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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Doug_Schablowski on 2024-11-03 04:16:01+00:00.
”Finally”, followed by a huge sigh of relief is what I thought after setting down the cardboard box marked “my stuff” in the living room of my new home.
The relief wasn’t that of any physical exhaustion since the house came furnished, it was more of a mental relief. Aside from the tedious search on the market for one that fit my “paid peanuts” salary, I cold finally say I was out of that fucking apartment.
Now you might think that’s a little ungrateful and exaggerated especially for those that have lived or are living in a shitty apartment, but trust me when I say mine was exactly that: shitty.
From the garbage heating system to the repulsive growing mold on every corner, I’m surprised it was even legally allowed to be up for rent but then again the neighborhood was’t all that great either. It was the kind that required every window to be barred and every street to be surveillanced passed sundown. If I’m being brutally honest though, all those things were just little gripes that fed the real reason I couldn’t live there anymore.
To me, the whole place felt like a cage and not because of the barred windows or my need to install four locks on my door, but because it was a reminder that I would be stuck there forever with no indication of a better future. So I began to save up some money. I laid off on the useless spendings, got a better job, two jobs actually. As much as I hated the place I will say it was a hell of a motivator.
Anyway, during the time I was saving up to move out, I came across a tear off flier as I was taking my morning jog down to the park. It read “Home for Sale” in bolded red letters and displayed printed images of the home. Two stories, 3 bedrooms, 2 baths. It was ten miles north of where I lived in a city you can say lacked the kind of excitement you’d find down here. Below there was the price: $140,000. This immediately got me questioning the liability of the flier but then as if placed to diminish all doubt, all the flier’s labels except one blew loosely in the wind. I stared at it for a while and finally ripped the whole thing from the wooden pool and stuffed it into my pocket.
One phone call later and a lot of paperwork and here I was, in my own home and finally free from that cage. It wasn’t all that much but given I’ve been living in the saddest excuse for an apartment for over 6 years, it was basically a mansion. An old mansion that is.
It was as though the whole thing was pulled right from the Victorian era. There was a matching intricate floral design on the walls, carpets, and curtains throughout the entire house. In almost every room a large chandelier hung conspicuously around the furniture that was as chaotic as Van Gogh’s painting palette; mismatched colors and cramped knick knacks on every drawer.
It was odd to me that someone would sell a house that looked like someone was still living in it, I mean I’ve seen furnished homes for sale but the furniture was usually new, neat and appealing to look at, this on the other hand, gave me a sense of claustrophobia and made my eyes go fuzzy just staring at it. I found it even more bizarre that the house was up at such a low price and there were no other potential buyers. (Despite the torn labels from the flier). Still, I bought it. I mean, who wouldn’t.
The real estate agent representing the seller was a slender, older woman and judging by what she was wearing, time was having a pretty rough time passing through her too.
She wore a black pointed gown tightly secured with a corset that did more harm than good. Thick strands of greasy hair escaped from under her dark bonnet like snakes slithering out of their nest. She was friendly though there was almost this forced nature to her. Her voice was too soft for her appearance, her unusual boney fingers twitched anxiously on her hands like they had a mind of their own, and her smile sat on her face like a heavy dumbbell pulling down on her aged skin.
—
“Hard to imagine living here with all this furniture. I can’t believe someone would just leave like this.”
”I guess some people are just eager to move out.”
”Yea, tell me about it.”
”You know, this place can use someone young like you. Someone with enough energy to lighten up the place… Just think of it as a game.”
—
I stood there still in a state of pride and a little excitement. I scanned the living room, then the dining room and finally the kitchen. It felt odd not having them less than three feet from each other or the fact that the space between the three wasn’t a “bedroom”.
I found myself touring around again, occasionally examining some of the antique items on the shelves like I was in some yard sale. There is no way I’m keeping all of this up.
I moved to the kitchen staggering over my feet since the mattress my mind was so used to avoiding was no longer there. I opened the kitchen cabinets. The previous owner had even left his silverware. They looked new but I’d rather not take any chances. I turned to head toward the staircase leading to the bedrooms upstairs when I heard a door slowly sway open. The creaking of the hinges doubled in the silence. It was a door to a small empty closet in the living room. I walked over. I swear this was never here. I guess I never noticed. I closed the door and made my way upstairs toward my bedroom.
Naturally I chose the most spacious of the 3 bedrooms for myself. It also happened to be the one with the least amount of furniture. There was a mahogany wardrobe on one end and a king-sized canopied bed on the other. Next to it, a night stand accompanied with a night lamp that looked as though spiders had spun its lampshade. There was also a large built-in closet with sliding doors. I slid the closet door open, half expecting it to be full of clothes and shoes but it was empty. I guess the owner wasn’t gracious enough to leave his clothes behind.
Just then, I felt a cold breeze brush up against my neck. I turned, pawing at my neck. *Hm? No windows.*I can’t remember what drew me to look up at the ceiling but I did. I noticed a faint outline of an attic door above me. The ceiling was high enough so that no normal person could reach it without some sort of elevation and there was no drawstring to pull down a ladder either. The sales woman never mentioned an attic. Maybe it belonged to an attic long ago sealed. But why leave the entrance marked? Or maybe there was an attic and it too was filled with junk even older than what was down here. Either way, it was mine now and I was curious enough to investigate. I stared at it for a while because I remember the aching sting on my neck when I looked down for any possible way to get to it.
Then the phone call came.The loud ringing of a phone shot through the house. I instinctively looked down at my phone but there was no incoming call. With that, my ears honed in on the sound. It was coming from the living area, downstairs. As I made my way down, I noticed it had that old high pitched bell sound of an old dial phone.
The black dial phone was hiding among the many relics in the living room. I let it ring longer, hesitant to answer, somehow knowing the call would be unsettling. Finally, I answered.
”Hello”
A stretched static sound made me pull away from the phone. I called out again. No answer. Just static. Then a faint raspy and distant voice fighting through the static, spoke.
”Don’t look around.”
”What? Who is this?”
”Don’t— don’t look around— don’t play the game— just ignore it.”
Before I could give another bewildered response, the static fired a hard ring that stung my ears to their very core. I dropped the phone in pain, shutting my eyes so tight I saw white. In a fit of rage, I pulled the whole thing right from where it laid and threw it against the wall. It shattered.
What the fuck was that? A prank call?
Yea. And maybe the damn thing was too old to handle another call. Yea, that’s it.
That night, after pulling off the sheets that came with the bed and replacing them with my own, I laid there in the dark, chasing sleep. You would think that on my first night in my new home I would sleep soundlessly with a sense of fulfillment and satisfaction but that wasn’t the case. Everytime I’d close my eyes I’d hear the floor creaking downstairs. After a while the creaking would be accompanied by subtle kicks on the walls like someone was running or playing downstairs. The whole thing brought back those frustrating memories of my upstairs neighbors living their lives in the night like some nocturnal animals.
My restless mind echoed the warnings given to me through the phone. *Just ignore it. Don’t play the game.*Was this some sick joke someone was playing on me? What a coincidence that as soon as I got a call telling me to ignore it, the whole floor suddenly became some rickety bridge blowing in the wind. Maybe I was overthinking it. The phone call just had me on high alert. I read somewhere before that the creaking you hear in the night is just your home’s wooden structure contracting and expanding. I kept telling myself that and zoned out moments later.
The next morning I quickly noticed that the weak flooring was permanent. Everywhere I stepped the floor would creak despite it not ever doing that the day before or the times I was in the house with the sales woman. I also began to notice other changes or gripes I hadn't noticed before. The floral designs on the walls, carpets and curtains were fade...
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