Handprints

They just keep coming back.

I stare at the walls. The walls that I keep painting over. I've tried every colour. Plain white, yellow, blue, pink, black, red. And camouflage paint, too.

And still, they keep coming back.

To anyone on the outside, it probably all seems fairly innocuous. Handprints on the walls. If I walked into this room without knowing anything about it, without knowing what I know now, I'd probably feel that handprints on the walls was a truly unique decorating idea.

But it doesn't matter what I do. They just keep coming back.

I don't know why. I've looked into it, believe me. Tried to search for the house's history. Probably should have been suspicious about how cheap the house was, but I needed somewhere fast. I suppose it's on me for not asking the right questions, but I never even considered this.

I don't believe in ghosts. Spirits. Ghouls. Whatever you want to call them. I've always been a practical person. If I can't see it, or feel it, it doesn't exist.

But I can see these. The handprints.

It's always this room. The one at the very top of the house. The first time I walked in, I saw the handprints. Maybe I should have realised something was strange then, but the realtor didn't act surprised. And I thought it was just normal wallpaper. Until I painted over them and they began bleeding through once more.

It feels cold in here, but the temperature hasn't dropped. When I check the thermostat, it's still just the same as normal. The rest of the house is normal. Warm. I don't have to stand here, staring at the handprints. I don't have to enter this room at all. I could lock it up. Put it out of my mind. Leave whatever secrets lie here buried.

The last time I tried to do that, I woke up with hands wrapped around my throat.

Night terror. That was what the doctor said. Not fully awake, not fully asleep. After all, I had no marks on my neck in the morning. I didn't see anyone. But I felt it. And it wasn't a nightmare, or a night terror. I don't know what it was, but I'm sure of one thing.

It doesn't want to be locked away.

I've never tried to count how many handprints there are. Thought about it, of course. On those rare few days that I'm dying of boredom, I've considered it. Walked into the room and stared at the wall. Wondered if the amount is truly growing, or if it just looks like it is.

There's nothing else out of the ordinary about this house. I haven't noticed anything else. No sense of dread. No cold spots. Nothing spooky, apart from when I tried to close off the room.

They want to be seen. Or it does. I don't even know. Who do the handprints belong to? They're all different sizes. All in different places over the walls. If I tried to stand up on tiptoe to reach them, I wouldn't succeed. They were put there somehow, but by who? What? What secrets does this room hold?

I should leave the room. I should ignore it. Pretend that it doesn't exist. Out of sight, out of mind, right? I even tell my feet to walk to the door. My body to turn round

But no messages are travelling from my brain to the rest of my body. And when my body finally does move, it's in the wrong direction. Like wires have been crossed somewhere in my mind.

I walk to the wall opposite me. I stand, almost nose-to-nose with one of the prints. When I breathe in, I can smell smoke. Like the handprints have been burned into the wall.

As if of its own accord, my hand raises. Presses against the wall.

It's hot to the touch. The heat sinks into my palm. Engulfs my fingers. I feel the skin burning, but it feels distant, somehow. Like this is only a dream and I'll wake up soon.

And now you're mine.

The sibilant whisper works its way into my mind. Into my head. It winds around my thoughts like smoke.

You should have run when you had the chance.

The stench of burning meat fills my nostrils. It takes longer than it should for me to realise that it's coming from me. From my own hand, pressed against the wall. The flesh is becoming blackened and charred, dropping off.

All that's left is my handprint. Burned into the wall.

Welcome to my collection, the voice of the house murmurs into my mind.

They're all around me now. The rest of the souls the house has collected. I'm stuck here.

All that's left behind is my handprint.