Feels Stories

There's Someone in the House

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I am awake. I don't recall falling asleep and am not real sure how I got into bed, but I am awake now. There is a very distant ringing in my ears, sort of like the aftermath of a concussive blast that makes you deaf, only this ringing seems far off inside my head. Must have had a rough night I suppose, although honestly I can't really recall the previous evening or any evening for that matter. Yep, must have been one hell of a night.

I roll out of bed and my feet hit the cold, hard tile floor of my bedroom. Rubbing my hands over my face I try to shake the cobwebs of sleep – and whatever I may have drank last night – out of my head. Glancing out of the nearby window of the bedroom I see a gloomy, overcast sky and a light rain falling on the leafless forest of trees that surrounds my property. Is it fall? I honestly cannot remember. Ugh! I swear God, I will never drink that much again. I have made that same hollow promise a hundred times before I am sure.

Moving off of the bed, I walk down the hall and descend the staircase that leads to the main level of the house, the top three stairs creaking under my weight as they always do. Moving down the stairs, I can see outside through the Amityville Horror-style windows over the entryway that the drizzle and clouds have settled in and are likely going to be hanging around a while. I'm not going to go to work today.

Wait. I don't have to work today, right? It's the weekend, isn't it? I shake my head vigorously and make that same hollow promise to God again. This day is going to be far worse than my night must have been.

The kitchen has a digital clock, so I stumble into it to check the day and time just to be sure I don't need to call in – ahem – sick. Clock says 9am – I'm late if it's a weekday – and it is Sunday. Excellent. Time to crash on the couch and do nothing. My God I am tired. That couch is calling my name right now.

I leave the kitchen and move through the archway into the living room, noticing that the hardwoods are just as cold as the tiled floors upstairs. A small shiver moves up my spine and I make a turn towards the thermostat to crank the heat up before lying down and covering up with the throw blanket hanging over the back of the couch.

The worn, cold leather of the couch creaks under my weight. I hear the familiar click of the thermostat as the heat kicks on and pull the blanket in tighter, close my eyes and try to fall asleep. Maybe this hangover – worst one I ever had and I still can't remember the party. Hell yeah! – will be gone after a good late morning nap.

The whispers start immediately. I bolt upright on the couch, throwing the blanket aside as I do, and scan the room. Aside from me, the living room is empty.

The upstairs bathroom fan is running. Did I leave it on? Did I even go in the bathroom this morning?

I sneak quietly from the living room, through the kitchen and peek around the corner. Silent as a church mouse. I had to have been a ninja in a past life or something. I look up the stairs and see that the bathroom light is on and the exhaust fan is definitely running. Maybe I destroyed the toilet last night and left it running to kill the smell before stumbling to bed, I think.

But the whispering starts again and it is coming from the bathroom. No time for subtlety now, so I bolt up the stairs – the top three creak as usual – and burst into the bathroom. If there is someone in here they are about to get their ass kicked. But the bathroom is empty and the whispering has stopped.

Okay, I am far more hung over than I thought. I flip the bathroom wall switch to kill the lights and the fan then realize my bed isn't far away at all. Sleep. I need sleep. I am so tired. The bed is there, in my room, dark and inviting. I will just sleep this off and wake up feeling much better. Time for that nap.