Chrrr-Chrrr-Chrrr

Elion Grey, a first-year university student, had dreamt of freedom and new beginnings.

But without a seat in the university dorms, he was forced to accept a strange offer:

to live in a derelict old house—abandoned by most, ignored by all—at the very end of a dead, narrow street.

The Squatter, a friend of the owner, rented the house to him for almost nothing.

The only condition:

"Keep it clean. Look after it. Don’t cause trouble."

From the very first night, the house whispered with unease.

Soft tapping behind the walls.

Floorboards groaning under unseen footsteps.

A cold draft, even with every window bolted shut.

Footsteps pattering on the creaky stairs.

And sometimes, in the dead of night, a sound—distant and chilling—like a woman or young child laughing.

During lunch break at the university, Elion confided in his friends—Kain and Sana—about the strange sounds and fleeting shadows he was experiencing.

At first, they teased him, laughing about his "ghost trap" of a house.

But one afternoon, Kain leaned closer, voice low and serious.

"That house," he said. "You know it’s haunted, right?"

Elion tried to laugh it off. "Come on. That's just superstition—"

"Real," Sana cut in sharply. "A woman disappeared there. After she abused her own kid. They say her spirit never left. And if you stay too long..."

She lowered her voice to a whisper.

"She finds you."

A chill prickled across Elion’s skin.

Maybe the creaks and groans weren’t just the house settling.

Maybe it was something worse.

He realized he could no longer blame it on imagination alone.

But he had no idea the truth was darker than any ghost story.

The haunting grew heavier with each passing day.

A rusty old baby rattle would mysteriously appear on his bed when he returned from class—sometimes lying on the floor, gently rocking, even though the air was still.

Footsteps echoed at night, stopping just outside his bedroom door.

His belongings moved on their own.

Once, muddy footprints smeared across his pillow.

The house was alive. Watching him.

And it was pulling him deeper into its hollow, rotting heart.

Late one night, while studying, Elion heard the faint, unmistakable jingle of a rattle from underneath his bed.

When he looked—nothing was there.

The front door would creak open at night, even when bolted.

At dawn, faint, wet footprints would trail from the porch right into his bedroom.

The house breathed.

The shadows shifted when he wasn't looking.

Something unseen lingered just out of sight, always waiting.

Terrified, Elion decided to seek answers.

One evening, he approached an elderly woman sitting by the roadside.

The neighbor narrowed her eyes and said,

"Stay away from that house, son. Some things are better left buried."

Still, Elion couldn’t let it go.

He decided to explore every inch of the cursed house.

One stormy evening, while inspecting the dusty old library, Elion discovered a hidden staircase behind a cracked, rotting bookshelf.

It led down to a crumbling, forgotten basement.

The air was thick—heavy with mold and something darker.

Rot and regret.

In one corner, he found a shallow mound of dirt, shaped eerily like a grave.

Nearby, fragments of an old newspaper clung together under the damp.

One headline screamed:

"Mother Accused of Abusing Mentally Challenged Son—Disappears After Domestic Dispute"

Ania Marin, it said, was a cruel mother.

She had abused her autistic son, Jonas.

One night, after a violent argument with her husband, the entire family vanished without a trace.

Her husband, Rhys Marin, was suspected but never charged.

Soon after, he and his son disappeared from public life.

Elion’s hands shook.

His heart thundered against his ribs.

And then—

a voice, close behind him:

"You know too much."

Realization hit him hard. The house was not empty—it never was.

A gaunt, hollow-eyed man emerged from the shadows.

Rhys Marin.

Alive.

In his trembling hand, the baby rattle swung gently, crying its thin, ghostly song.

"I... I had to do it," Rhys rasped.

"My wife... she hurt Jonas. Hurt him until he barely spoke. One night, I lost control."

Tears welled in his eyes.

"I buried her here. I had no choice."

Rhys staggered closer.

"I spread the rumors," he confessed.

"Ghost stories. Curses. Anything to keep people—especially the addicts and thieves—away. I even kept the rent low... to hide why someone still lived here."

He swallowed, voice raw with sorrow.

"As a murderer, I can't work. Renting was the only way I could provide for Jonas. If they found out, they'd lock me away—and he would be alone. Alone forever."

Elion stared at him, horror clawing up his spine.

The cheap rent, the haunting—all of it was a desperate man's lie.

But now—

Elion knew too much.

And Rhys’s wild, broken eyes made it clear:

he couldn’t be allowed to leave.

Without thinking, Elion ran.

Up the rotting stairs.

Through the collapsing hallway.

Out into the screaming night.

The rain smashed down, cold and pitiless.

Behind him, Rhys howled—a raw, animal sound of grief and rage.

Lightning split the sky in jagged veins.

Elion sprinted through the mud, slipping, gasping, clawing his way back to the flickering lights of the city.

He didn’t dare look back.

Within days, Elion moved into a cramped, overpriced apartment far from that cursed street.

One window.

One door.

One bed.

But at least he was safe.

At least... he thought so.

That night, as rain tapped against the grimy windowpane, Elion lay awake, haunted by memories.

The storm outside howled.

The storm inside his mind screamed louder.

And then—

from the blackest corner of the room, where the shadows bled into each other—

he heard it.

Chrrr-chrrr-chrrr...

The soft, patient jingle of a baby's rattle.

Rocking.

Waiting.

Elion froze.

A hollow coldness filled the room, swallowing every breath.

And he realized—

Some hauntings aren't tied to places.

Some hauntings follow you home.