“1… 2… 3…,” I began my countdown, a playful lilt to my voice. My son’s light, boisterous footsteps faded into the background, swallowed by the yawning silence of our old house. We had recently moved into this place, trading our cramped city apartment for a quiet home in the countryside. A fresh start, I had told my son, Nathan, a chance to spread our wings.
My nerves were on edge that day. The transition wasn’t easy for me, even if Nathan seemed to embrace it with a child’s carefree joy. The house was big, old, full of creaking floorboards and echoes. Its silence wasn’t serene; it felt heavy, as if filled with the whispers of long-gone tenants.
“20! Ready or not, here I come!” I announced, pushing away the eerie thoughts. I started to seek, checking the usual hiding places — behind the curtains, under tables, inside closets. But Nathan was a master of hide-and-seek, always finding spots that made me search longer than I’d like to admit.
The late afternoon sun was slowly dying out, and a chill began to creep into the house. I turned the lights on, flooding the rooms with a warm, artificial glow. But, as I checked each room, my son was nowhere to be found.
A muffled giggle echoed through the house, the sound drifting up from the basement. A lump formed in my throat. We’d never ventured down there before. I’d kept it locked, telling Nathan it was full of old junk that wasn’t safe for him to play with.
“Nathan,” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady, “Are you in the basement?”
Silence. Then, another muffled giggle. It was followed by an inexplicable silence that chilled me to the bone. Something didn’t feel right. The fear in my chest was irrational, I knew, yet it was as real as the pounding of my heart.
Reluctantly, I fetched the key, unlocked the basement door, and started my descent. The wooden stairs groaned under my weight. The air grew colder with each step, making me shiver. “I’m going to find you!” I called out, hoping to hear his laughter in response.
But there was only silence.
As I reached the basement floor, my eyes fell on a large, antique cabinet that had been left behind by the previous owners. My heart thumped in my chest as I approached it, drawn by a strange instinct. The muffled giggle sounded again, and I was sure it was coming from the cabinet.
I swung the doors open, expecting to see Nathan’s beaming face. But the sight that met my eyes was something I wasn’t prepared for. Nathan was inside alright, but he was bound and gagged, his eyes wide with terror.
“Mom,” he choked out as I hastily untied him, “Who’s counting upstairs?”
My blood ran cold at Nathan’s words, his terrified eyes staring at me. I swallowed hard, my brain refusing to process the implications of his question. “Who’s counting upstairs?” The last remnants of daylight disappeared, plunging the house into a gloom that mirrored the terror building within me.
Silence draped the house. It was shattered by a voice — light, playful, but not Nathan’s — still counting upstairs. The voice echoed through the otherwise silent house, each number pronounced with chilling clarity. I held Nathan close, my heart pounding in my chest.
Panic started to claw at my insides, but I forced it down. I needed to stay calm for Nathan. “We’re going to be okay,” I whispered to him, the words barely escaping my trembling lips. His wide eyes stared back at me, filled with a fear that mirrored my own.
Creeping up the stairs, I clutched Nathan’s hand. The voice grew louder, counting down from ten. As we reached the top, the counting stopped. Silence once again claimed the house, a suspenseful hush that sent shivers down my spine. I quietly locked the basement door, the click of the lock deafening in the silent house.
We moved cautiously through the house, the creaking floorboards sounding abnormally loud. I guided Nathan towards the living room, intending to use the landline to call for help, but the phone was dead, leaving us more isolated than ever.
I had just turned around to comfort Nathan when I heard it — the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps coming from the upstairs hallway. The heavy thuds echoed through the house, reverberating in my chest.
A cold chill ran down my spine as we heard a soft giggle, followed by a playful whisper. “Ready or not, here I come.” The voice was distorted, as if spoken through a mouthful of gravel and glass, yet it held an eerily familiar cadence — the same one I had used when counting for Nathan.
There was no denying it anymore. We were not alone. But who, or what, was in the house with us?
Summoning every ounce of courage, I picked up Nathan and bolted towards the backdoor. It was our only hope. The game of hide and seek had become a deadly race, and I had no intention of losing.
The backdoor was close. Each step felt like a mile, my heart pounding in sync with the insistent footsteps from the upper floor. The words “Here I come” echoed, transforming from a playful taunt into a horrifying threat. Nathan clung to me, his small body trembling against mine.
I fumbled with the lock on the backdoor, my hands shaking with terror. But it was jammed. I tried again, harder this time, but it wouldn’t budge. The realisation hit me like a cold wave — we were trapped. The weight of our situation fell heavily on my shoulders, a sense of dread settling in my stomach.
Suddenly, the lights flickered and went out, plunging us into an oppressive darkness. Nathan whimpered in my arms, and I could feel his tears seeping through my shirt.
I thought back to the house’s layout. There was an old cellar door that led outside, but it was on the other side of the house. A risky journey, especially in the dark, but our only chance.
Moving blindly, I clung to the wall, my free hand stretched out, tracing our path. The only sounds were our shallow, shaky breaths and the persistent footsteps from upstairs, growing louder and nearer. The disembodied voice giggled, a disturbingly joyous sound in the midst of our terror.
Finally, we reached the door to the cellar. I fumbled for the rusty handle, pulling it open with all my strength. The hinges creaked, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife. I froze, praying that the noise hadn’t given us away. But the footsteps continued their relentless pursuit, growing louder as they started down the stairs.
Desperate, I moved us into the cellar, pulling the door shut behind us. We hurried through the dank, musty space, my hands skimming over shelves lined with forgotten jars and cobweb-covered tools. The cellar door was in sight, a sliver of hope amidst the darkness.
Suddenly, the sound of our pursuer reached a crescendo. The cellar door burst open, and the lights snapped on, blinding us momentarily. I screamed, shielding Nathan with my body. The footsteps stopped just short of us.
When my eyes finally adjusted to the light, I turned slowly, preparing to face whatever horror had invaded our home. But instead, I found myself staring at my reflection in a tall mirror, the same mirror I had ordered and forgotten about in the stress of moving.
Relief washed over me in waves, almost making me collapse. The echoing voice, the eerie counting, the footsteps — all products of my frazzled mind, amplified by the unsettling acoustics of the old house. The jammed door, the faulty lights, the dead phone — all consequences of an aging home with a shoddy electrical system.
As the adrenaline faded, exhaustion took over. I held Nathan close, our laughter filling the dark house, mingling with our sobs of relief. We had survived our own imaginations, our fears amplified by the eerie surroundings. It was a game of hide and seek we would never forget — a horrifying tale spun from shadows and echoes. And most importantly, it was a reminder — sometimes, the monsters we fear are the ones we create ourselves.