The first night in the charming, character-filled, probably-about-to-collapse house on Hemlock Street was exactly as restful as sleeping in a museum exhibit labeled 'Victorian Nightmares.' Sam lay on his lumpy mattress (procured from a thrift store that smelled suspiciously of mothballs and despair), staring at a ceiling stain that looked disturbingly like a screaming face. Or possibly a map of Idaho. It was hard to tell in the gloom.
The house, apparently, was nocturnal.
Creaks weren't just creaks here; they were elaborate symphonies of structural decay. Groans echoed from the walls like the house was digesting a particularly tough meal. Whispers – or what Sam's brain, starved of decent Wi-Fi, insisted on interpreting as whispers – seemed to sigh from the air vents. Probably just the wind, he told himself, playing ventriloquist with the ancient ductwork. A very talented, very creepy wind.
The lights, when they deigned to work, flickered with the enthusiasm of a dying firefly. "Faulty wiring," he'd announced at breakfast, after the kitchen light had performed a strobe effect worthy of a low-budget disco.
His mom, spooning suspiciously grey oatmeal into a bowl that might have been a distant cousin to the Holy Grail, just waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, it's an old house, sweetie. Adds to the… ambiance."
Ambiance. Right. Sam figured the ambiance was aiming for 'pre-homicide tension.' He didn't say that, though. He just grunted and poured himself a cup of coffee that tasted like boiled sadness. His mom's optimism was a force of nature, like a hurricane made of good intentions and questionable life choices. Arguing was pointless.
He spent most of the next day attempting to unpack in his room, a space that charitably could be described as 'compact' and less charitably as 'a slightly oversized coffin.' The wallpaper here featured faded shepherds herding what looked like mutant sheep. Every so often, he'd swear he felt a cold spot. Not a draft from the ill-fitting window, but a sudden, localized plunge in temperature, like walking through an invisible patch of icy air. He'd stop, wave his hand around. Nothing. Then it would be gone.
"Just the house settling," he muttered to himself, channeling his mom's ability to rationalize the bizarre. Houses settled. They made noises. They occasionally developed arctic microclimates. Perfectly normal.
The real fun started with his stuff. He'd leave his phone on the rickety nightstand, turn around to wrestle a textbook onto a bookshelf that looked like it was auditioning for a role in a disaster movie, and when he turned back, the phone would be on the floor. Or on the other side of the room.
"Okay, that's… weird," he conceded after the third time his favorite, perpetually tangled earbuds migrated from his desk to the dusty windowsill. He wasn't clumsy enough to be knocking things over that consistently without noticing. And he was pretty sure he didn't have a sleepwalking habit that involved interior redecorating.
He even tried a little experiment. He placed a specific, dog-eared paperback – some depressing German novel he was supposed to be reading for school – precisely on the edge of his desk. Then he left the room for five minutes, timed it on his watch. When he came back, the book was neatly centered.
"Huh." Sam picked it up, a frown creasing his forehead. Maybe the floor was slanted. A very specific, very targeted slant that only affected certain objects. Or maybe he was just losing his mind. That was always a strong contender. Their housing situation alone was probably enough to qualify him for some kind of psychological study.
His mom, when he cautiously mentioned the migrating objects, just smiled. "You're probably just tired from the move, Sam. Misplacing things. I do it all the time."
Right. Except he wasn't misplacing them. They were being relocated. With purpose.
Later that evening, he was heading to the bathroom – a room that boasted a rust-stained tub and tiles the color of regret – when it happened. He was halfway down the dim, echoing hallway, the one that still felt like it was holding its breath. He reached for the bathroom doorknob.
And something brushed past him.
It wasn't a solid touch. More like a sudden displacement of air, a fleeting coolness against his arm, accompanied by the faintest, almost imagined scent of something old, like dried flowers and dust. He froze, hand hovering. The hair on his arms stood up.
He whipped around. The hallway was empty. Just shadows and peeling wallpaper, looking smug in the weak light from downstairs.
"Okay," Sam said, his voice a low murmur in the sudden silence. He wasn't one for big reactions. The universe, in his experience, tended to escalate things if you gave it too much attention. "Faulty wiring, settling house, drafts, and now… very localized, invisible air currents with a floral scent."
He took a slow breath. His heart was doing a slightly-too-fast tap dance against his ribs. This wasn't just 'character' anymore. This was the house actively trying to be weird. And it was succeeding. Brilliantly.