OJboss

The house didn’t sit on the cliff so much as it clung to it, like a desperate man holding onto a ledge. They called it Blackwood Hall. The locals in the village below didn't look at it when they walked past the iron gates. They crossed themselves and hurried home before the fog rolled in. I didn't know any of this when I bought it. I was twenty-six, fleeing a life in the city that had crumbled into dust, and the low asking price felt like a miracle, not a warning. The first night, the silence was so heavy it felt like a physical weight. Then came the scratching. It started inside the walls of the master bedroom—a slow, rhythmic scritch, scritch, scritch , like long fingernails dragging against plaster. I sat up, my heart hammering against my ribs, clutching the duvet to my chin. "Hello?" I called out, my voice trembling. The scratching stopped. Then, from the hallway darkness, came a sound that froze my blood. A low, wet chuckle. I didn't sleep that ni...