i was born on a thursday. mom said thursdays are cursed. she smiled when she said it. but her eyes didn’t. the house is quiet except for the ticking. tick tick tick. the grandfather clock in the hallway stopped working years ago, but it ticks anyway. i asked about it once. dad just stared at me and said, “that’s your heartbeat, sweetie.” i stopped asking. they keep the basement locked. i don’t remember what’s down there. or maybe i do, and i don’t want to. there’s a scratch on the floorboards near the door. something dragged. something heavy. something trying to get out. or maybe in. every night, i hear breathing outside my door. heavy. slow. sometimes it hums. the same song dad used to sing when he brushed my hair. i don't brush it anymore. he doesn’t either. not since the mirror incident. the mirror cracked last winter. i told mom. she looked at me like i was the crack. then said, “mirrors only break when they see something ugly.” she stopped looking at me after that. i write a lot now. not because i’m good. but because the paper doesn’t flinch when i speak. it just listens. blankly. like dad did. before he became the hallway. they say houses aren’t alive. but mine breathes. walls inhale. floorboards exhale.

[Expand Post]

sometimes they whisper. “come downstairs.” i don't go. but last night, the whispers changed. they said, “he’s waiting for you.” so i went. the basement door was open. that never happens. stairs groaned under me like they were tired of holding secrets. i stepped into the dark and the dark stepped into me. at the bottom, there was a chair. and on it, a tape recorder. click. “hi sweetheart. daddy’s got a little game for you.” tick tick tick tick tick— he wasn't in the basement. he was the basement. and i? i was thursday.