For the rest of the day, nothing dramatic happened.
No windows slammed shut.
No lights flickered violently.
No inhuman voice called Annabelle's name from the hallway.
At least…
not loudly.
Instead, the horror moved differently now — smaller, quieter, intimate enough to doubt, sharp enough to feel.
The kind of fear that didn't jump at you.
The kind that watched you.
The Breathing
I was folding clothes in the living room when I felt it — a faint exhale right beside my ear.
Not words.
Just breath.
Slow.
Warm.
Intentional.
Shhhhh.
I turned so fast the laundry basket toppled, shirts and socks scattering across the floor.
No one was behind me.
But something had been.
The air was thick — heavy — like someone had just stepped away a heartbeat before I turned.
My skin prickled.
My pulse throbbed at my throat.
I waited.
Listening.
Nothing followed.
But the moment had teeth…
and it bit into me long after it passed.
The Shape in the Room
Later, while washing dishes, I caught movement in the reflection of a metal spoon — a figure standing behind me.
Tall.
Still.
Unmistakably there.
My chest seized. The spoon clattered into the sink as I whirled around—
Annabelle sat at the dining table, drawing.
Her posture was rigid with focus. Shoulders lifted, back straight, pencil moving in quick, sharp strokes across the page.
She hadn't spoken since morning.
Her breathing sounded shallow — like she didn't fully remember how to do it.
I forced myself to speak gently.
"What are you drawing, sweetheart?"
She didn't look up.
Her pencil carved the paper faster, as if racing something I couldn't see.
"It's not done."
The way she said it — flat, empty, urgent — sent a cold shiver through my spine.
I didn't ask again.
I couldn't.
The house felt like it was listening.
Crowded Silence
Hours passed.
The sun sank behind the trees outside, dragging long shadows across the floor — shadows thicker than they should be, darker than the evening allowed.
The house felt… crowded.
Not with bodies.
With presence.
Every room felt a little too full.
Every doorway felt occupied.
Every hallway felt watched.
I tried to stay close to Annabelle, but she only drew. Page after page. Lines that made no sense.
Shapes I didn't understand.
Faces with no eyes.
Doors drawn over and over again.
"Can I sleep in your room?"
Night settled.
Annabelle approached me quietly — almost shy, almost childlike.
"Can I sleep in your room tonight?"
Her voice…
it sounded like her again. The real her.
The little girl who used to jump into my bed during thunderstorms.
My chest ached.
"Of course you can."
She climbed into my bed, curled against the wall, and clutched her pillow tightly. Her small shoulders trembled as if she were holding back tears she couldn't shed.
I kept the lamp on and sat beside her until her breathing softened.
Sleep.
Or something pretending.
Eventually, exhaustion tugged at me too.
I didn't mean to drift off.
But I did.
The Whispering
A sound pulled me back.
Soft.
Low.
Almost singing.
At first, I thought Annabelle was whispering in her sleep.
But her body was motionless beside me — unnaturally still, like a doll placed carefully on a shelf.
Yet the whispering continued.
Coming from the corner of the room.
My blood iced.
The words were faint, strained — like a voice learning to form syllables again after years of silence.
Repeating.
Practicing.
"I remember the door."
A pause.
Then again.
"I remember the door."
Again.
"I remember the door."
The words slithered through the dark, brushing against the walls, curling under the bed, sinking into my bones.
Slowly — painfully — I turned my head toward the sound.
The Thing in the Corner
The corner looked dark.
Too dark.
A shape stood there — not solid, not human.
Its outline flickered like a shadow unsure of its own body.
Tall. Angular. Stretching in and out of form.
As if it was trying to remember how to exist.
The whispering stopped.
The room froze.
And then—
The voice changed.
Deeper.
Clearer.
Closer.
Still learning.
Still forming.
"I found it."
A sharp, living dread shot through my entire body.
Because the voice wasn't coming from the corner anymore.
It was right behind me.
Before I could move — before I could scream or reach for Annabelle — the bedroom door, which had been closed tight only minutes ago…
…began to creak open.
Slowly.
Painfully.
Deliberately.
As if something on the other side had finally learned how to use a door.