Chapter 4: Just a Quick Nap
Ideologies separate us. Dreams and anguish bring us together. - Eugene Ionesco
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Chapter 4: Just a Quick Nap
Sam closed the front door behind him and let out a slow breath.
The old man's words still circled in his head. Your uncle was well-liked. The house was in good hands.
Okay. Sure. Great. But why did it feel like everyone was intentionally avoiding the real question?
He had been hoping for something concrete—some reassurance that he wasn't losing his mind, that the weirdness in the house was just his imagination. Instead, he got the same vague praise about his uncle that everyone seemed to give. It was like asking someone if a restaurant was good and only hearing, Oh, the owner was a nice guy! That didn't exactly tell him if the food would kill him.
Shaking off the thought, he made his way to the kitchen. His throat was dry. Water first, then food.
The kitchen was quiet, the air a little cooler than before. He grabbed a glass and turned on the tap. The water ran clear—thankfully, not blood or something horrifying—so he took a few gulps and leaned against the counter.
Then he heard it.
A soft creak.
His grip tightened around the glass.
It wasn't loud, just a faint shift in the floorboards. Could've been the house settling. Could've been a hundred things. But something about it made his neck stiffen.
He glanced over his shoulder. The kitchen was exactly as he left it. No movement. No shadows creeping toward him. Just an old house being an old house.
Right.
Pushing the thought aside, he focused on making lunch.
Unlike most people who fumbled with basic recipes, Sam had years of experience. Growing up alone had its drawbacks, but it also meant he had perfected the art of cooking. It was one of the few things he could take pride in.
With practiced ease, he prepped a well-balanced meal—searing chicken to a golden crisp, sautéing vegetables with precision, and plating everything like a chef at a high-end restaurant. A lesser man would've settled for instant ramen. Sam? He was better than that.
As he set the food down, something caught his attention.
A cabinet door. Slightly ajar.
He frowned. Did I leave that open?
He could've sworn it was shut before. He had no reason to open it while cooking.
The door didn't slam. Didn't creak dramatically. Just… opened, like it had been nudged.
Sam exhaled sharply. "Nope."
Without hesitation, he walked over and closed it. Slowly. Carefully. He even patted it once, like, Stay. Good cabinet.
The moment his fingers left the handle, a single thud echoed from inside the cupboard.
Sam didn't move. Didn't breathe.
His fingers twitched toward the handle again—then stopped.
Nope. Nope nope nope. That wasn't his problem right now.
He grabbed his plate and marched to the dining table, pretending the kitchen wasn't pulling ghostly nonsense in broad daylight.
After finishing his meal, Sam leaned back in his chair, satisfied. The food was perfect. The house was probably not trying to kill him. Things were fine.
Still, the warmth of the meal and the quiet atmosphere made his eyelids heavy. The couch in the living room looked incredibly inviting.
"I'll just rest for a bit," he mumbled to himself, dragging his feet toward the sofa.
The moment he hit the cushions, exhaustion won.
And that's when the dream started.
He was in the guesthouse. But it wasn't his guesthouse.
The air was warm. The soft glow of candlelight flickered against the walls. The air smelled of fresh wood and something sweet, like pastries baking in the oven. Voices filled the space—laughter, soft conversations.
Somewhere in the distance, a piano played—a slow, beautiful melody.
There were people. Shadows of them. Laughing, talking, moving about like they belonged here. The place felt alive.
Then, without a warning, everything changed.
The laughter cut off. The piano stopped.
The warmth vanished.
Sam stood in complete silence, his breath visible in the sudden cold. The shadows that had once been people were gone.
But he wasn't alone.
At the end of the hallway, just outside the guest room, something stood there.
A figure.
Its body was nothing but a deep, unmoving darkness, like a hole in reality itself. It had no features—no eyes, no mouth—yet Sam knew it was staring directly at him.
Then it moved.
Not walked. Not ran.
Shifted.
One moment it was far away.
The next, it was right in front of him.
Sam couldn't scream. Couldn't move. His entire body was frozen in place, his breath stuck in his throat.
The figure leaned closer. Cold air pressed against his skin.
Then—
A hand.
Not his own. Not human.
Pressed firmly against his arm.
His vision blurred, his mind screaming at him to wake up—
Sam jerked awake, heart hammering.
For a moment, all he could do was stare at the ceiling, his breath ragged. His arm still felt cold, like something had actually touched him.
A dream. Just a dream.
But then his eyes landed on something across the room.
The guestbook.
Sitting on the sideboard.
Open.
Sam's stomach dropped.
No. No, that wasn't possible.
The guestbook had been in his room. Upstairs. He distinctly remembered leaving it on the floor after the whole "creepy warning" incident.
His throat tightened. Did… did he bring it down here in his sleep? No. That didn't make sense. He wasn't the type to sleepwalk.
Slowly, he stood up, his muscles tense.
The guestbook's pages were fluttering slightly, as if disturbed by a breeze. But there was no wind.
And then he saw it.
A new message.
One that hadn't been there before.
His blood ran cold.