The Something Inside by Lewi Lewis

I move in at night. Carrying two bags, dragging them up the stairs like a couple of body bags. The smell hits me first. Something like damp plaster. Something like sour laundry. The kind of smell that promises someone died here and everyone just pretends not to notice.

The stairs groan. Floorboards crack. Creak. The hallway light flickers. I like it. It feels as if the building already knows I’m here to stay.

On the second night, doors started clicking. Clacking. Not locks. Not handles. Just soft, decisive clicks. Behind me. No one there.

I light a cigarette. Blow smoke at the corner of the room. “Is that all you got?” The radiator rumbles. Pipes tap. The fridge groans like it’s laughing at me.

Night four. The whispers start. Low. Serpentine. Sliding along the baseboards. I pull the blanket over my chest. Not because I’m scared. Because it seems polite.

Because I can’t sleep, I start cataloging. Every click. Every flicker. Every tap. Every single whispered word. I record all of it. Laugh at it. Call it cute.

By night six, shadows start moving differently. Figures lean out of them. Watching. Waiting. I smoke another cigarette. Blow smoke in their direction now. They don’t move. Neither do I.

Late into night seven, I try to leave. Front door resists. Not locked. Just … won’t open. It’s like the building knows me now. Can read my pulse. My rhythm.

I laugh while I inhale a cigarette. Ash falls to the floor. “Fine. I’ll play.”

I stand.

Lights flicker. Still, I don’t move.

Something pulses inside the walls. Something patient. Something alive. Something hungry.

I exhale. Slow. Deliberate. Close my eyes. And wait. Perfectly still.

Lewi Lewis lives in Utah

Photo by Alejandro Garcia at Pexels