He’s just a little boy. What does he know? Six years old. Scared of the dark like the classic child. He’s been watching too many horror movies. He wears glasses, too. He’s probably just seeing things. He comes to your room every night, calmly explaining his fears and emotionlessly describing the monstrosities that creep from his closet, the crooked voices that cackle in his ear, and the ghastly ghouls that haunt his hamper. Usually, you’d only laugh and tell him to go back to bed, but, something is different about tonight. You see his lip quiver and a tear struggling to stay within his eyelid. This time, you let him climb into bed with you because you know he’s been traumatized. An abused autistic child. Why on earth did you accept the responsibility to take custody of him? It's because you’re soft, that's why. You had no idea what you were getting into, though, because these first two weeks have felt like forever. As he slips under the covers, he closes his eyes, but his face doesn’t change. You can’t help but stare as you try to imagine his horrible past. He needs love. He needs care. He’s imagining too much. As you attempt to push your worries aside and go to sleep, you hear a rapping from within your closet door.

It came without warning. Well, not completely. I just thought Matt said he wanted to be a ghost. Not that he wanted to make a ghost.

It made sense to me. Matt was basically already a ghost. He said, a ghost is a dead person with a deadly grudge. He just didn’t have the ‘being dead’ part down.

I never thought Matt was scary—not the way others did. They said, he stares for a while sometimes. Not at a person, just the wall. His arms are too long, they said. His fingertips almost reach his knees.

I never noticed how offset Matt’s eyes were. Just a little too yellow, they said. Pupils a little too sharp. Sharp enough to catch the others’ attention, but not mine.

I never thought Matt’s collection of shotguns was strange. I always assumed he was a hunter. What I didn’t know was that he didn’t hunt animals.

I never took their warnings seriously. I never listened to logic. I turned a blind eye to what they said, what he did. I thought Matt was my friend, that he would never hurt me.

I was wrong.

And now I sit on my headstone. Seeing my family members come and go. However, it’s not just them I see, but every visitor to cross the graveyard.

I see a multiple of different faces, every day. This time, I really look at them. What I see is the Matts of the world.

With their long stared, overgrown arms, offset eyes, shotgun collections, and secret desires.

Would you notice that? Notice the Matts of the world? I’d bet you won’t. I didn’t. I’d bet you deny it. I did.

But he’s there. Waiting. Watching. With his long stares, overgrown arms, offset eyes, shot gun collections, and secret desires.

Just hope your Matt’s secret desire isn’t to make a ghost.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Probably the kitchen sink. You walk downstairs to turn of the faucet, but that isn't the source of the noise. Drip. Drip. Drip. This time it's louder. A flash of light from outside, makes the furniture cast eerie shadows on your walls. Why did you tell your friend you would be fine home alone for a few nights? Drip. Drip. Drip. Maybe it's upstairs, you think. You turn on your heels to face the staircase and the floor creaks. It's too loud, too long, and you jump. Is someone there? You tell yourself to stop being such a baby, but suddenly you are aware of every sound the house makes. Drip Drip. Drip. You can feel fear making it's way through you. Before you can think, you sprint upstairs, and slam the door to your room. Drip. Drip. Drip. The sound won't stop. It gets louder, and louder. You put on headphones and hug your knees to your chest, feeling safe under the covers of your canopy bed. But the louder you turn your music up, the louder the dripping gets, until it feels like your head could explode. Suddenly, you feel something wet on your arm. Before you can react, the wet feeling spreads over your body. It clogs your throat. You begin to choke. Looking down at your arms you see nothing. You claw at your throat and beg your lungs to work, but nothing. There is simply no air. As your vision clouds, you look at your arms for the source of wetness: nothing. There is nothing there. You begin to shake. Your muscles seize, but still there is no air. Your heartbeat sounds in your ears, but the rhythm sounds off. Kind of familiar... like Drip. Drip. Drip.

They were living just fine, having a very calm and usual life, until suddenly they started to burn. No, not like the fire was set in them, but it was weirder and unusual. It was all related to the woman. For example, in the closet, the husband’s clothes wouldn't get touched, but the woman’s ones would be transformed into ash at any time. It doesn’t happen all the time but suddenly to keep her frightened and surprised because of not knowing when this would happen next time. Sometimes her side of the bed stars burning. Sometimes when she touches something, it starts burning. The deep fear of the unknown and of not understanding what is going on or how that could be possible was huge. But worse, what if she touched her kids and something happened! What if this never ends up, and she finishes by causing the death of everyone she loved by being burnt to death?!

She left the house out of fear and out of concern about her beloved family. And, then the fire was step up, in the majority of the house. That showed anger! That showed that something didn’t like being fooled and wanted her to be there!

It wanted to play with her and make her life as miserable as it could and as terrifying as it could be.

That day the fire trucks came and ended the fire quickly hopefully. But after they left, later that day, a small fire started again. So the woman got the message and came back to the house. She came back to her nightmare and her trap.

But she wasn't planning to keep burning in fire and watch her family get destroyed in front of her eyes. It was clear that there was nothing normal with what was going on. So it was the right time to seek the help of a man, a man who has an idea about such cases and such creatures because the woman felt that they weren't alone in the house. Sometimes she was feeling the breaths and the anger of something that she wasn't seeing, or she knew what it was. Sometimes she felt like it was next to her in bed.

The man who was their least hope came. With his ways and with struggling a lot, he could finally get an answer. There was something indeed in that house. That was obvious, but the most important was to know what he wanted. The woman was crying and crying, begging that it leaves her alone.

The man said that the creature was so angry. The woman hurt him first. She was using some hot water outside, and she threw away the part that she didn’t need it in the garden. But she didn’t know that when she did that she hit the creature's kid with the hot water. It didn’t say what happened to its kid, but it was planning definitely to keep that woman burning in fire for the rest of her life.

But after many fights, talks, and struggles with that creature, that man succeeded finally. The mission was so hard, but he could get an agreement in the end.

The creature promised to leave the woman alone, but he asked that the family leaves the house. And none else comes to live there or touches that house.

Of course, the family left immediately without thinking twice. The nightmare was over, but the scar will remain forever. That experience will always chase that family and that mom especially.

I stand alone in my house.

It feels so empty, but it’s good to be back, even if not on the best terms.

My moms death comes to mind suddenly, bringing tears to my eyes. A small moan escapes my lips, though I try to keep it in.

I must be strong for Lily and Rose, with me being the oldest. Lily is jsut eighteen, and she shares a one bedroom apartment with sixteen year old Lily. She had to move because of work, but luckily Rose will stay in the same school. Rose moved with Lily in hopes to eventauly get a job at S.&E. Co, just like her sister

I inherited the house, and imediatly got rid of the small apartment I lived in by myself. I swear I was going insane in that little place, and I swear all those nois were more than my imagination.

Though I’m safe back home, with it’s twenty different rooms and three staircases.

Speaking of staircases, the basement staircase to my right begins to creak.

“Hello?” I call, wondering if Rose and Lily had already moved back in.

All I hear is wind, wich is strange- my mother never opened windows.

I step backwards towards the door, my heart beating rappidy.

I had a good exuse- I must really be going insane. The noise wasn’t just wind, it sounded exactly like my mother’s moans as the sickness took her body.

In pain, begging me for help, begging me for love and care, yet warning me to stay away so that I didn’t... die... too...

Oh no, this couldn’t be happening.

The door is swinging open, and no one is standing behind it. The moaning grows louder, and I back away slowly, telling myself it’s just my imagination.

It doesn’t work.

As soon as I reach the door, I open it, and dash out, locking it from the outside and doing the same to all the other doors.

I run back to my car, thanking God that I hadn’t brought my things in with me yet.

As I go to turn the keys, I realize I must have dropped them, after locking the last door.

I catoustly get out, and walk slowly towards the door, and I see that the door is open. My keys dangle in the air, and I know a gohst stands before me, my keys her sword.

“Don’t shake, hoeny, theres no need to be afraid- it’s just me,” my mom says, and it was the last thing I ever heard- well if you don’t count the beating of my heart and the squelsh as the keys go deeper than they should.

It does not do well to dwell on dreams and nightmares, to hold your teddy bears while you sleep in the hopes that if you hold on tight enough… but no… it does not do well to dwell.

I knew a man who sat and dwelled, sitting on stools and drawing his doom in the firelight of a standing lamp in the corner of the old bar.

It does not do well to dwell because once you’ve dwelled you can’t go back to ‘well’. The slight incapacities of your own beating heart, that beats and beats and beats like the belt against the wall that belonged to the man that sat and dwelled and sat in stools and drew his doom.

It does not do well because of the well that sits alone in the forest at night, changing and travelling, though no one believes it exists but the man who beat with the belt when he sat on his stool in the firelight of a standing lamp. No one believes but he, who crawled out of that well in the woods, who travelled in that well as it changed and it moved, with no sound but the beat and the beat of his heart.

It does not do well to dwell because of the man whose heart beat and beat and beat in the changing well who dwelled and sat and drew in stools in the firelight of a standing lamp in the bar who beat and beat and beat with his belt until the well in the woods moved again and again and again and again until the well stopped.

And he crawled out of his well to beat and dwell and draw again, not in the firelight of a standing lamp but the nightlight of your childhood bedroom, where you clutched your teddy bear and tried not to dwell… but then you did, and you couldn’t hold tight enough as the man beat and beat and beat with his belt against the wall and you heard the beat and beat and beat of your heart as he did.

But you won’t remember this, because as we all know now…

It does not do well to dwell.

There were so many of them. Whole crowds. And they just couldn't seem to stop. They would just dance and dance until they could no more. Some even succumbed to death, but it did not matter. They didn't care, they just danced. No music played. There was no reason for happiness or celebration of any kind.

One day, my curiosity got the best of me and I walked up to a lady dancing on the dirt road. Sweat was dripping from her brow and she was breathing heavily, but she continued to move to a beat that wasn't playing. She must have been there for hours, maybe even the whole day.

"Excuse me, miss? But why are you dancing?" I asked.

She just smiled at me and responded: "Why are you?"

What have I done?

I stood in front of the taunting hotel doors. From beyond the windows, something was stirring. Invisible to the eye, but there nevertheless.

Insanity pierced my skin. It persisted. It was the essence that edged my thoughts away from the light. It grabbed hold of me. Persisting, ever persisting. Little did I know, the moment I entered the abandoned hotel, insanity had already consumed what little life I had left.

I turned on my flashlight. Unrecognizable shadows covered the wall. Light’s conspicuous absence caused my mind to grow sick of the constant suffocating blackness. I took the first step.

The next moment I had gone up ten floors. I kept going.

Floor twenty. Breathing became more difficult. I longed for the crisp autumn air. The wind outside had died down. A faint squeaking of bats was noticeable in the background. I kept going.

Thirty-five. I had developed an unbroken rhythm. I went up and up. Forgetting everything, focusing only on taking one step at a time. The ringing of the churchbells matched the heartbeat of my footsteps.

Forty-nine. I stopped. An abundance of pain overwhelmed me. Only one more floor. I just had to shine the flashlight out the window and I could finally go home.

But inside the hotel, I heard a door shut. I went out of the staircase.

Something was there; out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head. Something slipped into the room at the end of the hallway. I begged myself not to go. But a force pulled me closer, pulled me away from my sanity. In just a moment, I was standing in front of the cracked door. I peered through what I could see. Nothing was there. I opened the door. The first thing I noticed was blood.

Everywhere.

The walls were crying. The blood came down thick and scarlet.

This can’t be real.

Then, I couldn’t hear. I couldn’t see. Everything around me seemed to be closing in. My breathing grew faster and faster until I was gasping for air. But no one was there to help me. All I could feel was pain.

The ringing stopped. I opened my eyes to see no blood. The walls were normal again. All I knew is that I had to get out. I turned around to see that the door was shut. I knew it was locked before I even pulled it.

To my left, I noticed the bathroom door swinging silently open, inviting me inside. To my surprise, no one was there. I glanced in the mirror at my rugged appearance. I took four long, deep breaths in, and held to a count of five before releasing again. Breathe in… breath out.

I looked around with wide, frightened eyes. In the mirror, I saw movement. I shined my light. A young woman appeared behind me. She had hung herself. Her pale face and beady eyes stared back at mine.

I whipped around. No one. I faced the mirror again. She was gone. The noose was still hung on the wall. Blood dripped from the rope. But no woman.

“Join us…” A whisper pleaded. It echoed throughout the strange hotel. In a dark corner of the room, something stirred. There I saw a faint silhouette of some entity. The figure fell to the ground. A cold, calloused hand reached out and grabbed the walls, ripping the wallpaper. It tore, revealing tick marks, counting down the days….

The woman lunged. I screamed. Blood spewed out of her mouth as she screamed with me. I was horrified. I turned around, fully prepared to defend myself. What I realized caused me to fall back in terror. Terror which only came from the fear of the unknown, the fear of losing one’s mind. There was no woman, no noose. The room was as dark and as lonely as ever. The wallpaper hadn’t been torn. I still felt the chilling sense of her presence.

This room was wrong. This hotel was wrong.

“I have to get out of here” I whispered.

There was now a man standing on the open window. His eyes were full of sadness, full of sorrow. Yet his face was overjoyed. He grinned. An evil, monstrous grin. Then, he fell back. Surrendered into the misty air. I drew in a quick breath. I banged on the door. I screamed until my voice gave out. My dry lips pleaded again and again. All hope seemed to have been lost down a deep, endless hole.

I closed my eyes. As I did, I heard a click of a lock. The door swung open. I ran out to greet whoever let me out of this trap. But the neverending hallway was empty.

Without glancing back, I sprinted back to the staircase. I went down. And down. At some point, I stopped, curious about how close I was to escape. I peered at the number engraved above the door.

Floor 49.

No way.

I almost tumbled down the stairs as I ran down to the next level. Floor 49. I ran up, hoping there was some possible explanation.

Floor 49.

I couldn’t believe this.

Then, there came a knock on the door to the hallway.

I opened the door. Beyond, I saw the room I was in. The room I thought I would never have to face again. I entered it again.

Insanity. They say it’s doing the same thing, again and again, and expecting different results. But really it’s knowing that whatever you do, the results will never ever change. Each door leads to the same staircase, to the same number. It's not knowing whether you've been running for days or weeks or years. It's when the sobbing slowly turns into laughter.

I looked inside the room. Nothing was there. I sat down in front of the wallpaper. I tore it back. And carved a single line with my nail.

I wonder how long I will last.