The wound on my forearm won’t close. It isn’t a cut, not a scratch; it’s an irregular groove, a gash gouging into my flesh that lacks the color of living blood. It bears the hue of damp ash, a greyish taint that seems to seep with the cold of a winter that refuses to end. Sometimes, when the silence of this house grows so dense it makes my eardrums thrum, the mark pulses. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse: it’s a vibration, a frequency telling me that something—someone—has traced it with the clinical precision of an artisan.
Grandfather left this house teeming with shadows. He died three weeks ago, and here I am, stepping into his vacancy, breathing the stagnant air of his furniture, the scent of mothballs, old paper, and secrets he refused to share, even in his final gasps. At first, it was simple: grief, inheritance papers, the weight of years calcified on shelves that smell of abandonment. Now, it is a state of agonized waiting. I notice it in the blind spots of the rooms, in that split second before I click the light, where the air seems to displace, as if something just moved beyond the edge of my vision. It’s not a sound. It’s not a parlor trick. It’s a shift in the atmosphere, as if reality itself is fraying at the seams. It is the primal knowledge—in every fiber of my being—that someone has been standing behind me, staring at the nape of my neck, just before I summon the courage to turn.
He isn't in the house. The house is part of him. The walls sweat a moisture that shouldn't be there, a dark weeping that slides down the wallpaper like a weeping sore, as if the building itself is trying to purge something buried deep within its marrow.
Yesterday, while sorting through documents at his desk, I saw the hallway door shift an inch. No wind. No draft. I froze, my pen suspended in the air, feeling an icy tremor climb my spine like liquid nitrogen. I didn't fear death; I feared the certainty. Because when the stranger finally approached, that night in the kitchen, there was no violent struggle, no screams. Just a touch, a subtle pressure on my arm—an act of ownership, like a butcher branding his livestock before the slaughter.
I look at the mark now and finally understand. He isn't trying to kill me; that would be too swift, too merciful. He is waiting for me to rot from the inside out, for my own mind to become the cell where he is the only jailer. I am his inventory. I am the next piece to be cataloged for this house that no longer belongs to me. But the worst part—the part that is truly unbearable—isn't the end. It’s that every time I peer into a mirror, my features begin to blur. My reflection doesn't recognize me. The man staring back from the glass wears a different expression, a smile I never drew, eyes that belong to someone who has spent too long in the dark side of reality.
I have lost track of the days. Sunlight crawls through the windows like an intruder, yellowed and sickly. I walk the hallways and my feet don’t meet the floor the way they used to. I hear whispers in the pipes. Sometimes I catch myself talking, or worse, answering voices that aren't there—but who seem to know exactly what I’m most terrified to remember. I remember a happy childhood, but was it mine? Or is it just another lie the mark has sown in my head to give me something to lose?
I’ve nailed the windows shut. I’ve barricaded the front door with the old oak armoire. It’s useless. He doesn’t need doors. He is already inside, in the dust-choked corners, in the hollow space between my back and the wall. Grandfather knew. That’s why he never left. That’s why the house carries the stench of a tomb.
Last night, I tried to carve the mark out, thinking if I erased the sign, I might regain control. But when the blade hit my skin, there was no pain, no blood. Only a dark, acrid smoke—the smell of burning earth. I collapsed, trembling, watching as my own fingers turned translucent, as if the house were absorbing me, turning me into part of the furniture, just another shadow waiting to adorn these halls when the next tenant arrives to claim this cursed inheritance.
I am not Anders anymore. Anders lost his way days ago in the crawlspace between the hallway and the fear. All that remains is this hollow shell, a receptacle waiting for the stranger to finish taking possession. I feel his hand on my shoulder right now. The touch is cold, familiar. For the first time, I don’t fight. I let the cold spread through my lungs, a slow, intoxicating paralysis. Perhaps, after all, it is better to stop fighting the inevitable. Perhaps being owned is the only way to stop feeling the emptiness of existing.
The hallway door opens again. This time, I don’t turn. I don’t have to. He is here, at the edge of the room, blurring the light, filling the space I will soon abandon. Grandfather is there with him, smiling from the other side of nothingness, welcoming me to the collection.
The mark pulses one last time, a jolt of electric force, and then the world flickers out. There is no darkness, only an eternal grey. And finally, at long last, the silence is absolute. I am no longer waiting. Now, I am the waiting.
