A boy falls asleep, then wakes up. He doesn't know he's been dead for near a century.
When she returns from school later that day, she finds herself unable to focus on her work. Instead, a strangely intense gaze, not unlike the feeling from moving day, seems to be fixed on her back. So, tossing her English homework aside, she stretches her arms over her bed frame and onto her nightstand. Her fingers search only for a second, which is strange as she could have sworn she'd left it slightly further away when she set it down the night before. Now slightly unnerved and beginning to wish her mother would arrive home from work early, she picks up her favorite black pen and opens her journal to a new page to record her thoughts about the impossible-to-find boy and the new house in general, only to find that the page isn't as new as she'd have liked.
A simple "Hello" is written at the top of the page.
She knows she really shouldn't respond- every horror movie she's ever seen tells her that speaking to an unseen force never ends in her favor- but curiosity finds its way to her fingertips before rationality can. "What are you?" she writes determinedly. She hopes her lack of formality doesn't come back to bite her. Against her will, she finds her eyes flitting up towards the ceiling for a second.
When she looks at the journal again, there is a reply. "Why are you are in my bedroom?" Belated fear begins to bubble up in her chest. This presence is definitely not supposed to be here, in this time. Still, it has yet to be outright hostile to her, so she continues this game of questions.
"Why are you in my bedroom?" Again, her eyes are drawn upwards.
"I am afraid I do not understand. I sleep here. Do you sleep here, too? I did not know I was to be sharing a room."
Avoiding its question in fear of somehow answering it wrong, she instead returns to her first question, amending it slightly. "Who are you?" For several long minutes, no reply is made. She begins to give up on receiving one just as her eyes are once more looking at the white plaster of her ceiling.
"I don't remember."
Before she can bring her pen to the page, a horrible crash comes from across the house. She leaps from her bed and runs to the kitchen, fearing her mother has come home and hurt herself, but stops dead in the doorway. Her blood chills at the sight before her. Each cabinet and pantry has been flung open, some even hanging off their hinges a bit, and their contents are scattered messily across the floor. Cans of soup and beans have been slashed open by something wickedly sharp, as have bags of flour and sugar. Boxes of cereal and oatmeal lie empty, their insides mixing with everything else. Tomato soup smeared across a few of the windows looks eerily like blood. She knows for a fact that both the front and back doors lock automatically, as do any windows that aren't painted shut. This... is not natural. A chill brushes the back of her neck as if confirming this, and goosebumps suddenly pop up on her arms and legs as tears spring to her eyes. Resisting the urge to scream, she races back to her room. While she knows it's useless, she locks her door before diving onto her bed and under her thick duvet.
After a few terrifyingly silent moments, she slowly brings her head, and then her arms out from under the covers. Picking up her journal from where it's been thrown on the floor, she writes, "Did you do that?" before looking away of her own accord. When she looks back to the page, she finds a reply.
"No." Now she is staring at the ceiling again. There's more.
"I do not think we are alone here."
A shiver makes its way down her spine. "Please help me," she pleads. This thing may be slightly unsettling, but this fear is nothing compared to what she felt in the kitchen.
The reply is quick. "I will try. Will you help me, too?"
"Help you how?" She is slightly suspicious now. Entering into a contract with some sort of demon is the last thing she wants right now.
"Help me remember. Help me sleep." The request isn't malicious in the least. She makes up her mind quickly.
"I will."
A simple "Hello" is written at the top of the page.
She knows she really shouldn't respond- every horror movie she's ever seen tells her that speaking to an unseen force never ends in her favor- but curiosity finds its way to her fingertips before rationality can. "What are you?" she writes determinedly. She hopes her lack of formality doesn't come back to bite her. Against her will, she finds her eyes flitting up towards the ceiling for a second.
When she looks at the journal again, there is a reply. "Why are you are in my bedroom?" Belated fear begins to bubble up in her chest. This presence is definitely not supposed to be here, in this time. Still, it has yet to be outright hostile to her, so she continues this game of questions.
"Why are you in my bedroom?" Again, her eyes are drawn upwards.
"I am afraid I do not understand. I sleep here. Do you sleep here, too? I did not know I was to be sharing a room."
Avoiding its question in fear of somehow answering it wrong, she instead returns to her first question, amending it slightly. "Who are you?" For several long minutes, no reply is made. She begins to give up on receiving one just as her eyes are once more looking at the white plaster of her ceiling.
"I don't remember."
Before she can bring her pen to the page, a horrible crash comes from across the house. She leaps from her bed and runs to the kitchen, fearing her mother has come home and hurt herself, but stops dead in the doorway. Her blood chills at the sight before her. Each cabinet and pantry has been flung open, some even hanging off their hinges a bit, and their contents are scattered messily across the floor. Cans of soup and beans have been slashed open by something wickedly sharp, as have bags of flour and sugar. Boxes of cereal and oatmeal lie empty, their insides mixing with everything else. Tomato soup smeared across a few of the windows looks eerily like blood. She knows for a fact that both the front and back doors lock automatically, as do any windows that aren't painted shut. This... is not natural. A chill brushes the back of her neck as if confirming this, and goosebumps suddenly pop up on her arms and legs as tears spring to her eyes. Resisting the urge to scream, she races back to her room. While she knows it's useless, she locks her door before diving onto her bed and under her thick duvet.
After a few terrifyingly silent moments, she slowly brings her head, and then her arms out from under the covers. Picking up her journal from where it's been thrown on the floor, she writes, "Did you do that?" before looking away of her own accord. When she looks back to the page, she finds a reply.
"No." Now she is staring at the ceiling again. There's more.
"I do not think we are alone here."
A shiver makes its way down her spine. "Please help me," she pleads. This thing may be slightly unsettling, but this fear is nothing compared to what she felt in the kitchen.
The reply is quick. "I will try. Will you help me, too?"
"Help you how?" She is slightly suspicious now. Entering into a contract with some sort of demon is the last thing she wants right now.
"Help me remember. Help me sleep." The request isn't malicious in the least. She makes up her mind quickly.
"I will."