Don’t Open the Door: A True American Horror Story You’ll Never Forget

 Don’t Open the Door: A True American Horror Story You’ll Never Forget

It was a cold October night in the small town of Pineville, Ohio. The wind howled through the trees, and the streets were empty. Everyone was inside, preparing for Halloween. But 18-year-old Emily Parker and her younger brother Jake were stuck at home. Their parents had gone to a dinner party, leaving them alone in their new house—an old farmhouse they had moved into just three weeks ago.

Emily wasn’t scared at first. She had watched enough horror movies to know most of them were fake. But Jake, only 12, was nervous.

“What if something happens?” he asked, looking out the window.

“Don’t be silly,” Emily replied. “Nothing ever happens in this boring town.”

But she was wrong.

The Knock at the Door

It started around 9:30 p.m. The house was quiet except for the sound of a scary movie playing in the living room. That’s when they heard it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three slow knocks at the front door.

Emily paused the movie. “Who could that be?” she asked aloud.

Jake looked scared. “Don’t open it,” he whispered.

“It’s probably just someone trick-or-treating,” Emily said, walking toward the door.

But when she looked through the peephole, no one was there.

She opened the door slowly. The porch was empty. A cold wind blew in, and she shivered.

“Weird…” she muttered, closing the door and locking it.

The Second Knock

Ten minutes later, it happened again.

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Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time, it was louder. Slower. Heavier.

Emily ran to the door and looked through the peephole. Again—no one.

Jake was now crying. “Please don’t open the door again,” he begged.

Emily hesitated. She didn’t open it this time. She locked all the windows instead. But deep inside, something felt wrong. She could feel it—they weren’t alone anymore.

Voices in the Walls

Around 10:15 p.m., the lights started flickering.

The TV turned off on its own. Jake screamed.

Then, they heard whispers coming from inside the walls.

“Don’t… open… the door…”

Emily froze. “Did you hear that?”

Jake nodded. “It came from the hallway.”

Emily grabbed her phone and tried to call her parents—but the phone had no signal. No Wi-Fi either.

Something Is Inside the House

Suddenly, a shadow moved across the hallway.

Emily turned to Jake. “Stay behind me,” she said, holding a flashlight.

They moved carefully through the house, checking each room.

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The kitchen… empty.

The dining room… empty.

The basement door… open.

“I didn’t leave that open,” Emily whispered.

Just then, they heard something crawl up the stairs from the basement.

Thump. Thump. Drag.

Something was coming. Something heavy. Something not human.

The Door That Should Never Be Opened

They ran back to the living room and locked the basement door. Jake was shaking.

“Emily,” he said, “I read something online about this house.”

Emily turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“People say it’s haunted. A man named Mr. Caldwell lived here. He went crazy and locked his family in the basement... then disappeared.”

Emily’s heart dropped. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I thought it was just a rumor.”

Suddenly, they heard the knocks again.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

This time, it came from the inside of the house. From the basement door.

“Don’t open it,” Jake whispered again.

But the door slowly began to open… by itself.

The Face in the Darkness

Emily grabbed a kitchen knife. They stood frozen, staring at the dark opening.

From the shadows, a face appeared. Pale. Empty eyes. Mouth stitched shut.

Then it vanished.

Jake screamed.

They ran to the garage to hide, locking the door behind them. Emily found an old hammer and held it tightly.

“We need to stay here until Mom and Dad get back,” she said.

But then her phone lit up.

One new message:

“Too late. You already opened the door.

Morning Comes Too Late

When their parents returned at dawn, the house was quiet.

The front door was open. The TV was on. Emily and Jake were gone.

The only thing left was a note on the wall, scratched in deep red:

Every heart deserves a home. Let this help you find the one who makes your soul feel complete

“DON’T OPEN THE DOOR.”

The police never found Emily or Jake. The house was searched top to bottom—no sign of them. Only strange symbols were found on the basement walls.

Locals say on some nights in October, you can still hear:

Knock. Knock. Knock.

And if you’re brave—or foolish—enough to open the door, you might just join Emily and Jake…

Forever.

Echoes in the Attic: The Secret That Refused to Stay Hidden

 Echoes in the Attic: The Secret That Refused to Stay Hidden

Story:

Echoes in the Attic: The Secret That Refused to Stay Hidden

When Emily Parker moved into the old Victorian house in Willow Creek, Maine, she thought it was a dream come true. The house was big, beautiful, and affordable. Emily, a 27-year-old freelance writer, needed peace to finish her first novel. Willow Creek offered just that — or so she thought.

From her first night, strange things began to happen.

It started with soft thuds from the attic. Emily ignored it, thinking it was just the house settling. But the sounds grew louder each night. Thuds became footsteps, and footsteps turned into whispers.

"Probably squirrels," Emily told herself.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the woods, Emily sat at her desk near the window. She was deep in writing when she heard it — a soft, chilling giggle coming from above.

She froze.

Her heart pounded. She grabbed a flashlight and walked slowly toward the attic door. Her hand trembled as she reached for the handle.

The attic door creaked open with a long, painful moan. Cold air brushed against her face. She shone her flashlight into the darkness.

Nothing.

Just dusty old furniture and broken trunks.

But as she turned to leave, she heard it again — a whisper.

"Emily..."

She ran downstairs, locking the attic door behind her.

The next morning, she called her best friend, Daniel Carter.

"You’re just stressed," Daniel said over the phone. "Old houses make weird noises. Relax. I’ll come by tomorrow."

That night, Emily tried to sleep, but the attic wouldn't let her. The sounds were louder now — banging, dragging, crying.

At midnight, she snapped.

She grabbed a chair, placed it under the attic door, and sat with a baseball bat, staring up, waiting for anything to come down.

Nothing did.

At dawn, Daniel arrived.

"You look terrible," he said, concerned.

Emily told him everything. Daniel, skeptical but wanting to help, suggested they check the attic together.

They climbed up slowly. Dust floated in the air like tiny ghosts. The attic was still.

Until Emily noticed something.

One of the trunks was open.

Inside, they found old photographs, yellowed with age. The pictures showed a family — a mother, a father, and two little girls. But something was wrong. In every photo, the younger girl’s eyes were scratched out.

Beneath the photos was a diary.

Emily flipped it open. It belonged to a girl named Anna Wilson.

The last entry chilled Emily to the bone:

"Mommy says I’m bad. Daddy locks me in the attic. I hear whispers. They tell me secrets. Mommy cries. Daddy screams. But the attic keeps me safe."

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Emily and Daniel exchanged a terrified glance.

"Anna must have lived here," Emily whispered.

Daniel nodded. "And maybe... maybe she still does."

That night, Emily couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw a little girl in a white dress at the foot of her bed.

By 3 a.m., Emily heard scratching at her bedroom door.

Slow. Deep. Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Terrified, she pulled the covers over her head. When she finally dared to peek, she saw faint footprints — small, dirty footprints — leading from the door to her bed.

The next morning, Emily decided to leave. She couldn’t take it anymore.

As she packed, she noticed something odd. Her reflection in the mirror was smiling — but she wasn’t.

She screamed and ran to Daniel’s house.

"Emily, you’re scaring me," he said. "Maybe you should talk to someone."

"No! This house... it’s haunted, Daniel!"

Daniel agreed to help her move out.

When they returned to the house, they found the front door wide open.

Inside, the house was freezing cold.

As they walked in, the attic door swung open violently, slamming against the wall.

From the top of the stairs, a small figure watched them — a little girl, her face pale and bruised, her eyes black voids.

"Stay with me," she whispered.

Daniel grabbed Emily’s arm. "Run!"

They sprinted outside, jumping into Daniel’s truck. As they sped away, Emily looked back.

In the attic window, Anna watched them, smiling sadly.

Emily moved in with Daniel after that. She never returned to Willow Creek.

But sometimes, late at night, she swears she hears faint scratching at the window... and the soft giggle of a little girl.

The echoes in the attic had followed her.

A Haunting Too Close: When Evil Moved In Next Door

 A Haunting Too Close: When Evil Moved In Next Door

Jessica Harper never believed in ghosts. She was a twenty-eight-year-old marketing manager who had just bought her first home in a quiet suburb of Portland, Oregon. The house was cozy, the neighborhood was friendly, and everything seemed perfect — until the Morgan family moved in next door.

At first, they seemed normal. Richard Morgan, his wife Emily, and their teenage daughter Sophie smiled and waved when they arrived. But Jessica noticed something strange right away — their house stayed dark, even at night. No lights, no laughter, no sounds. It felt... wrong.

One evening, Jessica sat by her window, sipping coffee. She watched as Richard stood motionless in his driveway for hours, staring at her house. His face was blank, his body completely still. Jessica’s heart raced. She pulled the curtains closed.

The next morning, she found muddy footprints leading from the Morgan house to her front door.

She convinced herself it was just kids playing a prank. But when she checked her security camera footage, she saw nothing — no one had approached her house all night. Still, the muddy footprints were real.

That night, Jessica heard whispering outside her window. Soft, almost kind... but impossible to ignore.

"Let us in," the voice said.

She jumped from her bed and ran to the window. No one was there. Just the silent, dark house next door. She slept with the lights on.

Over the next week, things got worse.

Jessica's furniture moved by itself. Her cat, Milo, hissed at invisible things. Shadows crept along her walls, even when there was no light source. The house, once warm and inviting, turned cold and heavy with fear.

Desperate, Jessica tried to talk to the Morgans. She knocked on their door one afternoon, but no one answered. Yet through the frosted glass, she could see Sophie standing in the hallway, staring at her with wide, unblinking eyes.

Jessica stepped back, a chill running down her spine.

Later that night, she was jolted awake by loud banging on her front door.

Every heart deserves a home. Let this help you find the one who makes your soul feel complete

BAM! BAM! BAM!

She rushed downstairs but found no one there. Just the footprints again — this time, bloody and leading into her living room.

Terrified, Jessica called the police. Officer David Clark, a friendly local cop, arrived quickly. He inspected the house but found no signs of forced entry.

"Maybe you’re just stressed," he suggested kindly. "New house, new neighbors... it can mess with your head."

Jessica wanted to believe him. She really did.

But that night, she dreamed of the Morgans standing at the foot of her bed, their faces pale and rotten, whispering, "Let us in."

She woke up screaming.

The next day, Jessica visited the local library to do some research. She discovered something horrifying: the Morgan family had died two years ago — murdered in their home by a jealous neighbor. Their house had been empty ever since. The city never bothered to update the records.

The Morgans she had seen were not alive.

Trembling, Jessica ran home, only to find her house completely dark, even though she had left the lights on. Milo was missing. She called for him, but only the whispering answered.

"Stay... forever."

Jessica packed a bag. She knew she had to leave.

As she tried to start her car, the Morgans appeared in her rearview mirror — pale, twisted versions of themselves, grinning horribly. Jessica screamed and jumped out of the car. She ran to her neighbor across the street, Mr. Henderson, and banged on his door.

He let her in, confused but concerned. Through his window, they watched Jessica’s house as shadowy figures moved from room to room.

"You said the Morgans moved in?" Mr. Henderson asked, his face pale. "Jessica, the Morgans are dead."

"I know," Jessica whispered, tears streaming down her face.

The next morning, Jessica sold her house and left town without looking back.

As she drove away, she glanced in her rearview mirror one last time. Standing at the edge of the street were the Morgans, waving goodbye.

Smiling.

Waiting.

TRAPPED IN THE NIGHT

TRAPPED IN THE NIGHT

Sophia was sitting alone in our biology class, struggling with her notes on photosynthesis. The lecture had ended, and the classroom was nearly empty when she waved at me from her seat near the window.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, walking in from the hallway and sitting beside her.

“I just got a text,” she said, frowning. “My mom has to leave town in two hours for an urgent meeting. She won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon.”

I looked at her, confused. “So?”

“So… I’ll be alone at home tonight,” she said softly. A visible shiver ran through her. “And I’m really scared.”

I remembered then—her dad had left for Seattle last week and wouldn’t be back until next month. Her house, a big modern bungalow, was located on the edge of town, surrounded by trees and open land. The closest neighbor was more than a mile away.

“Shouldn’t your mom have thought this through?” I asked, slightly annoyed.

Her mother never seemed to realize how isolated that house was. With recent break-ins around the area, I didn’t like the idea of Sophia staying there alone. Sure, they had a guard at the gate—but was that really enough?

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Sophia seemed lost in thought. I could tell she didn’t want to be alone.

“I could come over tonight if you want,” I said gently. “We’ll finish the notes together.”

Relief washed over her face. “That would be amazing, Ethan. Come around 7:30. We’ll have dinner and finish our study notes.”

---

At exactly 7:15 PM, I parked my motorcycle in front of Sophia’s bungalow. The sky was dark. Thick clouds covered the stars, and lightning cracked across the sky. A storm was brewing. I didn’t want my bike to get soaked, so I pushed it along the side path toward the old garage area.

The garages were locked, but a small tool shed next to them was open. It looked dry enough, so I parked the bike inside. As I turned to leave, I noticed the drainpipe overhead was broken, but not enough to flood the shed. Satisfied, I headed back to the front door.

The rain started pouring as I rang the bell. Thunder echoed in the distance.

Sophia opened the door, her eyes lighting up when she saw me. She reached out and led me through the elegant living room filled with antique furniture and chandeliers, down a short hallway, and into her bedroom.

Her room was large and beautifully done up, with soft lights, velvet curtains, a single bed, and a cozy study corner. She sat down at her desk and motioned for me to take the bean bag nearby. As we got to work on our notes, she switched on the coffee machine.

Time flew by. Between pages and sips of coffee, we forgot about the storm outside—until we heard it.

A knock.

At first, it was faint. Then louder.

Sophia looked up. “Who could that be? The staff left hours ago.”

Before she could get up, the door burst open.

A short man wearing all black and a ski mask walked in, followed by a taller man holding a pistol with a silencer. My breath caught in my throat. Was this real?

Sophia stood up sharply. “Who are you?! What do you want?!”

The short man moved quickly, grabbing her by the hair and pressing a cloth over her nose. She struggled at first, but soon went limp in his arms.

I didn’t have time to move before something slammed into my head.

---

I don’t know how long I was out. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a cold floor. My head throbbed like it had been hit with a hammer. I tried to sit up but fell back, dizzy and weak.

A dim light was seeping through a gap in the door.

I looked around.

I was in the tool shed. The same one where I had parked my bike. I checked my watch—it was almost midnight. I had been unconscious for more than two hours.

My throat was dry, and my lips cracked. I tried to open the shed door—it was locked from outside. I shouted, banged the door, but no one came. Had the guard been attacked too?

Terrified and trembling, I stumbled around, hoping to find a way out. I fell near my bike and slumped to the floor again. Everything went black once more.

---

When I woke up again, the storm was still raging outside. I listened to the rain pounding on the tin roof. My mouth was desert-dry. My stomach growled. I was trapped. But then, I had a thought—my phone!

I searched my pockets—nothing. My heart sank. Did the robbers take it?

Wait… before entering the house, I had left it in the glove box of my bike.

I crawled over to the bike, my body shaking. I reached the glove box, opened it with trembling hands—and there it was. My phone!

I almost cried.

I dialed my dad.

No answer.

I tried again. And again. No luck. I tried my mom. Her phone was off. I began calling friends—still no signal. Or maybe they were asleep?

Suddenly, I heard the door creaking open.

I panicked. I shoved the phone behind a pile of garden tools and lay back on the floor, pretending to still be unconscious.

Through half-closed eyes, I saw the short man walk in…

Whispers from the Lake

​

---

Whispers from the Lake

Hey everyone, it's Emily! Today marks the first day of my songwriting retreat. I've just arrived at the cabin nestled by Lake Serenity, and it's absolutely beautiful! I'm thrilled to share this summer journey with you all.

​

This cabin is just what I needed—a peaceful place to write new songs and finish the ones I started during our tour.

​

Look at this place! Surrounded by forest, a serene lake, and no neighbors for miles. Well, maybe a few hundred meters, but still. And here's the cabin! It looks cozy, though a bit worn-down on the outside. The landlord mentioned he recently inherited it and hasn't had time to fix it up. But the real charm is inside!​Reedsy

Inside, I love the rustic wood paneling and the large windows that let in so much light. I didn't expect such big windows in a cabin this far north, but perhaps the original owners used it mainly in the summer. There's also a lovely fireplace, though I'm not sure if it still works.

​

And here's the highlight—a vintage upright piano! I'm so glad I found a cabin with a piano. There's something special about writing music on a real acoustic instrument. It feels more authentic than any electronic keyboard. Though I did bring my portable MIDI keyboard, just in case. This piano might be out of tune, but I'll try to fix it.

​

I'm planning to set up my laptop on the coffee table so I can place some mics near the piano and record my songwriting sessions.

​

Here's the small kitchen area. It has running water, and I've already stocked the fridge. These windows offer a beautiful view of the lake. I can imagine enjoying my morning coffee here.

Now, there's a door painted in a unique teal color. I'm guessing it's a storage room or shed. It's locked, and the landlord said he doesn't have a key. So, a little mystery for us!

​

Here's the bedroom. It's small, and I can barely stand straight in one corner, but it's cozy, like a hobbit-hole. I've started unpacking, so excuse the mess!

​

Now, let's check out the lake!

​

The air smells amazing—pine trees, fresh grass, and a cool breeze from the lake. I wish you could smell it through the screen! Can you hear the birds? Not sure if the camera mic picks it up, but I hope so.

​

I know I'll spend a lot of time here, drawing inspiration from nature.

​

I'm going to settle in now, play some

 piano—well, maybe try tuning it first—and I'll check in with you all soon! The reception here is a bit spotty, but I'll do my best to post regularly. See you soon! Bye!​

---

Summer Vlog – Part 2

Hey, guys! It's my second day at the cabin. Last night, I stayed up late working on a new song. I think I dreamed a melody. Isn't it funny how our minds work?

​

Sometimes, I hear a song in my sleep, and in the dream, it's the most incredible thing I've ever heard. But when I wake up, it's not as impressive. Or worse—it’s a song I've heard before. But occasionally, I get a real song idea from my dreams.

​

Even when I'm awake, it feels like songs already exist somewhere, and I just have to write them down before they slip away. Other times, it's like solving a puzzle: I have all these pieces and need to figure out where they fit. When I find the right spot, it just falls into place.

​

Maybe there's a place where all the songs and stories live, and we're here to write them down. Who knows?

Anyway, I tuned the piano as best I could. A couple of keys are still slightly off, but I didn't want to push it and risk breaking something. It's good enough for now!

​

Alright, I'm going to write some new songs. You all have a good one, and I'll check in with you soon! Bye

---

Summer Vlog – Part 3

Okay, guys, this is strange.

Remember how I said I dreamed of a melody? Well, now I'm not sure it was just a dream. I've been hearing this melody in my sleep every night, and last night, I woke up—but the song didn't stop. I could still hear someone—or something—humming it. It was very soft, but definitely there. I tried recording it, but my mic didn't pick up anything, just background noise.

​

I'm not making this up.

​

This song is beautiful, full of longing, but it gives me

The Girl by the Creek

 .

---

The Girl by the Creek

Date of Incident: April 2 2025

You don’t see this kind of thing every day. Or maybe… some do.

I’ve lived in this neighborhood for almost 18 years now. And not once—not once—have I heard anyone mention something like this happening.

Anyway, let me start from the beginning.

I’m Nathan. Just your average 20-year-old guy. College student. I like to relax after class, usually by walking around the neighborhood. Sometimes I go for long walks—no real

 destination, just wherever the path takes me. I live alone. My family moved to another state a couple years ago, to one of our other properties, but I chose to stay behind to focus on school.

Our house—my current home—is the first one my parents ever bought, so yeah, there’s a lot of nostalgia. And peace. Lots of peace. Maybe too much sometimes.

The neighborhood is quiet. Like… eerily quiet. There are rows of big fancy houses here, most of them empty. A few people live around, but everyone keeps to themselves. No street parties, no kids on bikes, no backyard barbecues. Just… silence.

On the edge of the neighborhood, there’s a trail that leads to a small forest. I walk there often. It’s peaceful, and I know it like the back of my hand. The trail goes past a river and ends at a small creek about two kilometers in. That creek is usually where I stop and turn back. I've never had a reason to go beyond it.

March 3rd, 2025. It was a Tuesday. I had late classes and some club meetings, so I didn’t leave campus until around 6 p.m. But even though it was getting dark, I still wanted to go for a walk. A little fresh air before heading home.

The path felt normal at first—just birds chirping, the rustle of squirrels in the trees, maybe the occasional hoot of an owl. But as I got closer to the creek, I noticed how quiet it was. Too quiet. The kind of silence that presses on your eardrums.

Then I saw her.

She was sitting under the old oak tree near the creek. A girl. Dressed in a white robe that looked like it hadn’t seen dirt or dust. Her hair was pitch black and straight, falling over her shoulders. From about 50 feet away, I could see she was staring deep into the forest, unmoving.

My first thought was maybe she was lost. Or upset. Or maybe just meditating? Either way, something felt… off.

I stood there, frozen for a minute. Should I go back? Should I say something?

I finally decided to approach her. As I got closer, a chill ran down my spine. I don’t mean a light breeze kind of chill—I mean every hair on my body stood up.

 Goosebumps. Tight chest. That weird sense that something was wrong but you can't quite explain it.

Still, I kept walking.

When I was about two feet behind her, I said softly, “Excuse me, miss… it’s getting dark. Are you okay? Do you need help?”

No reply.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. Didn’t even seem to breathe.

I tried again, this time louder. “Hey, it’s late. Maybe you should head back?”

Still nothing.

That’s when I realized—something wasn’t right. There was no sense of life coming from her. No movement. No sound. Not even the faint rise and fall of her shoulders.

I stepped in front of her to speak directly.

And then… I saw her face.

Her eyes. They were glassy and pale—almost transparent. Her face was covered in deep, raw slashes. Bloodied, as if something—or someone—had torn at her skin. Her lips were cracked and torn at the corners. She wasn’t just hurt. She looked like she had died a long time ago.

I froze. My legs wouldn’t move. My heart was pounding so loud I thought she might hear it. And then…

She moved.

Her eyes slowly turned toward me. No blinking. Just those lifeless eyes locked onto mine.

I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t even breathe.

Then—an owl hooted nearby.

That sound—so normal, so real—snapped me back. I could feel my legs again, and I ran. I didn’t look back. I just ran. Through the trees, over the roots, nearly tripping more than once.

After what felt like forever, I made it out.

I collapsed near the edge of the forest, gasping for air. My hands were shaking. My legs felt like jelly. But I was alive.

It’s been over a week now. I haven’t told anyone. Not my friends. Not my professors. I just avoid that trail now. I take the long way around if I have to walk near the forest.

I know what people would say—“Oh, you imagined it,” or “Maybe it was just a homeless person or a prank.”

No. It wasn’t.

What I saw wasn’t human.

And deep down… I don’t think it ever was.

Don’t Tell Anyone

Don’t Tell Anyone

“You should go home now,” you said, barely above a whisper.

But she smiled, tilted the red plastic cup in your direction. “Have another drink,” she said like it was a dare.

So you did.

The liquor burned your throat, and you watched her lips curve as she swallowed hers in one clean gulp. Her lipstick was smudged, her eyes too bright.

“You’re so pretty,” she said.

You shifted. “I think you should stop.”

“Let me just say that one thing,” she begged, voice trembling like a broken violin string.

You wanted to scream—stop looking at me like that.

You wanted to cry—I want to crawl inside your head and stay there forever, live in your memories like a hidden ghost.

But instead, you said nothing.

You shoved the car door open, stumbled out onto the pavement. The night was cold and too quiet. The streetlight above buzzed like it was watching.

“I’m going home now,” you muttered.

---

Now she’s lying in your bed. Her back to you. Her hands tangled in your floral sheets like she doesn’t know where to place them. Her chestnut hair spills across her neck, across your pillow, soft and lifeless.

The radiator hums.

The curtains puff with the night breeze.

You think of coffins. Of how you dragged her back from something soft and glowing. Of how it all felt sacred—until it wasn’t.

She rolls to face you, her hands folded like broken puzzle pieces.

“You still can’t even look at me,” she says slowly, like her mouth doesn’t remember how to shape words anymore. “Why am I here, Bette? What’s the point?”

You can’t answer. You’re too busy staring at your palms. Little pink crescent moons where your nails dug too deep. Like you tried to hold something fragile and it fought to get away.

She curls up tight, bones cracking like dry twigs. Then something strange—a tooth—tumbles from her lips and lands on your comforter.

“You only love me when I’m not real,” she whispers. “You only love me when there’s nothing left to lose.”

You press your face to the cold sheet beside her, feeling the beat of your heart in your fingertips. A rhythm that's yours and only yours.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say.

She doesn’t move. Just watches you with those tired eyes, that half-finished face.

“Did you want it to die with me, Bette?” she asks. “Were you happy when it ended?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say again, softer this time.

She sighs and lays down fully, now face to face. Her nose bent, one eye glassy and slipping, her skin kissed by the green-grey bloom of something long buried. The smell of dirt and memory clings to her like perfume.

“Who would I tell?” she says gently. “I’m not even really here.

And for a moment, your mind flashes—a match being struck, fire crawling up wallpaper, beer cans torn by angry fists. You see yourself doing it all. Starting the blaze. Walking away.

You both know the house would still burn, even if you hadn’t lit the flame.

And you both know—you would’ve left her behind anyway.

You reach out and take her hand. Cold. Still.

You bury your face in her neck and whisper your apology.

Not to her.
To the ghost.
To the part of you that couldn’t save her.
To the truth that came too late.