Still losing.
Still fighting things I couldn’t name.
And that feeling, the sharp, sour one deep in my chest, it wasn’t fear.
It was the awful, sinking sense that maybe… Maybe the house chooses people like him. Likeme.
People who want to leave but don’t know how. People who love things they’re scared to keep. People who mistake haunting for home.
I think ghosts aren’t the dead. They’re the ones left behind, still begging to be seen. Still begging for something they’ll never touch again. Or something they were never meant to touch at all.
TWO
DORIAN
23 years old
Icould hear footsteps, but I saw no one, only the black phone attached to the wall, ringing relentlessly. Seven sharp rings pierced the silence before stopping.
The door creaked open, just a little bit, but enough, revealing wet footprints trailing across the floor. Something approached. I couldn’t move.
I lay helpless, my face turned toward the doorway with eyes wide open, saliva drooling down onto the pillow. Half my life had been wasted here, haunted by shadows, tortured by ghosts. I was no longer human, barely a plant misplaced in this haunted soil.
I wanted to escape, believing maybe this was my sign. Then I heard the soft laughter of children running down the hallway.Two little girls appeared at the door, slowly pushing it wide open.
“Why are you lying down, silly?” one asked.
Both girls wore identical white dresses with lace-covered bodices buttoned up to their thin necks. Their feet were bare, and their golden hair was golden, tied by black ribbons into a high ponytail. They were exactly alike, twins.
My throat tightened, and words stuck deep inside me.
The twins turned, clapping hands together playfully singing, “Eeny, meeny, miny, mo, mama’s gonna catch you if you don’t move. Eeny, meeny, miny, mo, don’t be slow, it’s time for you to go.”
Their giggles rang down the corridor as they skipped away. Desperately, I shifted my right leg from beneath my left, attempting to get up. But my weight betrayed me, sending me crashing onto the cold floor. Luckily, the restraints binding my arms snapped loose. I slid my free hand beneath my chest, dragging myself inch by inch toward the doorway.
“Hurry,” one girl whispered urgently. “They’re coming.”
Slowly, I raised my head, my eyes meeting hers. But there were no eyes, only smooth, white holes, empty as polished glass. No reflection, just lifeless holes staring back at me. She tilted her head, lips spreading into a creepy smile.
A chill crept beneath my skin, raising every hair on my neck. I screamed.
“Run, boy, run,” another girl shouted.
Her eyes were dark as coal, bottomless. As the girls clasped hands, the air grew cold. I could see my breath in the air.
Calling out every ounce of strength, I stood to my feet and ran, my legs moving faster than they ever had. The end of the hallway shone before me; I grasped desperately at the handle, but the door was locked. Two glass panes revealed my reflection, just anempty bearded face staring back. I wasn’t a boy anymore, yet my mind was trapped ever since I was twelve.
A shadow crept up behind me. Panic crept down my spine, and I pounded the window relentlessly until flesh tore and blood spilled. Glass shards burrowed deep in my skin, slicing through muscle and bone. Pain flooded, and still, I smashed my fist against the glass until the window shattered completely. Pulling my mangled arm through the opening, scarred and bleeding, I broke free.
I ran faster than ever before. I swore in that moment that every ghost, every shadow, every memory would burn alongside Gloomsbury Manor. And I would never go back to the asylum. It would all die with my cursed bloodline. It ends with me. No more screams in the walls. No more lives ruined.
I’m done being the haunted one.
A FEW MONTHS LATER
I hadn’t showered in over a month. My beard had grown, hanging down to the middle of my chest. The only thing keeping my bones from shivering into pieces was a blanket I’d dragged from a trash behind a pharmacy. It smelled like mildew and burnt plastic. But the nights were cold, even when the days cooked us alive.
We gathered under the old bridge like moths to a dying flame. There were five of us tonight—some familiar, some not. Nobody asked names. Names came with stories, and stories could get you hurt.
