The Unseen Guest

The noose swayed gently in the attic's gloom, its frayed rope creaking like a pendulum counting down to something unspeakable. Clara stood frozen at the foot of the stairs, her breath trapped in her lungs. The air smelled of damp wood and old iron.

"Clara?"

Sarid's voice came from behind her, sharp with sleep. She turned to find him in the parlor doorway, hair disheveled, squinting at her in the weak dawn light.

"You were sleepwalking again," he said, rubbing his eyes. "I woke up and you were just… gone."

She pointed a shaking finger up the attic stairs. "There's a noose."

Sarid shouldered past her, taking the steps two at a time. The attic door groaned as he pushed it wider. Dust motes swirled in the slanted light.

"Nothing here," he called down.

Clara climbed to join him, dread coiling in her gut. The attic was a cavern of shadows, cluttered with sheet-draped furniture and cobwebbed trunks. No noose. No rope. Only a single rusted hook jutted from a beam overhead.

"It was there," she insisted. "Moving."

Sarid's jaw twitched. "Let's just get breakfast."

By midday, the house began to breathe.

It started in the kitchen—a cracked porcelain plate sliding off a counter to shatter at Clara's feet. Sarid blamed the uneven floor. Then the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed thirteen times, its hands spinning backward. Sarid pried open the casing, muttering about rusted gears.

But when Clara's hairbrush flew off the dresser and struck the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster, even he couldn't look her in the eye.

"Things… shift in old houses," he said, examining the dent. "Foundations settle. Air currents—"

"Air currents don't throw brushes," Clara snapped. She yanked open a dresser drawer—and froze.

Her missing locket lay coiled inside, cold as grave dirt. The clasp was broken.

"You said you lost that in the woods," Sarid said quietly.

"I did." Her throat tightened. The portrait's eyes bored into her back from across the room.

They found the attic key at dusk.

It lay centered on the dining table, though neither had placed it there—a wrought-iron skeleton key, green with patina. Sarid weighed it in his palm. "Probably opens every lock in this place."

"Don't." Clara gripped his wrist. "What if it's a trap?"

His laugh was too loud. "It's a key, Clara. Not a cursed relic."

But when he slid it into the attic door's lock, the house shuddered. Somewhere deep in the walls, something scrabbled like rats with too many legs. The key turned on its own.

The attic stairs unfolded with a scream of unoiled hinges.

Sarid's flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating floating dust and a low, sloped ceiling. Then the light caught fabric—a woman's dress, hanging motionless from a beam. Faded blue silk, moth-eaten, the hem crusted with black stains.

"Holy shit," Sarid breathed.

Clara gripped the banister. "We shouldn't be here."

"You're right." He took a step up. "Stay below."

"Sarid, no—"

But he was already climbing. The flashlight beam jerked erratically as he navigated piles of debris—a rocking chair with its runners snapped, a doll missing its eyes, a stack of ledgers bound in cracked leather.

Clara hovered at the base of the stairs, the key burning in her hand. Cold seeped through her shoes.

"There's a trunk!" Sarid called. Metal screeched as he lifted the lid. "Photos, I think. And letters—"

The dress moved.

Not swaying. Turning.

Empty sleeves oriented toward Sarid as he knelt. The collar dipped forward, a headless bow.

"Sarid!" Clara screamed.

He looked up just as the dress lunged.

Later, he would insist it was a draft.

But Clara saw—saw—the fabric wrap around his throat like spectral hands, saw his face purple as he clawed at nothing. She threw the key, striking the dangling lightbulb overhead. Glass shattered. In the sudden darkness, the dress fell limp.

Sarid tumbled down the stairs, gasping. Angry red marks circled his neck.

"We're leaving," Clara said. "Now."

They raced to the front door, Sarid limping, Clara clutching the key like a weapon. The portrait's eyes tracked them, gleaming wetly.

The door opened easily.

Too easily.

The clearing outside was gone. Where trees should have stood, there was only mist—thick and white and humming with static. Clara stepped through… and emerged in the foyer.

Sarid collided with her back. "What the hell?"

They tried every exit. Windows fused shut. The cellar door opened onto a brick wall. The house had folded in on itself, a snake eating its tail.

In the parlor, the music box played on its own.

That night, Clara dreamt of the woman.

She hung from the attic beam, face swollen, tongue protruding. Her blue dress swayed. When she spoke, maggots fell from her lips:

"He promised me forever. But forever here is… different."

Clara woke screaming.

Sarid wasn't beside her.

The attic door stood open, the key protruding from its lock. From the darkness above came a wet, rhythmic sound—

Thump. Drag. Thump. Drag.

Like something hopping down the stairs.