Creak. Clunk.
I shot up in bed and scoured the room for a light switch. The noises won’t stop. Staying the night in a stranger’s house is the last thing I wanted, but the offer at the time felt boundlessly warmer than the cold streets, so I agreed, and followed him into a vast, dull building. Beyond the second floor, you’d think it was abandoned – it must’ve been neglected for years, yet still I climbed the dust-carpeted staircase to the third floor, where I am now, where my eyes finally locate the light switch beside me.
Creak.
Possessed by blinding curiosity, I groggily clamber to my feet and feel for the light switch on the wall. The light flickers, complaining with an insufferable hum. As I spin my head for the door, I freeze. I notice the wall beside the bed. Scrawled hastily across the scratched wood in crimson font: “peels”. Is this a joke? Then I remember where I am. I think I know why I was brought here. To be used for some sick entertainment, for a “kind-hearted” stranger, cowering behind the pretence of charity. They’re probably watching now. I think I should go.
Slam. Scream.
Goosebumps cling to my arms. I peer out the door. Nothing, except a lit candle at the far end of the corridor. Another trick? Humiliated, I grab my bag and storm down the stairs. Another scream, louder, and eerily identical to the last, erupts. My veins run cold. As I turn for the next flight of stairs, my conscience drags me back. I can’t leave – what if the screams are from another victim?
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Footsteps. Not mine. I listen closer. They’re coming from the bathroom – the door by the candle. I step onto the cold stone floor and brush a cobweb from my face, before heading for the peeling white door. I take a deep breath, and knock. “Hello?”
No reply. I sweep the door open and look expectantly: a speaker. The source of all the noises. Another trick, and I fell for it. Before my frustration takes hold, I notice an antique mirror above the sink. Etched into the glass are the words “You never listen”. Then it appears.
I scream.
A pale, translucent figure. Its eyes are hollow voids, and its crooked, pale finger rests on the speaker’s “play” button. I run back to the bedroom. I stumble up the stairs, scramble to the door, and slam it behind me. The ghost enters anyway, and my mistake becomes clear: I’ve run straight into a dead end. I look to my left. I notice the mirror beside the bed. It fills the whole wall, set in an ornate frame of tarnished brass. The writing on the wall is reflected: “Sleep”. A simple instruction. I should have listened. I look back to my pursuer, and try to scream, but only a weak, croaky projection of my thoughts escapes.
“Are you for real?”