"Face reality as it is, not as it was or as you wish it to be." – Jack Welch
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Chapter 2: Worse Than a Dream
The first thing Sam registered upon waking up was relief.
A dream. That's all it had been.
He sighed, stretching his arms above his head. His bed—his bed, upstairs in the main house, far away from the creepy guest room—felt solid and safe beneath him. The sunlight filtering through his curtains was warm, gentle. Not at all the kind of setting where you'd find ominous, handwritten warnings in a guestbook.
He let out a dry laugh. He'd been so stressed about this place, of course his brain was making up weird ghost crap. The house wasn't haunted. It was just old, unfamiliar, full of creaks and drafts. His nerves had turned a weird coincidence into some horror movie nonsense.
See? Everything's fine.
Something shifted at the foot of the bed.
The laugh caught in his throat.
A weight pressed against the mattress. Just slightly. Like someone sitting down.
Sam's entire body went still. His fingers curled into the sheets.
He didn't move. He didn't breathe.
It's nothing. You're imagining it. You just woke up, your brain's still fuzzy—
The weight shifted again.
A slow, sinking pressure.
Like someone leaning in.
Sam sat up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. His heart punched the inside of his ribs. His vision swam.
There was nothing there.
Just his blanket, crumpled where the pressure had been.
His breath came sharp and uneven as he shoved himself out of bed, stumbling back a few steps. His pulse hammered in his ears. He stared at the spot, waiting, expecting something—anything—to move.
Nothing did.
The silence stretched, thin and taut.
Finally, his muscles unlocked just enough to function. He inhaled, slow and measured, rubbed his face, and exhaled just as slowly.
Right. Okay. Cool. This is fine. Completely fine.
He took another step back.
Then another.
Then turned on his heel and walked out of the room—not ran, walked—because he was an adult and adults didn't run from bedsheets.
Now let's talk about the million dollar question....How he ended up here ?
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
A year ago, Sam had been in college. He had friends, a cramped apartment, late-night food runs, and a future that, while unclear, at least existed.
Then his uncle died.
They hadn't been close. Barely spoke. But apparently, Sam was the closest living relative, and instead of an inheritance of cash or stocks or something remotely useful, his uncle had left him a house.
A massive, falling-apart house, conveniently located in a town no one had ever heard of, requiring more repairs than his bank account could handle.
Selling it would've been smart, except the housing market sucked, and his uncle's will had a clause—he had to live there for at least a year before selling. Otherwise, all the property rights would go to some obscure historical society that would probably turn it into a "museum of strange occurrences" or some nonsense.
So now, instead of finishing school, instead of hanging out with friends, instead of having a life, he was here. Running a guesthouse. Alone. And, apparently, dealing with some weird paranormal bullshit.
---END.