Chapter 63 - “Just an old, rusty lock,”

Rain fell in a cold, steady sheet, washing the dirt from the streets of the small, silent town. The old clock tower's chimes rang out, each clang muffled by the downpour, signaling midnight. Elias pulled his raincoat tighter, the hood pulled low over his eyes, as he hurried toward the old house on the hill. The house, with its darkened windows and peeling paint, was an object of whispered folklore among the locals. They said it wasn't just old; it was wrong.Elias didn't believe in ghosts, but the dare from his friends a few hours earlier had gnawed at his resolve. He wasn't one to back down, especially not from something so simple as spending a night alone in an empty house. The front door groaned open at his touch, revealing an interior of dust and decay. The air was thick and stale, smelling of forgotten things.As he moved through the rooms, the floorboards groaned under his feet, each noise amplified in the oppressive silence. The rain pattering against the windows was the only constant sound. Then came another. A soft, rhythmic dripping from the hallway upstairs. Elias's heart hammered against his ribs, but he dismissed it as a leaky roof.He reached the top of the stairs and located the source: a slow, heavy drip from the ceiling onto the landing below. He stared at the spot, a dark, growing stain on the worn wood. Suddenly, the dripping stopped. Elias held his breath, straining to hear anything else.A new sound began, a low, scratching noise from behind the locked door at the end of the hall. He knew the stories associated with that room—of the young girl who had been locked inside and forgotten. Elias scoffed to himself. He was a rational man, and this was just an old house playing tricks.He pressed his ear to the cold wood of the door. The scratching was soft, but persistent, like nails on wood. It was punctuated by a small, pathetic whimper. A knot of unease tightened in his gut, but his bravado held. He reached out and tried the handle. Locked, of course."Just an old, rusty lock," he muttered, but his voice sounded thin and strained in the echoing hall.Then, from the keyhole, a warm, wet lick touched his finger.Elias gasped, stumbling backward. The scratching and whimpering stopped. He stared at his hand, then back at the dark keyhole. The whispers started then, faint and rustling from behind the door, but this time, they didn't sound like a little girl. They were harsh, guttural, and inhuman.He bolted, fleeing down the stairs and out into the rain, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his chest. He didn't stop until he reached the town square, gasping for breath. The old clock tower chimes began to ring again, sounding far too loud, too close. As he looked back toward the hill, the house was dark and silent, as if nothing had ever happened. He swore he would never return.But that night, as Elias lay in his own bed, the gentle patter of rain against his window was joined by another sound: a soft, insistent scratching from inside his closet. His bravado was long gone, replaced by a cold, numbing dread. And when the scratching gave way to a soft, wet lick on the back of his hand, he didn't scream. He simply lay there, frozen, and listened to the guttural whisper in the darkness.