The Quiet House

Day 1:

I don’t know why I’m writing this. I guess I need something to anchor me, a tether to the world I used to know. Moving here was supposed to be a fresh start—a chance to leave everything behind and finally focus. It’s a beautiful place, really. The house is old and a little decrepit, but it has charm.

The countryside is quiet. Too quiet. No traffic, no voices, no city hum. Just the wind and the occasional creak of the house. I thought I’d enjoy the silence. Now I’m not so sure.

Day 3:

Spent the morning cleaning out the studio. It’s perfect—north-facing windows that let in soft, even light. I can already imagine the paintings I’ll create here.

The rest of the house is... unsettling. It feels too big, too empty. Every sound echoes. Every shadow lingers. I keep expecting someone to step out of one of the darkened rooms, even though I know I’m alone.

Last night, I thought I heard footsteps upstairs. It must’ve been the house settling. Old wood makes noise. That’s all it was.

Day 7:

Something isn’t right.

This morning, I found the back door open. I’m sure I locked it. I checked it twice before bed. I’ve always been careful about that sort of thing.

I spent the rest of the day convincing myself I must have forgotten. That’s the logical explanation. But tonight, I’m locking everything again—front and back doors, windows, even the studio.

Day 9:

It happened again.

I woke up to find the chair in the kitchen moved. Just a few inches, but enough to notice. I stared at it for a long time, trying to remember if I’d bumped into it, but I hadn’t. I’m certain I hadn’t.

The silence in this house is unbearable. Every creak and groan feels like something trying to get my attention. I thought I could handle being alone, but now I’m not sure.

Day 12:

Today, I noticed the paintings.

I’ve been working on a new series, abstract swirls of color, the kind of thing I’ve always done. But when I looked at them today, I saw faces. Distorted and shadowy, buried in the chaos.

I don’t remember painting them.

The thought makes me sick.

Day 14:

It’s worse at night.

The noises have become more frequent soft footsteps, doors creaking, whispers I can almost understand. I’ve started sleeping with the light on, but even that doesn’t help. Shadows seem to shift in the corners of the room.

I tried calling someone today. An old friend. But when they answered, I couldn’t speak. What was I supposed to say? That I’m losing my mind? That I’m afraid of my own house?

I hung up without saying a word.

Day 18:

I found something in my journal.

A single sentence, scrawled in my handwriting: "It’s waiting for you."*

I don’t remember writing it. The words loop in my mind, over and over. Waiting for me. What does that mean? What could possibly be waiting for me here?

I’ve started double-checking the locks again. The door, the windows, the studio. But deep down, I know it’s pointless. Whatever this is, it’s already inside.

Day 20:

I set traps last night. Flour on the floors, tape on the doors. If someone is moving through the house, I’ll know.

But nothing happened. The tape was undisturbed, the flour untouched.

This should comfort me, but it doesn’t. Because this morning, I found the knife from the kitchen lying on my pillow. Its blade was covered in red paint from the studio.

I didn’t put it there.

Day 23:

I can’t trust myself anymore.

The whispers are louder now. They come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The paintings are worse, too—more faces, more shadows. One of them looks like me.

My reflection in the mirror doesn’t feel like mine anymore. I catch glimpses of it when I’m not looking directly, and it’s wrong. Hollow eyes, a slack mouth. Sometimes I think it’s moving when I’m not.

I tried leaving today. Packed a bag, stood at the door. But I couldn’t do it. The thought of stepping outside terrified me.

What if it’s worse out there?

Day 27:

I found myself staring at the knife today.

It’s still on the pillow, untouched since I found it. It feels like a message, though I can’t decide if it’s a warning or an invitation.

The house is winning. The isolation, the silence, it’s all seeping into me. I’ve stopped eating. I barely sleep. The only thing keeping me tethered is this journal.

But even now, I wonder if these words will make sense to anyone else.

Day 30:

The painting is finished.

It’s a self-portrait, though I didn’t intend it to be. My face stares back at me from the canvas, pale and haunted. Shadows curl around the edges, threatening to swallow me whole.

I sat in front of it for hours, unable to look away. At some point, I whispered aloud, “It’s just me.”

The words felt hollow.

Undated Entry:

If someone finds this, please understand: I’m not crazy.

This house did something to me. Or maybe it revealed something about me that was always there. I don’t know anymore.

I hear the whispers even now. They’re telling me to stop. To let go. Maybe they’re right.

I don’t think I’ll write again.

Goodbye.

Postscript:

The journal ends here. When investigators found the house, it was empty, save for the journal and a single painting on an easel.

The painting depicted a man, gaunt and wide-eyed, surrounded by shadows. It was signed, simply: E.V.