When the floorboards creak he freezes, tells his heart to cease its racing, reminds himself it’s an old house, with an old soul. Cracks and creaks are nothing but to be expected.

When the sigh breezes over his neck he cuts off the gasp that fires unchecked from his lips. Blames it on an open window, a cracked pane, a door ajar downstairs.

When the brush of an invisible hand skirts along his arm leaving goosebumps in his wake, he ceases fooling himself. Stumbles forward toward the doorway, holds his breath along the hall, down the stairs, intent on getting outside.

When the handle won’t turn, the door won’t budge, an invisible stare burns into his neck, he knows. His time is up, his moment has come, he is about to come to an end.

The question is, when?


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