The key looked like a pathetic piece of metal. It might have been coughed up by some ancient, dying machine. Sam leaned against the peeling paint of the doorframe – or what was left of it. Mostly ancient grime and sheer stubbornness, it seemed. He watched his mom, Claire, fight with the lock. She was putting her whole shoulder into it, the kind of effort you use when you're trying to return a truly awful gift without a receipt. The door finally groaned open. It sounded like a dusty old coffin sighing.
"See?" Claire chirped, a little out of breath. Her smile was so bright it could probably scare off pigeons. Or maybe small, annoying ghosts. "Charm! It's got charm!"
Sam grunted. He'd perfected that grunt over seventeen years of dealing with his mom's never-ending optimism. It could mean anything from 'I disagree' to 'I'm pretty sure we're all doomed.' Charm. Right. In his mental dictionary, 'charm' was currently filed under 'falling apart' and 'probably haunted.' He dragged his duffel bag over the threshold. It held about ninety-eight percent of everything he owned – the other two percent being a carefully maintained indifference to the world and the lingering taste of bad gas station coffee. He half-expected the floorboards to complain. Or maybe just give up and swallow him. That would be a minor inconvenience, at this point.
The air inside hit him like a wall. It wasn't just old; it felt like something dug up from a forgotten tomb. It smelled of dust that had seen better centuries. The ghosts of ugly wallpaper choices hung in the air, mixed with a faint, unsettling scent of… something damp and full of regret. Dust motes, thick as a cloud of lazy flies, did a slow, silent dance. They twirled in the weak beams of light that managed to sneak through the filthy windows. Each speck, Sam figured, was a tiny gravestone. A marker for a lost sock, a dead dream, or quite possibly, a former resident.
"It's got character," he said. His voice was flat enough to land a paper airplane on. This was, what, their fourth 'house with character' in four years? 'Character,' he'd learned, was just what real estate agents said when they meant 'nobody else was desperate enough to live here.'
His mom was already halfway down a hallway. It looked like it stretched into its own private, shadowy corner of the universe. She was, naturally, completely unfazed. Her voice bounced back, echoing a bit too much for his liking. "The realtor said the foundations are solid! Just needs a good… airing out."
Airing out, Sam thought. And maybe a priest. Or a team in hazmat suits. It wasn't just the smell, which was starting to get notes of old, wet sweaters and general despair. It wasn't just the way shadows clung to the corners like they owned the place. It was something else. A faint vibration under his worn-out sneakers. A weird pressure in his ears, like right before a bad headache kicks in.
He'd read about places like this. Usually on weird internet forums that also claimed Bigfoot was a part-time barista. 'Crosspoints,' some of the dedicated weirdos called them. 'Thin spots.' Places where the Supernatural Realm – a whole other dimension, supposedly, which sounded ridiculous – was said to leak into our world like a bad plumbing job. Total nonsense, of course. The kind of stuff people who talked to their crystals believed in.
Except…
Except for the definite, prickling feeling on the back of his neck. It felt less like a cold draft and more like someone was watching him. Someone with opinions. And maybe terrible breath.
He dropped his bag by a staircase. The banister looked like it would crumble if you breathed on it too hard. The wood was dark, almost black. It felt colder than the rest of the house – a neat trick for a place that probably hadn't had working heat since before he was born. "I call dibs on whichever room has the fewest spiders," he called out. His voice sounded small, swallowed by the… watchful silence.
"Kitchen's through here! Surprisingly… functional!" Claire's voice still had that aggressive cheerfulness. Sam figured it was her main weapon against the endless parade of terrible apartments.
He sighed. It was the quiet sigh of someone who'd seen too many hopeful beginnings turn into depressing realities. Might as well check out the latest disaster they'd be calling home. He shuffled towards what the landlord had optimistically called the 'living room.' It was huge. A fireplace big enough to roast a cow, or maybe hold a meeting for a small, creepy cult, took up one wall. The wallpaper, a faded floral pattern that was probably stylish when dinosaurs roamed the earth, was peeling off in long, sad strips, like a bad sunburn. A single, saggy armchair sat alone in the middle of the room. It was angled slightly towards the cold fireplace, like its last owner had just stepped out for a quick hundred years.
He ran a finger along the dusty mantelpiece. It left a clean line in the thick gray layer. Nothing. Just dust. He was letting the gloomy atmosphere and the probable rat infestation get to him. Old houses creaked. Old houses smelled like the inside of a forgotten crypt. Old houses had… character.
Then he heard it. Or, more accurately, felt it.
Not a creak of wood settling. Not the scurry of unseen, six-legged roommates. It was fainter. Sneakier. A whisper? No, more like the softest stir of air. As if someone, or something, had breathed out, very gently, right next to his ear.
Sam froze. He didn't turn around. His internal sarcastic commentary, usually a constant stream, hit a pause button. He strained his ears. All he could hear was the muffled clatter from the kitchen – his mom, probably discovering the 'surprisingly functional' ancient appliances. That, and his own breathing, suddenly way too loud in the heavy quiet.
Bad pipes, he told himself. Wind whistling through a crack in a window he hadn't noticed. An overactive imagination, thanks to not enough sleep and too many cheap horror movies.
Yeah. That had to be it.
He glanced back at the armchair. For a split second, a trick of the dim light, the dent in its old cushion looked a little too fresh. Like someone had just stood up.
He gave a mental shrug, trying to convince himself it was nothing. It felt more like weariness than actual belief. Sam turned towards the sounds from the kitchen. The prickling on his neck, though, stubbornly refused to go away. Hemlock Street. This was already shaping up to be an interesting experience. Probably a short one.