the ridge of an eyebrow, a subtle slit cut long ago, the soft curve of a jaw. His chest clenched as recognition of attraction pierced him. Desire, sharp and immediate, but he recoiled internally. He was not that man anymore. Not here. Not in this world where survival was sacred and indulgence was dangerous.

Yet the fingers lingered, brushing against warmth, and his restraint frayed.

They shared a soft, unplanned kiss—quick, fleeting, an accident in the gentle intimacy of the kitchen. Yet, when parted, both hesitated, hands still lingering near each other. The air seemed charged, heavy with unsaid things.

The homeowner, once again alone later that night, lay on the edge of his bed. Darkness pressed against his window, the room smelling faintly of dust and the residual tang of cooking from the evening. His mind, usually disciplined, now tumbled with dangerous thoughts.

I am not… I am not…

He saw the fingers, soft against his skin, felt the warmth of lips that shouldn’t have pressed against his own. The world was quiet, yet loud with internal accusations.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Not wrong because the man was undesirable, not wrong because desire was illicit in itself—but wrong because of the way he had been raised, trained to see closeness like this as a betrayal of self. Each tender thought clawed at him viciously. He could still remember the sneers, the empty affection of those who had raised him, the sharp lessons in hatred for what felt natural. The guilt was a living thing, writhing beneath his ribs, barbed and venomous, and it spat at him even now for daring to feel warmth.

Can't think that way about another man.

Sleep did not come easily. Every time his eyes closed—focusing on nothing, imagining nothing—he pictured the stranger in the kitchen again, the soft curve of jaw, the thin, fragile hands, the faint tremor as he leaned in. Desire mixed with shame, a bitter taste at the back of his throat. He turned onto his side, pressing the pillow against his chest, wishing he could unthink the heat that lingered.

Outside, the house was silent. The hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of old wood settling, the whisper of wind through half-closed curtains—all became the backdrop to his internal storm. He imagined the stranger sleeping somewhere in the house, alone, hair falling into the hollow of shoulders, fingers brushing at the air, perhaps remembering the day, perhaps remembering the soft accidental contact.

He had kept him alive, fed him, guided him gently through spaces too bright or too dark, yet now he was trapped in his own head—a prisoner to desire and shame alike.

Even in sleep, he felt the trace of warmth, the brush of fingertips, and the brief kiss that should have remained ephemeral. He couldn’t forgive himself, yet he didn’t want to. There was a dangerous sweetness to it, a sharp ache that made him feel almost alive after so long of carrying only death, only survival.

Tomorrow, he knew, the day would be the same. Careful interactions, gentle guidance, whispered concern. Yet now, lingering beneath it, was something entirely new and terrifying—an ache for closeness, for warmth, for contact he shouldn’t want. And the worst part was, he could not stop himself from wanting it.

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The homeowner had failed to communicate with the foreigner again.

Earlier that evening the man had been pacing quietly through the closet, murmuring to himself in a language he couldn’t recognize. The words had rolled softly through the dim house like water over smooth stone, calm but completely foreign. Eventually the voice faded. What remained were the familiar sounds of the old house settling into the night—timber joints creaking faintly, pipes sighing somewhere behind the walls, and the refrigerator humming from the kitchen like a tired mechanical insect.

He stood alone in the foyer.

His hand hovered above the photograph resting on the small desk near the door. Dust drifted lazily through the yellow lamplight. The house smelled faintly of tobacco and old wood.

The woman in the picture smiled warmly.

Vera.

Sunlight had caught her hair when the photograph was taken, turning the strands bright against the darker background. The expression on her face was effortless. Alive. Looking at it always made the room feel quieter.

Back then he had been someone else.

Not the homeowner.

Not the hermit who checked the locks twice each night and kept a shotgun leaning against the wall within arm’s reach.

Back then he had been Mikhail.

The name felt strange in his thoughts, like a word from a language he had forgotten how to speak.

He exhaled slowly. “I’m better off alone,” he muttered.

The words sounded hollow in the empty hallway. Because the house wasn’t empty anymore. And that fact was beginning to bother him.

His mind drifted back to the kitchen without permission. The fragile brush of fingers against his arm. The quiet moment where he had leaned forward without thinking. The kiss had been quick. Careless. And entirely his fault. His jaw tightened. That should never have happened—

“Jesus Christ!” Mikhail flinched.

The sudden voice cracked through the silence like a rifle shot. His shoulders tensed instantly, the reflex drilled into his body long before his thoughts caught up.

“Oh—sorry,” the stranger said quickly. “I didn’t mean it. I was just trying to get around.”

Mikhail turned.

The man stood a few steps away, head tilted slightly toward the sound of breathing. Long black hair hung around his shoulders in loose, uneven strands.

Where his eyes should have been were two dark, swollen hollows. The skin around them was bruised and stretched, the empty sockets stark against the otherwise gentle shape of his face. Despite the damage, there was something soft about his expression. Almost shy.

“You move quietly,” the man said after a moment.

“Habit,” Mikhail replied.

The blind man nodded faintly. He lifted one hand slowly, fingers hovering uncertainly through the air. “…May I?”

Mikhail stepped forward before he could reconsider. The man’s fingers found his easily.

They were slender and cool, exploring carefully. Mikhail felt the contrast immediately. His own hands were rough, thick with calluses and small ridges of old scars.

The man paused.

“These hands…” he murmured softly.

“What about them?”

“They feel like they’ve done difficult things.”

Mikhail didn’t answer.

“…War?” He asked gently.

After a moment Mikhail answered, “Yes.” The word sat heavy in the room.

“I was drafted when I turned eighteen.”

Another pause. “My father made sure of that.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You don’t sound fond of him.”

“I’m not.”

“I’ve had nightmares about IT again,” he said quietly. His grip tightened slightly. “I don’t feel safe there anymore.”

“Where?”

“The kitchen."

Mikhail frowned. “You can sleep somewhere else. Couch.”

He shook his head faintly. “…Too open.”

Silence settled between them. Long enough that Mikhail could feel the quiet expectation forming in the air. “You can stay in my room,” he said finally.

He tilted his head. “…Your room?”

“Yes. It’s big enough.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “You’re kinder than you pretend to be.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“…May I ask something?”

“What.”

“What should I call you?”

The question lingered in the room.

Finally Mikhail answered. “Mikhail.”

He repeated the name softly. “…Mikhail.”

A pause. “I’m Sullivan.”

The hallway creaked beneath their steps as Mikhail guided him toward the bedroom.

Sullivan followed with one hand resting lightly against the sleeve of Mikhail’s blue turtleneck. The contact was light but steady, trusting in a way that made Mikhail strangely uneasy. They entered the room.

Sullivan explored the mattress carefully before sitting down. The springs sighed beneath his weight. “You can take the this side,” Mikhail muttered. “Against the wall.”

Sullivan shifted closer. “You’re very considerate.”

“I’m practical.” Mikhail sat beside him. The mattress dipped slightly, bringing their shoulders closer than he intended.

For a moment neither spoke. Then Sullivan said quietly, “You move differently in this room.” Mikhail frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You slow down when you walk past the window.” Mikhail glanced toward the curtain hanging beside the dresser. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Sullivan tilted his head slightly.

“You also told me to sleep on this side of the bed. Not the other.”

“That side’s closer to the wall.”

“…That’s not the reason.” Silence lingered. “There are memories here,” Sullivan said softly.

Mikhail stared toward the ceiling. “Yes.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that stay where they are.” Sullivan nodded slowly. “I understand.”

The word father lingered in the air long after Sullivan stopped speaking. Mikhail stared at the ceiling. And the house slowly faded.

The kitchen smelled like cigarette smoke and boiled potatoes. Eighteen-year-old Mikhail sat at the table staring at the draft notice. The thin paper trembled slightly in his hands.

Across from him sat his father. The man looked older than he probably was, his shoulders hunched beneath a Soviet coat he wore even inside the house. A glass of whiskey rested near his elbow.

“You’re soft,” his father said.

The words were delivered casually. Like he was commenting on the weather. Mikhail stared at the table. “I’m not.”

His father snorted. “You read books. You stay inside. You don’t fight.”

“I do what you tell me.”

“That’s not fighting.” The man leaned forward.

“A boy becomes a man one way,” he said. “The army.”

Mikhail’s stomach tightened. “I don’t want to go.” The room went quiet.

His father slowly raised his eyes. “You don’t want to?” The chair scraped across the floor as the man stood. “You think life cares what you want?” He reached into the drawer beside the table and pulled out a folded document. The draft notice. He slid it across the table. “You leave in two weeks.”

Later…

The chair in the doorway creaked. Mikhail’s mother stepped into the kitchen, a cigarette already burning between her fingers. She glanced at the paper.

“Oh.” She took a slow drag. “You’re going out there too?” It wasn’t really a question. Mikhail didn’t answer. “You could pretend to be mentally unstable if you don’t want to go,” she said after a moment. A crooked smile tugged at her mouth. “Most people already think you are, sweetie.”

The joke fell flat. She leaned against the counter, smoke drifting toward the ceiling.

“I should’ve swallowed,” she muttered.

Then after a pause. “But I guess I’m stuck with a sorry excuse of a son.”

Mikhail’s hands tightened around the paper.

Her eyes flicked toward him. “You’re lucky I don’t hit you like your fucking father.”

The words weren’t gentle. But they weren’t meant to be cruel either. They were simply the way she spoke. After a moment she walked over and held the cigarette toward him.

“Here.”

“Have one.” Mikhail hesitated before taking it. The smoke burned his throat the first time he inhaled.

His mother laughed. “Jesus, you’re terrible at it,” she mocked. “If you’re gonna die for your country you should at least learn to smoke like a man first.” The words were harsh.

But when she reached over and flicked the ash away before it fell on the table, the movement was strangely careful.

“You’ll be fine,” she said eventually. Not because she believed it. But because it was the only thing she knew how to say.

The memory faded slowly.

Like smoke thinning in the air.

Sullivan stirred beside him.

The shift was small — just the quiet rustle of fabric and a slow inhale — but it drew Mikhail’s attention immediately. One of Sullivan’s hands had drifted across the mattress again, fingers brushing lightly against Mikhail’s wrist.

“Mikhail…?” he murmured.

“I’m here,” Mikhail said quietly.

Sullivan turned his face toward the sound of his voice, instinct guiding him. Even without sight he leaned closer, as though warmth alone was enough to orient himself in the dark.

Their shoulders touched. The contact lingered. Sullivan’s fingers slid along Mikhail’s forearm, slow and careful, until they settled against his sleeve.

“You’re warm,” Sullivan whispered.

Mikhail didn’t answer. The silence between them felt charged now, heavy with something neither of them had named.

Sullivan’s breathing softened. “Mikhail,” he said again, quieter this time.

That was when Mikhail leaned forward.

It happened almost without thought. The mattress shifted beneath his weight as he moved closer, until the distance between them disappeared completely.

His hand lifted. For a moment it hovered uncertainly near Sullivan’s side. Then it slid beneath the hem of the other man’s shirt.

The fabric lifted slightly as his palm met bare skin.

Warm.

Soft.

The contrast startled him.

Mikhail’s hands were rough things, thick with old scars and calluses from years of work and worse. Against them, Sullivan’s skin felt impossibly smooth. His fingers moved slowly upward.

Over the gentle curve of ribs.

Higher.

Sullivan inhaled sharply, a quiet tremor passing through his body. “Mikhail—” But Mikhail had already leaned down. His mouth brushed against the side of Sullivan’s neck. The first kiss was hesitant. Testing.

Sullivan’s breath caught. “Mikhail…” he whispered again, the name barely more than a breath. That sound alone nearly undid him.

Mikhail kissed him again, slower this time, lingering against the warm skin beneath his lips. He could feel Sullivan’s pulse there — quick, uneven — fluttering against his mouth.

Sullivan tilted his head instinctively, exposing more of his neck. The gesture wasn’t deliberate. But it felt like permission.

Mikhail’s hand moved further beneath the shirt, fingertips brushing higher along Sullivan’s side. His thumb grazed the edge of his chest, the warmth of skin seeping into his palm.

Too close.

Too warm.

Too much.

Almost too close to the sun. Sullivan’s fingers tightened against Mikhail’s arm. “Mikhail… what are you doing?” he breathed. But there was no fear in his voice. Only confusion. And something softer beneath it.

For a moment Mikhail thought he might not stop. The house was silent. The world outside was burning. Nothing felt real anymore. Then his father’s voice cut through the haze in his mind.

Disgusting.

Weak.

Men like that are filth.

The words slammed into him like cold water.

Mikhail jerked back abruptly. His hand withdrew from beneath Sullivan’s shirt as though the skin had burned him. The mattress creaked as he pulled away, leaving cold space between them again.

Sullivan inhaled sharply.

For a long moment the room was silent except for the uneven rhythm of their breathing. Mikhail dragged a hand across his face.

“This was a mistake,” he muttered. The words sounded rough. Almost angry. But not at Sullivan. Never at Sullivan.

The blind man didn’t speak. He slowly turned his head toward the pillow again, though his body remained tense, as if unsure whether he had done something wrong.

After a while his hand drifted back across the mattress. It stopped just short of touching Mikhail’s. Mikhail stared at it in the darkness.

His chest still felt tight from the moment that had almost happened.

Almost.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted his hand closer.

Not touching. But close enough that Sullivan could feel the warmth. Neither of them said anything. And sleep did not come easily to either of them that night.