Thunder cracked like a whip behind us as we crossed the threshold. The porch boards moaned beneath our weight, enough to be heard over the thick veil of rain outside. The door behind us shuddered in the wind, slamming shut as if urged by unseen hands.
Inside, it was still. Still; but not lifeless.
The hallway opened before us in eerie, perfect order. The walls, although we were faded and papered in eye catching floral print, were clean. The chandelier above us swayed slightly, not with the wind, for there was none here, but with something else. Some tension in the air. The lights above flickered once and then stayed warm, bright and steady.
Water dripped steadily from our clothes, pooling at our feet on the hardwood floor. she brushed her soaked hair from her face, her fingers trembling slightly from the cold — or maybe it was something else. She looked at me, lips parted as if to speak, but didn't.
Then a melody came ,a faint one, almost mistaken for a trick of the mind, from somewhere deep in the house, soft notes drifted through the corridor. A piano, it seemed. Old, slow, distant. It lasted only a few seconds. Three bars, no more.
Then, silence. She took a sharp breath through her nose, barely audible, and looked at me again.I nodded once, as if answering a question that hadn't been asked aloud.
The hallway stretched ahead of us, leading into deeper shadow. Dust lingered in the corners, and the faint scent of old wood and rosewater clung to the air. She ran her hand along the nearest wall, half-expecting the wallpaper to crumble beneath her fingers. But it held.
There was a kind of quiet here that didn't exist outside, not even in our fields. This wasn't the silence of nature or solitude. This was a type of silence that indicated someone was waiting, watching.
I stepped forward slowly, each footfall soft and cautious. My boots left prints on the polished floor, glistening puddles that marked our trespass. She followed close behind, not letting her hand leave my sleeve.
Ir eyes moved constantly, from the chandelier to the walls, to the frames on the side table. Portraits. Faded faces of stiff-backed people with eyes that didn't smile. our gazes seemed to follow just slightly as we walked past, though neither dared to check a second time.
We passed under an arched doorway and entered a larger room; a parlor, maybe. There was furniture here: covered in white sheets like ghosts frozen in place. The fabric moved a little at the edges, stirred by currents that shouldn't have been there.
She pressed close to me now, her shoulder brushing against mine. I felt her shiver.
"You cold?" I asked, voice low, nearly swallowed by the room.
She nodded but didn't answer out loud.
I placed a gentle hand on her back. Warm, reassuring, grounding. For a moment, she let herself lean into it. When she opened her eyes back, her gaze fell on a doorway across the room — slightly ajar. The darkness beyond it was thick, untouched by the light from the chandelier.
"Did you hear the music too?" she asked, finally.
I nodded. "Yeah. I did."
Neither of us asked where it came from.
A sudden creak from the floor above made us both freeze. I got a hold of himself. She didn't move. our eyes met again. The unease between us was now visible like a fog only we could see.
"Maybe... just a loose board," I said quietly.
"Maybe," she echoed, unconvinced.
Outside, the storm had thickened. The rain smacked against the windows now, harder than before. Wind whistled through gaps in the frame, high-pitched and persistent
I gestured to the small chair near the fireplace and led her over. The fireplace was dead, but the mantle above it held fresh dust — no webs, no insects, no sign of decay. She sat down carefully, as if expecting the furniture to crumble beneath her weight; but it didnt.
I stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes scanning the ceiling. "You think this place is abandoned?" she asked after a long pause. I gave a dry, humorless laugh. "No one's lived here in years. But someone's keeping the lights on."
"…Maybe it's just the house's way of saying welcome," she said with a faint, strained smile. I looked down at her, smirked slightly despite everything, and shook my head. "If this is a welcome, I'd hate to see the goodbye."
She leaned back, folding her arms. Despite the chill, her cheeks were slightly flushed. The kind of color that didn't come from cold — but from being too aware. Of the room. Of being in this odd moment that wasn't quite dangerous but definitely wasn't safe.
"You always make jokes when things get creepy," she muttered, though her tone wasn't angry. "And you always pretend you're not scared," I replied softly. She looked up at me. "I'm not pretending." Another creak came from upstairs. Louder this time.
We both looked toward the ceiling. Neither moved. Then the chandelier above us swayed again — once, sharply, and stopped. I reached out and took her hand. She gripped him tightly.
There were no words this time. No plans. Just two soaked figures, seated in a dead house where light still burned and music had played once for no one. Where furniture didn't rot, and doors opened too easily. Where something upstairs had begun to move.
We both looked at each other, falling deep into each other's eyes, both noticing a hint of care, fear, and a bit of unease, both in the atmosphere around us and in our eyes as well.