#hauntedhouse

The wood creaks under your feet as you walk up the steps, cleaning supplies in hand. Dropping the bags, you lift the doormat, looking for the key. You easily find the key and slide it into the lock. It whines as you turn it, unlocking and opening the door. 

The hinges creak as the door opens. You grab the cleaning supplies, taking them inside with you. The inside of the house is completely different than the outside. The living room you stand in doesn’t have a speck of dust on the antique furniture. Everything looks like it just came out of a magazine photoshoot. 

You wonder what the other rooms look like, seeing the condition of this one. You walk through the small hallway, revealing a bathroom on one side and stairs on the other. Continuing through the first floor, the dining room is next. Like the last room, everything is spotless. The table in the center of the room looks like it’s waiting for a family to eat on it. Walking through the next doorway, the kitchen is the same. Everything is in place, not a thing where it shouldn’t belong. There’s a back door that leads to the backyard. 

You figure it's time to check out the upstairs. You backtrack, going back to the steps. The stairs creak as you put your weight on them. At the top of the floor, you are met with rooms at each corner of the house. This reminds you that you aren’t supposed to enter one of the rooms. Looking around the hallway space, you identify this room as the only one that is closed. 

Respecting your customers, you browse the other rooms. The room across from the one you aren’t supposed to enter is an office. You figure the computer in the center of the room is the one your customer contacted you on. The room doesn’t quite look like the previous ones. It has a lived-in feel. There are papers on the desk, and pens in random places. There’s less decor and more signs of life. 

Exiting the office, you pass the stairs, wanting to see the other rooms. The first room you enter is a child’s room. This room looks like it is photoshoot-ready, but the energy still feels full of life. Toys decorate the shelf, with books here and there. You walk around the room, looking for anything that needs cleaning. Like before, you can’t even find a spec of dust. 

You wonder what has caused them to pay you to clean their house. Everything is spotless. Are the owners just clean freaks? You debate about it as you view the last room. This one is the master room. There’s a perfectly made bed centered in the room, with nightstands on each side. It feels more like the rooms downstairs, perfectly ready for a photoshoot, but no signs of life. 

You take deep breaths, wondering why you are in this house. The whole house looks like it has just been cleaned. You look at the hallways as you walk through them, they, too, are spotless. The steps creak again when you step on them. You head towards the front door, planning on getting started with the cleaning. 

Looking at the closed front door with your supplies…gone. You know that you left them there when you entered, so why aren’t they there? You don’t remember shutting the door either. You should have closed the door out of respect for the customers, but you went thinking. The insides came as a shock to you, since the outside looks completely different. 

You assume that you are just tired from all of the hours you have worked recently. You approach the door, grab the doorknob, and turn it. Your hand slides, the doorknob refusing to turn. The house is old, so maybe it requires a bit more force. You try again, pushing on the handle. But to no avail, you aren’t able to turn it.  

You try once more, not understanding what’s happening. The doorknob didn’t give you a hard time the first time you tried, so why is it now? Your next attempt doesn’t work either; it refuses to budge. 

You remember the back door. Maybe you can get that one to open. Going through the dining room and kitchen, you don’t see anything different. The backdoor doesn’t budge either; your concern starts growing. How are you going to explain this to anyone? You pull out your phone, it hopes of calling emergency services. The walls of the house must block the signal, causing it to be a dead spot. 

You walk around the house, hoping to get a signal in a part of it. Going upstairs, you remember the computer. You should be able to contact someone there. Hopping in the chair behind the desk, you see if you can sign in. You wiggle the mouse, clicking on it. The screen lights up immediately, showing you the ad you posted. 

The screen glitches out, now showing an empty note, a line already blinking, waiting for words to be typed. You click out of the note, wanting access to the internet. As you spam the X on the top right corner, letters pop up on the screen. 

Hi there, it’s great to finally meet you. 

The line blinks after the text. 

“There’s seriously something wrong with this computer. It must have a virus.” You say, trying to exit the note. 

I can’t believe you are actually here. I can’t wait to get to know you better. 

“Okay, this is actually messed up.” You look at the screen, wondering if this is a part of some type of scam or reality TV show.

You get out of the chair, walking towards the exit of the office. The door shuts on its own before you can make it out of the room. You start panicking, thinking the worst possible outcomes. Pulling on the doorknob, you try to turn it. Like before, the doorknob refuses to move. You try to get it to turn more, but it still doesn’t turn. 

Something hits the back of your legs as you struggle with the door. You turn your head, ignoring the doorknob. The chair that you left at the desk is right behind you. 

The door opens, pushing you into the chair. You hold onto the chair as it moves back to the desk. The door remains open, just like how it was when you read the messages. The chair parks you in front of the computer, revealing a new message for you. 

Don't worry, it's not what it seems like. You are perfectly safe now that you are home. 

Expletives fly out of your mouth, getting creeped out. You push your feet against the floor, pushing yourself away from the computer. The chair moves back to the desk, firmly not moving when you push more. 

I promise it's okay. I wish there were more ways to communicate with you, but I don't have many options. All you need to know is you'll be staying here now. No need to exhaust yourself anymore.

The chair flies back, then pushes you through the room and hallway. The chair pushes you into the child's room, the door shutting behind you. You scan the room for people, but only find a pen writing by itself on the nightstand. The pen is quick to fall, and a paper is brushed towards you. 

The paper gracefully flips and turns in the air, landing face down in front of you. The chair pushes you slightly forward, as if it wants you to look at the paper. 

With a shaky hand, you grab the corner, bringing it up to you. Flipping the paper, you see rough handwriting. It takes a moment for you to understand, but it seems to say ‘Take some time to relax. Play with the toys, read the books, or rest. No need to worry about anything else.'

You consider the age of the house, wondering if it's haunted. You don't know any other way to explain it. There are no obvious-looking cameras in the rooms, no signs of people anywhere. 

Getting off the chair, you explore the room. There's a bed in the corner of the room. There's a window not too far from it. Shelves decorate part of the room, a dresser and a toy box decorate the other. 

You make eye contact with the door, wondering if you can open it. You look around the room, trying to notice anything that could be watching you. You don't see anything in particular, so you quietly walk to the door. Putting your hand on the doorknob, but already knowing that it won't budge. Throwing yourself on the bed, you think about why something would want you trapped in the room. 

“So, can you hear me?” You ask, letting the words linger in the air. 

The pen on the nightstand meets the paper you left on the ground. It scribbles some words, then it goes back to the nightstand. The paper is pushed towards you again. Picking it up, you see the same handwriting in a message below the first one. 

Yes, I can. I can hear and see everything in the house. 

You read this, knowing you are dealing with something supernatural. 

“Please don't be upset, but what are you? Why have you trapped me in here?” You cringe at your words, expecting the worst to happen. You put the paper on the end table so they can respond. 

The pen moves upright, writing more words. This time is longer than before, and the pen moves back and forth, making lines. The pen drops to the side of the paper, and you pick it up. Below the last message is a longer message, just like how you expected. 

I am not entirely sure. I feel everything that happens in the house. I guess you could say I may be considered the spirit of the house in a way. As for why you are here, I've felt rather lonely for a long time. The previous people who lived here left, and I couldn't do anything about it. I made my presence known to them, and they didn't like it. They left when I was weak, but that won't happen again. But now you are here, and I won't make the same mistake. You'll be my kid, just like how they had a kid. 

You read the words again. Some parts call out to you; they feel everything? Some people got away, how? They think of you as a kid? 

The paper is pulled from your hands. It lands on the nightstand, and the pen writes on it again. The paper is thrown back at you, landing on your lap.

Why don't you play with the toys? 

You look beside the bed, where the toy chest is. The lid opens, presenting you with the toys inside. 

“I think I'll just go to sleep.” You say, putting the paper back. 

“Like you said before, I am really exhausted, so I'm just going to take a nap.” You lie on top of the covers, pretending to sleep by closing your eyes. 

You lie there for what feels like hours. You don't fall asleep, fighting yourself to fall asleep. You wonder if the house knows you are faking it. Can the house itself fall asleep, too? 

You open your eyes, looking around for any changes. You don't see anything different, so you sit up. You wonder if you can just walk through the house with no problems. Will it leave you alone? 

Sitting up and getting off the bed, you are slow with your movements. The door is still closed, and you hope to be able to open it. 

Touching the doorknob, you turn it slowly. To your luck, you manage to open the door. Scanning the hallway, you don't see anything different there either. 

You make slow movements to the stairs, trying not to make any of the wood creak. You know the stairs are much louder, so you hope to bolt down them and out the door. Meeting the top of the stairs, you prepare yourself to bolt down them. 

Before you make your move, a chair from the dining room floats up the stairs. You turn away, running away from it. The chair hits the back of your legs, forcing you to sit down on it. The chair continues its path, bringing you back to the kids' room. 

The door shuts behind you. The pen on the nightstand writes furiously. You hear its movements before you even look at it. The paper once again is swept in your direction, this time landing on your lap. The writing is messier now, full of emotion. 

No leaving. You aren't leaving like how they did. You will stay here with me. If you need anything, you may ask me.

“Okay, I was just trying to get some food. I haven't had any yet today.” You say, trying to cover yourself. The door opens, the paper leaves you, and the pen writes some more. The paper flicks back to you, landing at your feet. 

Thank you, dear. Go ahead, go to the dining room. I have food ready for you. 

You feel speechless. This house spirit has made you food. Do they even know how to cook? The rumbling in your stomach doesn't let you wait to figure it out. 

You go downstairs just like how you wished to before. Turning to the dining room, you see food on the table. A plate sits on the table, another note on top of it. It reads ‘Please eat everything you want to. Let me know when you are done.’ 

You remove the note, gathering all of the food you would like. You sit down awkwardly at the table, muttering thanks to the house. 

The food is better than you expected. It's still warm, and each part tastes exactly how you thought it would. Finishing the meal, you set down the silverware. 

“Umm, I'm done, I guess.” You still feel weird about talking out loud to the house. 

A pen flies through the dining room to the paper beside you. It writes ‘It's bedtime now. We will talk more tomorrow. Get your rest now.' The plates and dishes fly around the room, all heading to the kitchen. 

The chair pushes you out of it, setting itself in its spot. You follow their directions, not wanting to make them upset. The stairs creak, and the door to the kids' room creaks as you close it.