gothic
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The Blackwood Apartments stood like a monolith against the gray October sky, its brick facade weathered by decades of rain and neglect. When I first saw the listing—a spacious one-bedroom for half the market rate—I should have known something was wrong. But desperation has a way of blinding you to red flags, and after three…
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The key felt heavier than it should have as I turned it in the lock of 47 Maple Street. The brass was tarnished, worn smooth by decades of use, and it scraped against the mechanism with a sound like fingernails on metal. The door swung open with a prolonged creak that seemed to echo through…
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The scratching started on our third night in the house. Just subtle at first—the kind of sound you’d attribute to settling pipes or skittering mice. Sarah said I was being paranoid when I mentioned it over breakfast, but I saw how her eyes darted to the walls when she thought I wasn’t looking. We’d gotten…