The matches moved.
Not all of them, at least not at once.
But when Iris opened the carved wooden box again after hours of sleepless pacing and staring into the wall they were different.
A single black match had rolled to the far edge, pointing toward the window like a compass needle, she hadn't touched it since the night before and she was sure.
Her breath fogged the glass as she stood by the window, the box in her hand.
The sky outside was a steely gray, the kind that promised storms and worse and the woods loomed close, close enough that their tree line fingers almost scraped the back deck.
That was the problem with inheriting a house on the edge of nowhere you were always being watched by things you couldn't see.
Or maybe things you could.
She hadn't dreamed, not really.
More like 'flashes', of a child's sob echoing through the walls, a woman's whisper so close it felt like it came from inside her skull, and the matchbox, always open in the dream, always glowing red-hot in the center.
A breath on her neck was cold and uncomfortable.
Now, she stood in the still kitchen, cold coffee in her hand, staring down at the box on the counter.
Burn another one, said a voice in her head that did not sound like her own.
Iris looked over her shoulder and saw nothing, just the echo of creaking floorboards.
The first match had taken something from her.
It had lit the way back to a memory she'd locked away: her mother's death wasn't peaceful.
Not even close, there were things, shadows, warnings, and screaming.
That memory hadn't been there before, or maybe it had been hidden, sealed.
By her mother?
Iris couldn't shake the sensation that this house, with its honeywood floors and heavy velvet drapes, was shifting.
Not literally, but perceptibly and the walls seemed closer, the air is more humid, and there was that smell again: burnt cloves and damp cedar.
She threw open a window to clear her head and that's when she saw him.
A man stood at the edge of the woods, still as the pines.
No features visible beneath the dark hoodie he wore, but he faced the house directly.
Iris didn't breathe.
A second passed in silence, then another.
She blinked and he was gone.
She slammed the window shut with disbelief and uncertainty boldly displayed on her sharp facial features.
Later, Iris walked the perimeter, the soil was muddy from a recent rain, soft enough to keep footprints.
But there were none, not by the woods, nor even hers, though she'd just stepped through it.
That made no sense to her.
She walked faster back to the porch.
That's when she heard it faint but distinct. A sound that didn't belong and then the strike of a match inside the house.
She froze, hand on the doorframe with her pulse roared in her ears.
Slowly yet silently, she slipped into the foyer.
The matchbox was still on the kitchen counter.
But one was missing.
A small thread of smoke curled from the sink drain.
Iris inched forward and peered in as black soot ringed the porcelain.
The match had been burned there.
Her hands shook because she hadn't lit it, and no one else was in the house, no one was supposed to be in the house.
She grabbed the matchbox and ran.
The guest room smelled of dust and abandonment, but the closet had a lock.
She shoved the box inside, and slammed it shut, then twisted the key until it clicked.
Then she sat against the door and tried to breathe.
Minutes passed, or hours, and then she heard it again.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
From inside the closet.
Iris scrambled away, back hitting the far wall as her breath came ragged and fast.
Something moved behind the closet door, something with nails.
Iris didn't sleep, she sat in the hallway until dawn, flashlight in hand, the closet key looped around her wrist like a charm.
At sunrise, she unlocked it, slowly and ready to run.
The matchbox sat undisturbed, but now, two blackened matches lay side by side.
She didn't light them.
She was sure.
A phone call came in just before noon from a soft-spoken man, no caller ID.
"Iris?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"You found the box."
Her mouth went dry.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who knew your mother, she wasn't supposed to pass it to you, not yet and not like this."
"What is it?"
"Protection, a prison, this depends on the match, but you need to stop lighting them. They let things out."
"What kind of things?"
A pause.
"The kind you can't put back in."
The line went dead.
Iris stared at the phone, bile rising in her throat, there had been no number, no call history.
That night, she dreamed of fire.
She stood in the woods, barefoot and shaking, while the trees around her smoked and hissed.
A ring of fire circled her, beyond it stood figures they were tall, and thin, with bone-white skin pulled tight over hollow sockets.
They watched her, and every single one held a match.
When she woke, her arm burned.
She threw back the covers and screamed.
A black match lay in the crook of her elbow, still warm.
Outside, the woods rustled with the wind. But Iris knew wind didn't have footsteps.
She wasn't alone.
And something had followed her out of the flame.