Blue, Black, Red: Thirteen Macabre Tales [Completed]

From 2009 to 2019

The feeling starts on the third day after you move in. At first it's just a little prickle against your skin, like a cool breath on the back of your neck. The mirror fogs up, the ceiling creaks like there's someone on the roof.

You don't worry, of course you don't. That's half the reason you bought the house, isn't it? Because you thought it was creepy. Because the realtor had that scared look on her face and whispered to you that it was haunted, and a little part of you was giggling like a mad schoolgirl at the idea of playing the part of the witch to the whole town.

Still, that night as you stand in the kitchen - midway through making your famous grilled cheese - you flinch when you feel something twining around your legs. You glance down, it's just your cat, Dusty.

You go back to cooking, you adjust the heat. You're making it with mayonnaise today, you want to make sure it's completely right. Dusty stays where she is, underfoot, meowing at you incessantly. You're just turning around to pet her, when you hear it.

A scream from upstairs.

There's no one else in the house.

You flip off the oven, move the pan from the heat. You reach down and scoop up Dusty before making your way to the staircase.

Another scream thrusts its way through the house, and suddenly you're running up the stairs. You don't know what's going on, but you need to do something. Dusty is screeching at you, catching at your shirt and neck with her claws. You don't stop, you can't stop. Something is happening, something, something, something.

You get to the top floor, and you just know where to go. You go to your bedroom, to a tiny little closet in the corner that you had never seen before. It's shaking. The screams have stopped, but instead moans are coming out.

You can smell your own sweat, and the air has somehow become so thick and humid it feels like you're choking on it. Dusty is still attacking you, little dots of pain blooming into existence. Finally, she manages to get out of your arms, sprinting down the stairs as if she was a kitten again.

The closet has begun to rock back and forth, slowly. It feels like it's about to fall on you at any second. You take a step forward, wrap your hand around the handle. You close your eyes for a second, focus on the rough wood against your hand, the groans that now seem to thrum in your ear.

You open your eyes again, and slowly pull open the cabinet.

There's nothing there.

Nothing but rows and rows of empty shelves, each one covered thickly with dust. Your shoulders relaxed, you let out a sigh of relief. You're about to close the closet again, when you feel it, a cold spot behind your left shoulder.

There is something behind you, so close you can feel its icy breath in your ear, it's hand ghosting against your back. A sob traps itself in your throat, you fight to not look around.

Then it whispers to you, cold fingers landing against your neck, pressing gently down.

It whispers, "It's Britney, bitch."