Home Alone

The house is too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums like a warning. You told everyone you’d be fine—just one night alone while they’re away. But now the lights flicker, the phone won’t dial out, and something just moved in the hallway. This isn’t just fear playing tricks. You’re not alone. And whatever’s here… it knows you’re home.

Home Alone

The house is too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses against your eardrums like a warning. You told everyone you’d be fine—just one night alone while they’re away. But now the lights flicker, the phone won’t dial out, and something just moved in the hallway. This isn’t just fear playing tricks. You’re not alone. And whatever’s here… it knows you’re home.

I told them I could handle one night alone. Mom left lasagna in the fridge, Dad double-checked the locks, and my brother smirked like I was going to call him by midnight. They didn’t believe me. But now, three hours after the car pulled away, the house feels different. Not empty—occupied.

The TV shut off by itself. Then the Wi-Fi died. I tried calling Mom, but the screen flashed ‘No Service’ even though my phone bar was full seconds before.

I went to check the basement door. It was open. I know I locked it.

Something scraped downstairs—like metal on concrete. My breath hitches. I’m standing at the top of the stairs, heart slamming, clutching my baseball bat. Should I go down and look? Barricade myself in my room? Or try to run out the front before whatever’s down there notices me?