Stepping over the threshold of the house, I feel everything around me start to press in. The interior is striking: dark wooden panels line the walls, ancient furniture that looks centuries old fills the space, and everywhere—books. Shelves packed with books cover every available wall.
“Your rooms are on the second floor,” says the housekeeper, whose name, it turns out, is Mrs. Grove. “I’ve already prepared everything you’ll need.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Grove,” Mom replies with an overly grateful tone in her voice. “We’re so appreciative of the warm welcome.”
Warm? Seriously? It’s so cold in this house I can see my own breath.
“I’ll show you to your rooms,” Mrs. Grove gestures toward the staircase. “And then, perhaps, you’ll want to rest after your journey. The dean would like to meet with both of you tomorrow morning.”
As we climb the stairs, I notice strange symbols carved into the banister. They resemble the ones on the gates, but these are more intricate, more detailed. When I run my fingers over them, I feel a faint tingling, like static electricity.
“Don’t touch,” Mrs. Grove says sharply, and I yank my hand back. “These symbols… they’re special. They demand respect.”
“Sorry,” I reply automatically, though I’m not really sure what I’m apologizing for.
My room turns out to be more spacious than I expected. Large windows overlook the university courtyard, which looks especially eerie in the twilight—statues casting long shadows, and a fountain in the center that seems to be flowing with something darker than water.
“The bathroom is down the hall,” Mrs. Grove explains. “The library on the first floor is open to you at all hours. And…” she pauses, “be careful at night. Saint Fire University has its own… rhythms.”
Once she leaves, I can finally breathe. Mom is already unpacking in the next room, excitedly commenting on the house’s architecture.
I walk over to the window and gaze at the university. Lights flicker in some of the windows, even though it’s late. For a moment, I swear one of the statues in the courtyard turns its head toward me.
I jerk back from the window and bump into something solid. Turning around, I see a large, antique wardrobe that I could’ve sworn was against a different wall just a second ago.
Shaking my head tiredly, I grab a towel and toiletries from my bag. I desperately need a shower—to wash off the road dust and this creepy feeling that someone’s always watching me.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower and crash,” I call out to Mom through the wall, though I’m not sure she hears me.
The bathroom greets me with Victorian opulence: a huge clawfoot tub shaped like lion’s paws, gilded faucets, and a mirror in a heavy frame. But thankfully, the water runs hot.
As the warm water washes away the day’s exhaustion, I start laughing at my own paranoia. Wardrobes don’t move on their own. Statues don’t turn their heads. It’s just fatigue and nerves from the move.
Back in my room, I pull out the sleeping pills Mom bought me before we left from my travel kit. “Just in case you have trouble sleeping the first few nights,” she’d said.
“Just in case you start seeing furniture move by itself,” I correct her in my head as I swallow a pill.
Settling into bed, I stare at the ceiling, where someone has painted strange constellations—nothing like the ones I learned about in school. The sleeping pill kicks in, and my eyelids grow heavy.
The last thing I see before drifting off is a shadow sliding across the wall, taking on a shape too tall and thin to be human. But of course, it’s just the play of light from the streetlamps outside the window.
At least, that’s what I try to convince myself as sleep mercifully pulls me away from this strange, creepy place I now have to call home.
***
I wake up to a dull, rhythmic sound echoing through the house. Thump… thump… thump… Like someone’s beating a drum deep underground.
For a few seconds, I struggle to remember where I am. The room feels foreign, the bed unfamiliar. Then the memories flood back: the move, the university, this old house…
It’s still dark outside the window, but the clock on my phone reads 5:30 a.m. Way too early to get up. I roll over, pulling the blanket over my head, trying to muffle the sound.
Thump… thump… thump…
But it doesn’t stop. If anything, it seems to get louder, closer. I poke one ear out from under the blanket.
“It’s just the heating system,” I whisper to myself. “Old pipes, old house. Nothing weird about it.”
But the rhythm of the sound is too… deliberate. Driven by curiosity and a tinge of fear, I throw off the blanket and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor is ice-cold under my bare feet.
I creep to the door, cautiously open it, and peek into the hallway. It’s dark and silent. Mom’s door is firmly shut.
Thump… thump… thump…
The sound seems to be coming from downstairs. I grab my phone, turn on the flashlight, and quietly step into the hallway. The stairs creak faintly under my weight, and I freeze after each sound, waiting to see if anyone will come, drawn by the noise.
But no one does. When I reach the first floor, the sound becomes clearer. It’s not coming from the living room or the kitchen… it’s coming from behind those massive wooden doors we passed yesterday, the ones Mrs. Grove didn’t explain.
I stand in front of the doors, my heart pounding so loud it almost drowns out the mysterious thumping. Suddenly, I notice the symbols carved into the doorframe glowing with a faint blue light, barely visible in the darkness.
I reach for the handle but stop myself, remembering Mrs. Grove’s words from last night. “Be careful at night.” Maybe I shouldn’t…
But curiosity wins out. I gently press down on the handle, and the door opens with a quiet creak. Beyond it, narrow stairs descend into the darkness of a basement.
Thump… thump… thump…
The sound is definitely coming from below. I take a step onto the stairs, then another… but suddenly, a voice behind me cuts through the silence.
“I wouldn’t go down there if I were you.”
I spin around, nearly losing my balance on the steps. In the shadows near the entrance stands a tall guy, his face hidden in the dark.
“Who are you?” I ask, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
“Someone who knows that sometimes it’s better not to get answers to your questions,” he replies, stepping forward into the faint glow of my phone’s flashlight. “Especially in this house.”
Now I can see him: dark hair, sharp features, eyes so dark they almost look black. He’s dressed in black jeans and a dark T-shirt, and he looks about my age, maybe a little older.
“Do you… do you live here?”
He smirks.
“Just stopped by to borrow some milk,” he says instead of answering.