Return

Disclaimer and content warning: This story contains depictions of paranormal and descriptions of events that may be distressing to some readers.

Age Rating: 17

The table shuddered under the weight of his heavy work boots as he threw his legs up on it. The glass jumped, clinking against the table. Leaning back in the recliner, he took a deep breath and exhaled with a long, exhausted sigh.

“Hah, free at last,” he uttered to himself, reaching for his glass filled with something halfway between poison and salvation—it depends on the perspective, really.

The sound of someone knocking on the door.

“Ughh, not now. No, rather—how about never again?” he grumbled to himself, bringing the glass back up to his lips.

“Simon, open up! I really need to talk to you.”

And so, the first choice is upon us, dear audience. Does he go to open the door? Does he chug the drink before opening the door? Or perhaps—he ignores the door entirely and enjoys his drink in peace, well, as much peace as there can be while someone is banging on the door.

He took a sip of the drink—the brandy burned his throat as he swallowed it. Then, with a soft cough, he got up to head toward the door, but his vision blurred and his mind drifted. A few steps, and a moment later, a heavy thud echoed through his apartment, followed by a clatter of the glass on the wooden floor.

After a moment of silent, the lock clicked, as the well-oiled mechanism retracted the bolt. The door creaked ever so slightly.

Soft and steady steps thudded on the wooden floor—barely audible even if he were awake.

An evil grin spread across the face covered by the hat’s shadow. A knife glinted in the light before digging into Simon’s skin.

He jolted awake, but far too late. As his body jerked, the knife only dug deeper into his throat, severing his carotid artery. His eyes widened—staring death into the face.

The hat-wearing figure smirked again, his eyes shone with excitement.

News

There was a very familiar metallic clank.

Rafal walked up to the door and picked up the letter that was just dropped off.

“Demeter Heritage Services—open immediately,” Rafal read aloud.

“Huh?”

He cut the envelope open and pulled out the paper within.

“Dear Rafal Teodor. Please accept my condolences,” he proceeded to read the letter that had claimed his grandmother’s passing. The ending of it mentioned a heritage she left for him.

Rafal sighed, it was a slow sigh that came deep from within.

The letter fluttered to the table—as if an exhausted butterfly seeking rest.

His gaze darted to a half-empty bottle sitting beside the letter, beckoning for him. A drinking glass clinked against the table as he set it down, reaching for the bottle.

Oh boy… here we go again! Does he drink? Does he rest? Does he call the number on the letter!?

Rafal’s mind drifted as he spun the empty glass in his hand, slowly turning it round and round.

The childhood days flashed in his mind, his grandomother’s gentle smile in the kitchen and the smell of hickory and cinnamon. She liked to bake her cinnamon rolls in a wood stove, it gave the buns a very specific taste unlike any he had ever tasted again. Stuck in a limbo between a daydream and an express trip down memory lane, he sighed, remembering the bad as well as the good.

The silence persisted; intense and lengthy.

It grew ever heavier with each breath he took. There were no whispers of the wind, no chatter of the TV. Nothing. Just him, alone, in the kitchen. He recalled going out into the forest with his grandfather, his words echoes clearly on his mind ‘when the forest falls silent, you hide or you run.’

He could hear his slow but heavy heartbeat in his ears–the only sound present.

Unease washed over him.

His muscles tightened, his jaw clenched as his instincts flared up. A single thought persevered in his mind. ‘Fear.’ He tried to swallow the unease, but it stood as a knot in his throat. Sweat beading on his brow.

A sudden screech, that sounded like a siren, made him jump. It came from behind—a cooking alarm. His bread was done.

Rafal shook his head, regaining his composure as he took a deep breath.

“Perfect timing, as always,” Rafal muttered under his breath, silencing the alarm.

His fears and worries scattered, the silence slithered into the dark corners from whence it came, as the business of an ordinary day resumed.

After the bread was taken care of and the call had been made, he grabbed the coat, keys, and the letter, and left.

Return

The drive was quiet, and a few hours later—Rafal had reached the address provided to him by the agent dealing with his grandmother’s inheritance. The light of the day was slowly fading, as if consumed by an all-devouring beast, the mountains behind which the sun began to set. He stood on the driveway, sizing the mansion in which he spent a lot of his younger days. It felt surreal—like a dream, or perhaps a nightmare.

The mansion was split evenly in half—not just by age, but also the intent.

The right half of the mansion was renewed and reconstructed, made to look Asian in colors and style. That was the storefront of the Juhle’s Curiosities, a trinket shop his grandmother ran. The other half was a stark contrast—a rustic mansion.

It was dark. Cobwebs in the corners.

Wind howled like an angered beast as it blew through an open window, fluttering like a playful child.

Rafal shuddered; he had never seen the mansion in such a pitiful state. It must’ve stood empty for a few years at least, judging by its condition. He fiddled with the keys in his hand, one for the store, and the other for the mansion.

Where shall he head in first? The mansion? Or the store? Or perhaps he’ll just choose to drive away?

Rafal heard a distant noise, a chaotic screech—as if a banshee in the night. It was closing in fast.

His heart skipped a beat as his gaze wandered up to the roof of the mansion. Over it, a black mass erupted. Half engulfed by the setting fog, it was an unmistakable sight–a murder of crows unlike any he had ever seen before.

The peaceful, albeit eerie silence, was now gone, replaced by the chaotic screeching of the crows as they rushed overhead like a torrent of fear. The murder of crows surged through the sky, disappearing as swiftly as they appeared. The screams settled at last, but Rafal took a moment longer to catch his breath.

“Yap… not creepy at all.”

Reaching into his car, he grabbed a flashlight before approaching the door of the mansion, armed with a light in 1 hand, and the key to the door in the other.

The massive oak door with a rusted iron handle groaned unwillingly as he pushed it open after undoing the lock. The creak of the rusted hinges echoed through the mansion like a howl of a ghost, or perhaps a vicious beast.

He shone the light inside—a massive staircase presented itself right in front of the door. He entered hesitantly, and in that moment

“SLAM”.

The door was shut violently by a gust of wind. He jumped, recoiling a few steps from the door as though expecting a ghost to leap at him next. Nothing. Only silence-interrupted by the howling of the wind as it danced through the empty mansion, occasionally rattling papers and making the paintings dance on the walls.

He glanced around, recalling his childhood in this mansion.

To the right would be a hallway leading to the storefront.

To the left—the banquet hall and dining room, past it was the kitchen.

On the right side of the staircase was the library where his grandfather used to spend most of his free time.

To the left, pas the staircase was a workshop—his grandmother’s. That’s where she restored, polished up and prepared the trinkets for sale.

So where shall he go? The store? Library? Workshop? Dining/kitchen area? Or perhaps–up the stairs?

Creaks

Each step he took echoed through the mansion. The old wooden floor was reluctant to be used again, but as he walked further, deeper into the mansion, past the staircase, he grew used to the creaks of the wooden floorboards.

Something glistened in the light.

Approaching a little stand, he saw a little golden collar-pin in the shape of a Chinese monkey covering its ears, resting upon an old newspaper that had been read many times.

Rafal grabbed the pin, examining it. It was small but incredibly detailed, and it appeared to be solid gold.

“Wow,” he marveled. The monkey’s eyes were little emeralds. Putting it in his pocket, he turned his attention to the newspaper and gasped when he read the title.

Article

“Manslaughter In Broad Daylight.”

The words were written in a font that resembled knife-carvings. A suitable font for the article. His jaw locked up as he gritted his teeth. His brow twitched and his handles began to tremble. Rage clawed its way into his mind from the deepest recesses of his subconsciousness.

“Fuckers. Useless, good for nothing fuckers,” he growled.

He forced his eyes down the column, skimming the article he had read far too many times. A single tear rolled down his cheek, “First Grandpa, and now Grandma—” he suddenly found himself bearing an overwhelming sense of loneliness. He was now alone in the world.

And this article? Grandmother must’ve been reading it over and over. It detailed his grandfather’s murder. A hard-working man who had just returned to his apartment after a hard day’s work. He worked a month-on-month-off shift as a park ranger and lived in a small cabin on the forest’s property. One day, someone poisoned him and then killed him in cold blood.

He slammed his fist down on the little stand and paused. Without realizing it—he was holding his breath. As the sound reverberated throughout the mansion and eventually stopped. A loud creak of a floorboard from above responded, as if the mansion itself replied to his anger.

“Hah?”

Rafal gasped, turning his head swiftly toward the stairs.

Silence.

“ANYONE HERE?”

He shouted.

Silence.

“Hah, haha. I’m losing it.”

As Rafal turned, the floor creaked under him with each step he took, making his heart sink a little. On the off chance, he flicked the light switch. To his surprise, the mansion lit up, albeit the light was sporadic. Only a handful of lights worked, and they were few and far between.

Library

As soon as Rafal reached the library door and pushed it open, he realized that the door and its hignes were silent.

It opened effortlessly, but oddly enough, it made no sound whatsoever. There wasn’t a coiling of the spring in the handle, nor a squeak of the rusted hinges. Nothing. As he took a step in, the floor too remained silent for once.

The silence grew heavy; it felt as if it were pressing on his ears, like sinking deeper underwater, feeling that pressure increase. From a mansion that squeaked, creaked, and groaned from the moment he entered, the silence was unexpected. It felt intimidating.

He swallowed hard, but that too made no noise he’d expect. The only sound he could hear was his own, rhythmic heartbeat in his ears. His grandfather’s words echoed in his mind, ‘When the forest turns silent, you hide or you run.’

Rafal thought he heard a familiar clank, followed by a long, tired sigh.

Slowly, very slowly, as if prey cornered by a predator, he turned his head toward a recliner chair where his grandfather often sat. On the table beside it stood a bottle of brandy, and an empty glass. His thoughts raced.

“Sit with me, boy,” he mumbled to himself, repeating his grandfather’s words. They felt so convincing, inviting, and—real.

As Rafal turned to approach the chair he felt uneasy, the eerie silence wasn’t leaving him in peace. He reached for the golden monkey-pin he picked up earlier and twisted it in his hand as he approached his grandfather’s chair and sat down with a heavy sigh.

“What are you,” he mumbled to himself. His voice silent, distant, but his attention drifting from the pin to the bottle.

Toss the pin and pour a drink? Stash the pin and pour a drink? Pick up the bottle and look over it? Or perhaps just take a breather for a moment? Or something else? What shall he do?

He sighed, putting the pin down on the table and grasping the bottle instead. As he brought it closer to look over it, he chuckled.

“Brandy’s Brandy,” he read the label.

“1965.”

There was still a bit in it. As he leaned back in the recliner, it creaked. Something popped, and then suddenly he was flung backward as the mechanism failed and the recliner did what it was designed for–it reclined, suddenly and violently.

“Whoa!”

Rafal gasped, grasping tightly onto the bottle so as not to spill it. The leg rest shut up from under him. The chair creaked softly as it rocked back and forth.

“Hah, thanks grandpa, I guess—” he mumbled softly. His voice–thin and soft, as if a ghost that might just disappear any moment.

He forced a smile in a desperate attempt to fight off the sorrow that began to well up within him.

Then, a knock came. A soft but confident knock, on the library’s door. And then another.

He froze, his gaze glued to the wide-open door to the library.

There was nothing there. A chill coiled through his body like a slithering serpent, clenching his heart and chilling his bones.

He felt cool air brush through his hair. The knock came again.

He could hear the faint creaking of hinges, no.

It wasn’t hinges. ‘A breath’, he noted to himself.

It was a shallow, quiet breath. Something was at the threshold, waiting for him to answer the door.

Rafal could feel his skin crawl.

He could feel his hair standing and his body prickling.

“W-who is it?”

Rafal managed at last. There was only another knock in response.

Does he–open the door? Take a swig of the brandy? Remain silent? Hide?

Threshold to the Other Side

After a few more knocks, his rattled mind began to boil with fury.

He popped the brandy open and took a swig of it for bravery.

“Alright, you know what? I might be losing my mind, but you’re about to lose your everything else! Whatever it is that ghosts have to lose,” he stood up, setting the bottle back on the table. His gaze was sharp and focused on the wide-open door.

Beyond the threshold another soft creak came.

Rafal stormed toward it, fists clenched at his sides.

As Rafal approached the door and exhaled, he could suddenly see his breath. White misty cloud before him—the temperature dropped in an instant.

He paused for a moment, his mind screamed for him to hide, but something else was the driving force behind his actions. He reached for the door handle, despite the fact that the door was already open.

Rafal hesitantly twisted his hand in the empty air, and then stepped aside, pulling open the nothingness; and then he stepped through it, coming face to face with… nothing. He blinked.

The lights dimmed and then flickered-just once. In that moment, the shadows turned toward him, each glaring furiously at him.

“Agh,” he shrieked. A frightened cry that cut through the otherwise silent space. Stumbling backwards, he shut his eyes, petrified.

When the lights steadied, and silence returned, he slowly reopened his eyes to discover-nothing. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just him-alone and afraid. As he exhaled, trying to regain his composure, the lights went out again. The floor gave out beneath him, the door, the mansion, it all vanished into the void of nothingness.

Sleep

As if falling asleep, Rafal found himself succumbing to the darkness.

When his senses returned, they came at first in the form of a scratching pen on paper. His vision returned next—he was sitting at his grandmother’s desk, scribbling into her diary.

He stopped the writing and stared for a long while at the text in the diary. It was unmistakably his grandmother’s, even though the ink was fresh on the pages. His hand trembled as he slowly lowered the pen down, his eyes darting to the beginning paragraph to read what he had just written.

“I’ve just returned from my trip during which, Mr. Liang handed me this curious brooch in the shape of monkey. It was one of the Three Wise Monkeys, one with its ears covered—Hear No Evil. A curious little thing it was; its eyes were two tiny, but perfect emeralds.”

“On the first night, since I had returned home, I notied just how quiet the world around me had become. An odd thing that I dismissed at first, but with time it became more prominent. Silence, it was loud, deafening. As if I had suddenly been plunged into a lake, sinking deeper and deeper every passing second.”

“Soon I could no longer hear my own thoughts.”

the diary read.

The next page wasn’t any less unsettling.

“I sold it earlier today; the world, the sound of life had returned. But the brooch wasn’t done with me yet. It returned to me. Somehow.”

“I was out at the market, a boy toppled a cabbage cart. A crow, struck by a stone, fell onto the messy pile of cabbages; and the brooch was in its beak. I picked it up.”

“The owner did not answer my calls, so I put it back for sale in hopes of ridding of it for good.”

“It’s been a week. I sold the brooch three times, it keeps returning. Some might call it a blessing, an item I keep reselling, but to me—it’s a curse.”

“Sleep became a luxury. One would think—silence is good for sleeping, but not to this extent. My own heartbeat sounded like roaring thunder. The mansion no longer creaked as I traversed it.”

“…”

“Please.”

“Please, return it to me.”

Rafal’s eyes lingered for a while longer on the last line. The wet ink still glistened slightly in the light. He swallowed hard as he reached up to the page with his trembling hand. His fingertips just barely touched the aged parchment before smudging the ink. He jerked his hand away, shaking his head in disbelief.

“No, what the hells?”

The diary snapped shut in front of him. The clap was sharp, sudden, and final.

As he jumped up from the chair, the floorboard beneath him creaked, but it wasn’t the creak that made his heart sink. ‘Knock, knock,’ came a sound from the door. The room suddenly felt chilly.

Rafal felt his skin crawl with unease yet again; his eyes welled up. He turned slowly toward the door. Very slowly.

The door was closed, and for a moment, he couldn’t quite tell if it was his pulse or the knocking on the door that echoed through the room.

Then it came again. ‘Knock, knock,’ each in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Slow and steady, almost soft and familiar. He took a hesitant step forth. Rafal thought he heard a soft whisper, that half sounded like a distant groan of rusted hinges. He couldn’t quite make out the words but he thought he heard his name called in a pleading manner.

The last words in the diary bubbled up in his thoughts. He shuddered. His heart sank and his thoughts raced; competing with his instincts to flee, to leap out of the nearest window.

The deafening silence persisted. He glanced down at his hand where he held the brooch so firmly that his fingers turned white.

‘I need to get rid of it,’ he thought to himself. His gaze wandered to the open window where a curtain fluttered about like a ghost in the night.

THE END