He's lived in the house all of a month, firmly believing something's wrong with the place, but not totally sure what. Without believing in ghosts, he can't think of an explanation, but he doesn't want to believe. So what happens when there's irrefutable evidence?
I whimpered aloud as something crashed in the hallway outside my room. Nothing was in the house with me. I kept chanting the words as I forced myself to step slowly across the room, jolting at every creaking floorboard and screaming aloud as a bolt of lightning crashed down to the ground just outside my window.
My heart was pounding in my chest and I bit back a whimper as I put my hand on the doorknob, scared of what may be standing behind it, watching the doorknob, waiting for it to turn, wielding a knife that would surely plunge through my chest, that would hack at my bones, that would dismember me without a second thought.
Ignore it. Forget it.
“Open.” I whispered as I jiggled the doorknob in a panic, having totally forgotten that I’d locked myself in earlier. Smacking myself in the forehead and allowing myself to have a minute’s worth of mirth in what would generally be classed as a bad situation, I turned the key and practically fell to the floor. Something gave the door a shove and I stumbled backwards, hardly expecting the bang that followed it as the doorknob hit the wall.
I can’t be alone.
In the darkness, I practically launched myself to my feet, jumping a foot in the air, maybe two, as I turned toward the door. Without another sound, it had shut once again. It was closed, the door locked.
I am so not alone.