The violent outburst left us shell-shocked. The house was quiet again, but it was the eerie calm after an explosion. The deep scratches on our doorframe were a permanent, terrifying reminder that Eleanor’s spirit was not just a sad memory, but a potent, physical force. Two nights after the storm, I woke to find Leo’s side of the bed empty. The digital clock read 3:17 AM. The house was silent, but a deep, primal dread had coiled in my stomach. I got up and crept to the door, peering into the dark hallway. It was empty. But from the direction of the grand staircase, I heard a faint sound—a soft, shuffling footstep.
“Leo?” I whispered, my voice swallowed by the darkness.
No answer. I grabbed the heavy flashlight from the bedside table and stepped out. The floorboards were icy under my bare feet. I moved slowly towards the staircase, my heart a frantic drum in my chest. The shuffling sound came again, from the bottom of the stairs. I pointed my flashlight beam down into the foyer, and I saw him.
It was a shadow, but a shadow with substance. A darkness deeper than the night around it, man-shaped and tall. It stood at the base of the stairs, perfectly still, looking up at me. It had no face, no features, just a solid, impenetrable blackness that seemed to drink the light from my flashlight. The air around it grew cold, so cold I could see my breath form in ragged plumes.
This was not Eleanor. This was something else. Something old and cold and utterly malevolent. A low, guttural whisper echoed up the stairwell, not in my ear, but in my mind. It was a single word, filled with a possessive hunger.
Mine.
I stumbled back, my body freezing with a terror so complete it was paralyzing. The shadow began to ascend the stairs. It didn’t walk; it glided, its form shifting and crawling up the steps like rising smoke. I broke from my trance and fled back to the bedroom, slamming the door and leaning against it, my entire body trembling. I fumbled with the lock, my fingers numb with fear. A moment later, a heavy weight leaned against the other side of the door. The wood groaned in protest. I could feel the cold emanating from it, seeping through the grain.
Then, from the other side of the house, I heard Eleanor’s wail. It was different this time—not just sorrowful, but furious, protective. The shadow at my door hesitated. The pressure lessened. I heard a new sound—a rapid, light pacing from the hallway, a frantic counterpoint to the shadow’s slow, menacing presence.
They were aware of each other. Eleanor and the Shadow Man. And I was trapped between them. They were aware of each other. Eleanor and the Shadow Man. And I was trapped between them. We had been wrong. The house didn’t have one ghost. It had two. And the new one had just laid its claim.
