Harold had lived in the house for over forty years, and it was beginning to show. The paint on the walls had faded, the windows were covered with dust that no amount of cleaning could fully wipe away, and the floorboards creaked with every step he took.
It wasn't the house that had aged, but him. He was getting older, slower, his once-steady hands now trembling more than he liked. But the house, it had been theirs. His and Sarah's.
The first winter after her death had been the hardest. He couldn't remember exactly when it was, but it felt as though the cold had never fully left.
Sarah had been sick for so long—he couldn't even recall the sound of her voice anymore, only the way she looked when she faded, when she became nothing but a whisper of who she once was.
And now, every corner of the house reminded him of her, the way the kitchen smelled when she used to cook, the little chair she sat in by the window to watch the birds, and the faded photographs on the walls. It all felt empty without her.
It started with the kitchen. He had been cleaning up after dinner when he saw her. At first, he thought it was just his mind playing tricks.
He turned quickly, and there she was—standing in the doorway of the kitchen, her face pale, eyes wide open, staring at him. She didn't speak, didn't move, just watched him. But Harold knew what he saw.
"Sarah?" He croaked, his voice cracking, the word caught in his throat.
But the woman in the doorway didn't answer. She never did.
Over the next few days, he would see her more often. In the living room, in the hallway, always standing, always staring. She didn't do anything—didn't say anything—just watched him with those unblinking eyes.
Sometimes he would sit in his old armchair and try to ignore her, but her presence was undeniable. He tried to reason with himself, tell himself it was just grief, just the mind playing tricks on him. But deep down, he knew it wasn't.
One night, Harold sat in the chair by the fire, the room dark except for the orange glow from the embers. He had almost convinced himself it was nothing when he saw her again. This time, she was sitting across from him, just at the edge of the firelight. Her head tilted slightly, as though waiting for him to speak.
"Sarah…" His voice trembled. "Why are you here?"
She didn't respond. She never responded. But Harold felt something shift in the air, a coldness creeping in, wrapping around his chest. He tried to stand, to move away from her, but his legs didn't seem to work. They were frozen, locked in place.
"I—I don't know how to help you," he muttered, his breath shallow, his pulse quickening. "You're not real. You can't be. You're gone."
She didn't move. She didn't need to. Her presence, her absence, hung in the room like a suffocating fog.
The nights grew longer after that. Harold stopped sleeping altogether. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her, and when he opened them, she was there. Her face was always the same, pale and lifeless, her eyes wide and unblinking. It became harder to tell where the nightmares ended and reality began. He started to avoid the parts of the house where he knew she'd be—he didn't dare go into the bedroom anymore.
But one night, he could feel her again, this time standing in the doorway of the bedroom, just beyond the threshold, her hand resting lightly on the frame. The moonlight shone through the window, casting long, jagged shadows across the floor.
Harold stared at her. She was different tonight. Her hair, which had once been soft and warm, now hung in matted, tangled strands. Her skin was more translucent, stretched tight over bones, as though she were fading even more.
Her mouth opened, and Harold could swear he heard something this time. A faint, crackling sound, like the creak of the old floorboards.
"Sarah…" He whispered. His voice felt weak, strained. "What do you want?"
She didn't respond. She never did. But this time, there was something else—something new. The air grew heavier, colder, the room darker. The shadows that had always been there seemed to grow longer, creeping across the floor, slithering up the walls. Harold felt his heart pounding in his chest, the panic rising in his throat.
And then, it happened.
He blinked, and the room was empty. She was gone.
But he could still feel her. He could feel the weight of her gaze, her eyes upon him, cold and relentless. He backed away from the doorway, his breath coming faster, his legs trembling beneath him. He was certain she was right there, just out of sight, watching him.
The silence was deafening, stretching between them like a wall.
He couldn't stay in that room anymore. With a sudden burst of panic, Harold stumbled out into the hallway, his steps shaky, desperate. He didn't know where he was going—he just needed to get away, to escape the presence that seemed to haunt every inch of the house.
But no matter where he went, no matter how far he moved, he couldn't escape her.
The following weeks were a blur of sleepless nights and frantic movements. The house that had once been a place of comfort and familiarity now felt like a prison. He would close his eyes for just a moment, only to find her there again, standing in the corner of the room or sitting by the fire.
The worst part was when she started speaking to him. It wasn't words, not at first. It was just a sound, a low, rasping breath, like someone choking on their own breath. He could hear it everywhere, echoing through the halls, creeping under the doorframe, creeping into his mind.
One night, as he sat on the edge of his bed, clutching the blankets in his hands, he finally broke.
"Sarah!" He shouted, his voice breaking. "What do you want from me?!"
There was no answer.
But then, a sound—a soft, wet click. It was faint, like something being dragged across the floor. Harold froze. He turned slowly, his eyes wide with fear, his hands shaking so badly he could barely hold onto the sheets.
There she was again, standing at the foot of his bed, her skin stretched tight over her skull, her eyes wide and vacant. She didn't speak, didn't move, but Harold could feel her presence all around him.
"Please," he whispered, his voice weak. "Please… don't do this…"
She didn't respond. She didn't need to.
Harold's heart hammered in his chest. He could feel it now, the coldness creeping up his spine. The silence in the room was so thick it was suffocating.
Then, slowly, she took a step forward.
And another.
And another.
With each step, Harold's breath grew more shallow, his body shaking uncontrollably. He wanted to run, wanted to escape, but he couldn't move. His body wouldn't obey.
She reached out to him, her fingers cold and stiff. Harold tried to scream, but no sound came out. His throat was too tight, too full of dread.
Her fingers wrapped around his throat, squeezing, tightening with slow, deliberate force. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His vision began to blur, the edges darkening, his thoughts turning to mush.
And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it stopped.
The pressure on his throat released, and Harold collapsed back onto the bed, gasping for air. His body was trembling, his heart thundering in his chest. He didn't understand what was happening. He couldn't think, couldn't move, couldn't breathe.
But she was still there.
Standing over him.
Watching.
Waiting.
The last thing Harold saw before everything went black was her face—pale, lifeless, with eyes wide and unblinking. Her fingers, still cold and stiff, reaching for him again.