Arman went to town the next morning.
The locals stared at him differently now. As if they knew.
At the small grocery store, an old woman stopped him.
"You're living in the Farlow house," she said quietly.
"How do you know that?"
She ignored the question.
"Did you hear it yet?"
Arman didn't answer.
She leaned closer.
"The last man who stayed there lasted eight days."
Arman felt his stomach tighten.
"What happened to him?"
"They found him sitting in the upstairs hallway. Smiling."
"Smiling?"
"Yes. But his eyes…" She paused. "His eyes were bleeding."
Arman laughed nervously. "That's not funny."
"I'm not joking."
She grabbed his wrist suddenly.
"It doesn't haunt the house."
"Then what?"
"It waits."
"For what?"
"For someone lonely enough to listen."
That night, Arman packed a bag.
He was leaving in the morning.
But at 2:17 AM, the footsteps returned.
This time, they were inside his room.
Thud.
Right beside his bed.
His eyes were closed, but he was awake. Frozen.
He could feel breath on his face.
Cold.
Rotten.
And then—
His bedroom door slowly creaked open.
But it was already closed.
Which meant—
Something had opened it from inside.