The Hollow Guest

The rain lashed against the windows of the old puritanical house, a grim shower that echoed through its empty halls. Clara had inherited the place from her great-aunt, a woman she slightly knew, who’d lived alone and failed alone in this worsening relic on the edge of city. The house was a maze of creaking floorboards and shadowed corners, its wallpaper shelling like dead skin. Clara, a realistic woman in her thirties, didn't believe in ghosts. She’d come to sort through the clutter, vend what she could, and put the place on the request. But as the storm raged outdoors, the house felt alive, its palpitation wheezing in the walls. She started in the garret, where dust motes danced in the weak light of a single bulb. Trunks overflowed with moth-eat clothes and yellowed letters. One point stood out: a small, tarnished glass with an ornate frame, its glass clouded and depraved. Clara’s reflection looked malformed, her eyes too large, her mouth a thin rent. She set it away, unsettled, and moved on to a mound of journals. Her great-aunt’s handwriting was spidery, compulsive, filled with references to" the guest. ” It watches from the corners. It wears my face. Clara fiddled, dismissing it as the ramblings of a lonely mind. Downward, the house moaned under the storm’s assault. Clara lit a fire in the salon, the dears casting fluttering murk on the walls. She tried to concentrate on listing cabinetwork, but the glass from the garret kept drawing her eye. She’d brought it down without thinking, propping it on the mantel. Now, it sounded to gawk back, its face splashing noiselessly, though she told herself it was just the firelight. By night, the storm had worsened, and the power flitted out. Clara cursed, fumbling for her phone’s flashlight. The ray cut through the darkness, revealing the salon’s faded majesty — and commodity differently. A shadow moved in the corner, too altitudinous, too thin, its edges blurring into the dusk. She swung the light toward it, heart pounding, but there was nothing. Just the glass reflecting her pale face and the empty room. She laughed nervously, reprimanding herself. “ Get a grip, Clara. ” But as she turned down, a soft creak came from the staircase. Not the house settling — deliberate, like steps. She set, hardening. Another creak, near. Her phone’s light quivered in her hand as she crept toward the hall. The air felt heavy, thick with the scent of damp wood and sharper, like burnt hair. “ Hello" Her voice was a tale, swallowed by the house. No answer, but the creaking stopped. She reached the staircase and shone her light overhead. The darkness sounded to palpitate, as if the house itself was breathing. Also, from the wharf over, a faint giggle — grandly, childlike, and hugely wrong. Clara’s blood ran cold. She was alone. She was supposed to be alone. She backed down, retreating to the salon, where the fire had downscale to embers. The glass caught her eye again, and this time, her reflection wasn't hers. The face was hers same brown eyes, same sharp cheekbones, but it smiled when she didn't, its lips entwining too wide, showing too numerous teeth. She stumbled back, knocking over a president. The glass fell, shattering on the domicile. Shards scattered, each one reflecting that same grotesque smile. The giggle came again, from far and wide and nowhere. Clara seized her phone and ran for the frontal door, but it wouldn't budge. The cinch was jammed, the handle cold wave as ice. She pounded on the wood, screaming for help, but the storm drowned her out. Commodity brushed her neck, light as a breath, and she spun around. Nothing. Just the dark, and the sense of being watched. She fled to the kitchen, blocking the door with a table. Her phone was at 5 battery, the flashlight dimming. She tried to call for help, but the signal was dead. The air grew colder, the murk thick. Also, from the other side of the hedge, a voice — her voice, but concave, mocking. “ Clara, let me in. ” She choked back a sob, clinging a kitchen cutter. The voice kept talking, reciting her studies, her fears, her nonage secrets. “ You left Mom alone when she was sick," it whizzed. “ You didn't indeed cry at her burial," Clara screamed, hurling the cutter at the door. It stuck, jiggling, but the voice only laughed. The house sounded to close in, walls bending inward. She ran upstairs this time, locking herself in a bedroom. The glass’s shards were there, incredibly, scattered on the bottom. In each piece, that face — her face, but not — goggled back, unblinking — the room filled with whispers, a chorus of her voice, culminating, riding. “ You can't leave. You’re part of me now. ” Clara sank to the bottom, handing over her knowledge. The storm outside faded, replaced by a silence so deep it hurt. She felt it also — the guest. It wasn't outside her, not presently. It was in her skin, her blood, her studies. Her reflection in the shards blinked, though her eyes stayed open. When morning came, the storm had passed. The house stood quietly, its door uncorked. Clara was gone, her car still in the drive. The glass was whole again, its glass clear, reflecting nothing but the empty room. And in the garret, a new journal entry appeared, in Clara’s handwriting It wears my face now. It’s home.