horror – Wolverine Lily

His House

Author’s Note:
I started this story with no ending in mind… about a woman in a quiet house, and a journal entry…

An ivory house stood at the end of the road. A small, elegant structure with slanted roof. Shrubs fenced it off from the others. Red bushes spilled leaves like heavy drops. The backyard opened into a wide meadow, ending at three large trees at the edge of the woods—the gatekeepers watching for intruders. Morning fog rolled low over the field just enough to swallow the feet of anyone crossing it. The clouds heavy with rain hid the sun.

In this light, the house appeared pale gray.

At the center, an arched window framed beige curtains and a woman seated at a desk. She sat still, like a statue, holding a pen between her fingers. Her face was slim and paler than the house itself. Her blue eyes were fixed on something just out of reach.

Sophia’s Journal

September 27

I have never written a journal, yet I need something to occupy my mind. Staring at walls or out the window amplifies my fears. Journaling should feel like talking to someone, without judgments, especially now, with the strange things that have been happening around the house. I don’t want anyone rolling their eyes at me, telling me I’ve imagined it all, or that I’m crazy.

I can’t remember the last adult conversation. Not counting ‘good mornings’ and ‘thank yous’ at the grocery store—all unreturned.

Benjamin cannot touch peanuts. Once, he nearly died. After that, I studied every label like a forensic scientist. With Emma on the way, quitting my job was inevitable.

Meanwhile, Peter’s work hours stretched longer. His trips to New York became more frequent until he got a place there. It’s been months since his last visit. The kids have already stopped asking about him because they know Daddy isn’t coming back.

Still, I’m blessed with these kids and the house…

I love this house, even though it feels empty and silent. But it’s motherhood, right? I often ache for the meaning my life once had: to pursue my career and shape the life I always wanted—the same way Peter does. But I’m too worried about Ben. Yet I’m writing now, hoping for a change.

“Mommy?” A tiny voice came from the door. Sophia looked up without expression.

“I’m hungry.” Emma stood in the doorway. One hand rubbing her sleepy eyes, the other hugging a stuffed rabbit.

“Of course you are.” Sophia walked to the girl, leaned over to kiss a cheek; a small pillow crease was still printed on it. She brushed it with her fingers, then held Emma’s hand, leading her out. “What would you like for breakfast: pancakes or waffles?”

Sophia’s Journal

September 29

I washed the dishes tonight, and for a while I thought somebody was standing behind me. Watching me.

Had Peter come to surprise us?

I met him in college. My mother adored him. He reflected the qualities of an ideal husband, and she was convinced I should marry him.

Then my dad suffered a heart attack. When Peter proposed, I couldn’t say no. The image of my father, strapped with IV tubes into a hospital bed, that clinical smell and beeping. I only asked, “Why get married?” It didn’t feel like love, and if Peter did love me, then why get married? He said “I love you” with the same blank stare he’d given the brick wall.

I’m guessing he had his own reasons… So we did it.

It’s been twelve years of… evasive eyes and an empty chair at dinners.

I dropped the pen, feeling blood rushing to my head, pulsing frantically. Yet my fingers were numb from the cold.

Peter again. Let’s not reopen healing wounds.

I closed the notebook and left to check on the kids. The doorknob felt warm, like glass after someone had breathed on it. I tiptoed downstairs towards the kitchen. The dishes in the sink greeted me from a doorway.

A breeze outside the windows rustled leaves, a crisp whisper in a silent night. I ran the water through my hands, soaking up its warmth. Autumn slowly arrived, unpacking its long, chilling nights.

I turned the hot water up and let it cascade down the plate.

And then I felt someone behind me—so close to raise a shiver. I paused and looked. I was the only one in the room.

Was it the wind? I inhaled slowly and set the plate onto the drying rack. My hand reached for a teacup and slid it beneath the stream of water.

That’s when an exhale touched my nape; I froze. Then another, closer to my ear. The cup in my hand trembled, betraying my forced steadiness. I stood like a stone until my fingers began to burn.

I jerked my hands from under the stream and turned to face the undisturbed kitchen.

Yet, I wasn’t alone. I wiped my hands and rushed upstairs.

That night, I listened for the tiniest stirs in the quiet, until sleep took me away.

I woke up late. Ben had already been up, reading a book, and Emma was drawing with colored pencils. She is at this stage, where figures still don’t look like people, but begin to have eyes and limbs. Ben likes to build things with blocks. He’s pragmatic, just like his dad.

I brewed a cup of coffee and scanned the kitchen, remembering last night. Has anyone been here? I couldn’t tell.

I drifted to the sink and closed my eyes. Last night was windy, so there is a chance that… No! Who am I kidding? It wasn’t the wind. It was a breath; a man’s breath, on my neck, warm, and… I actually liked it. Oh my god! What am I saying!? I was terrified! But at the same time, it was… delicate and intimate.

Stop it! Feed your children! I shook my head and moved towards the refrigerator.

“I’m going to make eggs today,” I distracted myself. “After breakfast, we can go out.”

Sophia’s Journal.

October 1.

Today we went on a hike around the lake, talking about brave adventurers. The kids climbed rocks, searching for secret paths and treasure. Emma was so exhausted, and I carried her for a couple of miles until she fell asleep in my arms. It was a good day.

The thought of cleaning dishes after dinner iced my bones. But also thrilled me. As if a mysterious admirer might come to see me. I inched toward the sink and faced just a few plates in it. I didn’t have to do it today, but… I wanted to. I twisted the knob and let the water run. What am I doing?

Waiting. For his presence. Feel that warmth again. That’s insane! But it’s true. I felt like I was going on a date. God, how do I look?! I panicked. I wore a long beige dress. A simple, casual outfit.

I let my hair fall free and noticed an old candle on the window. I lit it, allowing the golden glow to spill across the countertop. I fantasized about a man coming back home after a long day at work and greeting me in the kitchen, while I wrapped my arms around him.

I thought I heard a quiet click, and I smiled to myself at how realistic my imagination had grown.

But then I felt a gentle touch on my lower back. A slow stroke that gave me goose bumps. I dropped my shoulders and let my lips curl up. Who is he? I worried that if I opened my eyes, I would see no one. I just tilted my head.

A sudden thud ripped through the bushes, followed by a harsh snap of branches. I jerked. A beam of light flickered in the kitchen. Outside, two figures with flashlights skimmed the windows, circling my backyard.

Burglars! I raced upstairs. Ben was asleep. I latched his window, tracing the trespassers, who now ventured towards the driveway. I ran to lock Emma’s window. I leaned over her bed when her arm slipped around my neck, pulling me close with surprising strength. I curled into her, kissed her cheek, and stayed. Emma held on tight as if she sensed my fear.

“Shhhhh,” I whispered.

Outside, an engine started. Gravel crunched, and all the noise faded.

I stayed there, listening for any sign of disturbance, until quiet lulled me to sleep.

The rain’s tapping at the pane woke me. Emma’s arm was still around me. I freed myself and tiptoed to the window. No trespassers. I checked on Ben. He smiled through his sleep.

Downstairs was just as quiet as any other day. The patio door and the front door were locked, with no signs of forced entry. Then a post emerged in the front lawn, holding a black sign with orange letters: “For Sale.” What?! If it hadn’t poured outside, I would have knocked it right over. I gritted my teeth and shut the curtains.

“Are we still going to the concert today?” Ben’s words cut into my thoughts. I flinched.

“Good morning,” I turned and kissed him on his forehead. “What concert, honey?” I looked at his face, trying to read him.

“Oh, right, we have the theater tickets,” I remembered. “It’s not a concert, Ben. It’s a musical, just like ‘The Lion King’ we saw a few months back, remember? And it’s tomorrow, not today.”

“Will we go if it rains?” Ben continued.

“Of course we’ll go. It won’t rain inside the theater, right?” Ben’s face beamed with a smile.

“Okay, I’ll get ready.” He sprinted into his room.

“It’s tomorrow,” I yelled after him. Kids’ excitement has no sense of timing.

It rained the entire day. The children played board games while I vacuumed and cooked dinner. My mind kept circling back to the hand gliding along my back, the heat blooming under his palm, and my knees refusing to stay locked.

Who is he? He wasn’t imagined: his touch was real, his breath was real, and the smell of soap was real. A ghost? I paused, contemplating this.

After dinner, I showered while the kids bathed. I flipped through my dresses in the closet, choosing the outfit for my kitchen date. The thought made me shake my head: ridiculous! I felt like an older version of a schoolgirl dressing for a crush.

I chose a black pencil skirt and a brown buttoned shirt with delicate bows on the sleeves, put on makeup, and styled my hair. I didn’t remember the last time I looked this good.

When the kids’ light went out, I slipped into the kitchen, poured red wine into crystal glasses, and turned on the water.

Peter came to mind. Should I feel guilty? He’d disappeared long ago and had surely been with other women. That’s why he left, even if he never said it.

A gentle touch landed on my back. The familiar feeling—not Peter’s. This one was tender, warm, and welcoming.

“Hi,” I whispered, wondering what to call him. A firm arm slid onto my stomach. I leaned back into him, and his body pressed against mine. Delicate kisses showered my neck, firing all the nerves in my body. I sighed. I turned into his warmth. My hands touched his chest, then glided towards his neck and face, studying details. I lifted my chin and found his lips. My heart was racing. His arms slid down to my hips. I pulled him close, realizing how much I wanted him. Right now.

A phone rang.

Sophia ignored it. But he jumped back.

Shit!

“Don’t go!” She screamed, trying to catch her breath.

A doorbell cut through the hallway. A key twisted in the lock. Peter!?

Sophia rushed towards the door. A woman in a business suit had already entered, and a middle-aged couple trailed behind.

“How did you get a key to my house?” Sophia asked firmly, blocking their way. They passed her without the slightest attention. “Hey, I live here. You can’t come in…” Sophia raised her voice, but nobody seemed to hear.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” the lady in a suit said to the couple. “Please, feel free to look around.” She acted as if she owned the house.

“No! Please leave.” Sophia objected. The couple pushed into the kitchen.

“This is a beautiful house,” the woman said, glancing around. “Much nicer than in the pictures.”

“Yes, the owners really took exceptional care of it,” the realtor agreed.

“Not they!” Sophia said sharply. “I did!”

“They didn’t die in the house, did they?” the woman continued.

“No,” the realtor said. “A car accident. It’s tragic.”

“All of them?” the man asked, wandering into the kitchen.

Sophia’s fingers tightened around a chair. The sound of rain outside drifted in. Heavy drops bounced against the roof of her car. Bright, scattered lights. A truck in front. The crash. Emma’s screams. The rolling. Sophia tried to reach the back seat, but her hand got trapped. Then a sharp pain in her chest. The screaming stopped. Yes, there’s been an accident. How had she forgotten? But we survived. Didn’t we?

“No,” the realtor shook her head. “Just the wife and the kids. The husband lives in New York. He wants to sell the house as soon as possible.”

Sophia looked at her pale hands. Their color faded each day, now almost like milk. White and cold. And the band-aid on her little finger… the same one!

Every day, Emma wakes up in the same shirt, not her PJs. So does Ben. Why hadn’t she noticed that earlier?

Tears rolled down her face. Her hand reached up to wipe them, but her fingers didn’t get wet. She felt the tears that weren’t there.

“So, how old did you say this house is?” the man asked. The realtor raised her clipboard and flipped through pages.

“About eight years,” she responded confidently. “I knew the previous owner.” She looked at the couple. “It’s a small town. He was the sweetest man.”

Sophia felt the room spin. The strangers’ voices were muffled by her pounding heart.

“He built this house,” the realtor went on, “and lived here alone until he sold it to the current owner three years ago.” Then she squinted her eyes. “Sadly, he passed away. His truck collided with another car.” She frowned, tapping her pen against the clipboard.

“Same road. That might’ve been the same accident.”

“Aren’t we celebrating prematurely?” asked the man, lifting one of the wine glasses from the counter.

“Make yourself at home.” The realtor smiled. “You don’t have to make a decision right now, but this is a beautiful house, and it will fly off the market in days.” She strode out, high heels tapping toward the front door.

The couple giggled and whispered their way through the hallway, then slipped outside, leaving empty glasses behind.

Sophia held her eyes on them until they got into their cars and faded into the trees. She stepped behind the door and rested her hand against it.

An arm wrapped around her waist.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she whispered. “You built this house.” The arm pulled her in. She turned slowly and finally saw him—exactly as she had imagined. His brown eyes held hers, patient and full. She leaned against his shoulder, and his hand brushed her cheek.

No reflection formed in the window.
Outside, the wind moved through the shrubs, bending the trees.

The pale house stood at the end of the road.

Chicago Winter Haunt

The tower clock struck 1:00 am. The cold of the Chicago night was more than just winter’s bite. I raced toward the train station, feeling a presence behind me. The sensation gnawed at my nerves, each step amplifying my mounting dread. I stopped and turned around, scanning the empty street. Nothing. Only the faint hum of distant traffic. Yet, the cold was strange, unnatural even for a Chicago winter. It was as if I’d opened a freezer, and the frigid air engulfed me, and the night itself held its breath, waiting.

I descended into the subway station, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. The chill seemed to seep into my bones. God, I would give anything for a hot cup of tea. I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets, trying to preserve any remaining warmth.

“Got a light?” A deep male voice shattered the silence. I jolted, my heart leaping to my throat. A dim light revealed a towering figure emerging from behind a poster post. It wasn’t a man—it was a horse-like creature walking on two legs. Four deliberate steps, each click-clop of hooves echoing ominously, brought him closer. He wore black velveteen trousers and a perfectly tailored tuxedo jacket, and an oversized bow tie. A long wool scarf that hung almost to his knees completed the odd vintage wardrobe. His horse head was real, crowned by a magician’s hat.

“No,” I mumbled, my breath visible in the now Arctic air.

“No, you don’t,” he confirmed, his voice a melodic contradiction to his horrifying appearance. “But you have something else I want.”

Terror surged through me. His eyes—or rather, the dark, smoke-filled voids where his eyes should be—seemed to pierce my soul. His cigarette lit itself, the ember glowing in the dim station. I was paralyzed, unable to look away.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, a blend of fear and curiosity.

A long pause. He stepped closer, the click-clop of his hooves unnaturally loud. I stepped back, but he matched my movements perfectly.

“Your grandmother never told you the truth. You left before your 17th birthday, never to see her again before she died,” he said, his voice unsettlingly calm. “Your grandmother was a witch. And so are you.” He smiled revealing his half-rotten yellow teeth. The stench emanating from his mouth was hardly bearable.

My mind reeled. “What do you want from me?” I demanded, the words tasting of panic.

“We need you. You need us. Join us, and…” The roar of the approaching train drowned his words. Without a glance, he jumped onto the tracks, disintegrating into a cloud of smoky dust as the train barreled through him.

I bolted up the stairs, adrenaline turning my fear into flight. No way was I getting on that train! My heart hammered in my chest as I ran through the city’s early stirrings, barely registering my surroundings. Familiar landmarks blurred past me. Somehow, I found myself in front of my building. Had I really run five miles?

I stopped, gasping for breath, when I noticed something was off. Looking down, I was shocked to see my feet hovering inches above the ground. I wasn’t just standing; I was floating, suspended in the air. Panic escalated to a new high. This was impossible! But as I willed myself to descend, I gently touched down on the sidewalk. The realization hit me like a lightning bolt: I was a witch! This wasn’t a dream or a hallucination—it was real.

I stood paralyzed, staring at the lake. My thoughts raced, heart pounding with the shock of the revelation. Words about my grandmother echoed in my mind, the truth undeniable. I was a witch. Maybe that’s why people felt intimidated around me.

* * *

The sound of a helicopter roused me. My hands and feet were numb from cold. I was still by the lake, the sunrise partially reflecting in the calm waters. Had I fallen asleep standing there? The memory of the subway encounter felt like a bizarre dream.

“Good morning,” said the doorman as I entered the lobby.

Awaiting the elevator, I smiled at the absurdity of being a witch. My grandmother, a tiny yet formidable woman, always seemed to have superhuman energy. Barely five feet tall, but her presence was like a force of nature. She lived on a farm her entire life. I recalled her talking to animals, particularly her cow while milking. Could she have been a witch? The thought of her hidden objects, candles, and mirrors now seemed less whimsical and more significant. I have a vague memory of an accident during a hot summer harvest, where she lifted a horse! I never knew how she had found the strength.

Suddenly, the elevator stopped, and an intense light pierced through a small opening above, stretching like an aurora. It grew blinding.

“Your thoughts are all correct, my dear,” came my grandmother’s calming voice.

“Grandma?” I whispered, feeling like a child again. The sweet scent of her apple pie filled the air. Tears streamed down my cheeks. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too. I never got the chance to tell you, but you always had a sense of it, didn’t you?”

“Are you really a witch? Am I?”

“There isn’t much time left. You must discover your powers quickly. He wants you, and you must find your abilities before he does.”

“Grandma, what are you talking about? What powers? How do I know my powers?” I was overwhelmed with questions. “I was flying. Is this my power?” I asked, curious.

“Flying is a natural gift, just like playing with light. The four elements—Water, Earth, Wind, and Fire—are your playful friends, too.” I sensed a smile in her warm voice. “Animals and plants are gifts of the Earth. They are already in your heart. Keep them close. But you must find your own unique powers,” she emphasized.

“How?” I was desperate.

“You must find a way. Find them before He does.” She paused. A small box landed in my hand. “Accept being a witch before sunset. There is a full moon tonight. As a sign of acceptance, put one of the rings on before the sunset and the moon rises. If not, you decline it. The rings not only bestow powers but also protection. Wear at least one on your ring finger.”

“But if you accept it, there is one trade-off: You must give up love. It’s hard for witches to find real love—not impossible, but difficult and impractical.” She sighed. “Remember our relationship with your grandfather? Witches are cursed. We can’t find true love.”

This was too much for me. My head was spinning.

“I have so many questions…” I started, but she cut me off.

“You can do so much good, dear.”

Her voice faded, replaced by the hum of the elevator. My mind was racing. Could I embrace this legacy? Did I have a choice? I held a box of rings in my hand. I couldn’t stop staring at them. The box emitted a soft glow. Then I looked down at my feet planted on the floor. I rose onto my toes, pointed them, and pushed hard. And it happened. I took off, levitating a few inches above the ground, just like before. This was real. I was a real witch! That would explain so many mysterious things. As the elevator door slid open, I floated out of it toward my door.

I spent the entire day in front of the window, staring at the lake, rewinding my life in my head, while holding the box with rings in my hand. The realization that I was a witch came with a heavy burden. What are my gifts and powers? What will I do with them?

The sun began to touch the horizon, and the hardest question still lingered: Am I willing to give up love—the one thing I have always wanted so much? But what if I am really cursed and there is no love for me? The thought terrifies me. To give up on love feels like giving up on a part of my soul. Yet, love has evaded me for so long. Can I keep chasing something that might never find?

I took a deep breath and opened the box. One by one, I slipped the rings on my right ring finger. “I will be married to myself,” I whispered. The words felt both empowering and heartbreaking.

As the last ring settled, I felt a surge of energy. I was a witch. I had chosen power and purpose over a dream that seemed out of reach. Perhaps this was my own form of devotion, a commitment to a different kind of life, one where I could still do good, even if it meant giving up on love. In that moment, the sun immersed in the lake. I watched it disappear, casting a warm orange glow.

This is my first stab at a fantasy piece. I drew inspiration from the cold Chicago Metro and my wild imagination.

A Stormy Encounter: A Kiss Worth Waiting For…

Author’s Note:
I’ve always wanted to write a passionate scene, even though, in my opinion, romantic plots are often overdone. Still, many horror stories I’ve read miss something… that subtle romantic subplot showing the soft and vulnerable side of the character. I needed to make sure my story didn’t overlook this aspect. True and authentic love is incredibly hard to find, right? Maybe that’s why we turn to books, hoping to glimpse and experience its magic through the characters we follow. Yet, if you’re lucky enough to experience the perfect kiss even once in your life, you’re truly fortunate. It’s worth the wait! On that note, as a self-proclaimed romantic, I had to weave this delicate thread into my dark story, obviously. 🙂

Here’s a glimpse of that moment from chapter 14 of my project, without giving too much away. ❤️

He put both hands firmly on her face, preventing her from slipping away. There was no way he would let her go this time. “I’ve wanted you for a long time.”

Before Nayah could respond, his lips found hers, soft and gentle at first, but full of hunger and intensity, waiting for her for far too long. She realized in that instant how much she wanted this—wanted him—more than she had ever admitted. She wrapped her arms around him, one hand sliding into his drenched hair. Her fingers dug in, feeling the tenderness of his skin. It was soothing and addictive—his warmth against the cold rain.

His hand shifted to cradle her neck, drawing her closer, as though he would never let her go. It wasn’t just the kiss—it was the way his entire body leaned into hers, every movement charged with meaning. His chest pressed against hers with desire to fill the spaces she had kept hidden from the world. Nayah responded, releasing a soft sigh. Her knees buckled slightly, but she shifted closer, seeking more of him. The kiss wasn’t just physical; it was an unraveling, a collapse of the last walls between them.

For a moment, nothing else existed—no haunted houses, no missing journals, no demons or keys—just this.

But the passionate kiss was interrupted when a sudden, loud crack of thunder reverberated beneath their feet. They pulled apart, both gasping, startled by the sound.

Nayah stepped back breathless. “What… what was that?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his voice tight with unease.
The sky had darkened even further, thick clouds rolling in, casting the town square into a dark twilight. But something else felt off. Nayah sensed it—a prickling fear crawling over her skin.

The Bird – (The Hidden Legacy)

NOTE: I wanted to share an update on the latest chapter! In this excerpt, things take a dark turn as a raven descends, transforming into something far more sinister. Who—or what—is the woman emerging from the darkness? As I’ve mentioned before, the story is full of secrets, and this is yet another one for Nayah to uncover. Will she? Stay tuned for more as the story unfolds. I’ll share more soon! For now, I’d love to hear what you think.

The evening cast a somber veil over the landscape. The final, waning rays of the sun painted the sky in bruised hues of purple and gray. Nayah’s house stood isolated, surrounded by a forest of lifeless trees. Silence hung heavily in the air.

Then, the stillness was broken.

A dark shape descended from the obscured sky, a raven slicing through the dimming light with sharp precision. Its black wings beat the air with unnatural force, as though fueled by a dark essence, pulsing from hellfire itself. As it dropped rapidly, its form began to shift grotesquely, expanding not just in appearance but in actual size. It landed at the edge of the porch steps, a faint thud echoing across the silent ground.

The bird’s form contorted and stretched. Feathers dissolved into a swirling vortex of darkness. The murky mass writhed and grew, the silhouette of the infernal bird stretching taller and more distinct. Its wings spread wide, morphed elongating into human arms as the shadows reshaped into the body of a woman.

The transformation was monstrous and mesmerizing, unfolding with chilling inevitability. The figure solidified. Black and gray hair unfurled from the now human-like head. Yet, her movements were fluid and deliberate, exuding an unnatural elegance and confidence, as though she commanded the very darkness around her.

The Hidden Legacy – update

Read Chapter 1 Here

Thank you for following along with Nayah’s story here.

After much thought, I’ve decided to delete chapter 4 and onward, and I won’t be posting the remaining chapters here. Instead, I plan to complete it as a novel. What began as a short story has grown into something much more extensive, and I’m both thrilled (and also terrified!) to turn Nayah’s journey into a full-length book—my first novel.

Nayah will uncover deep family secrets, including a cursed legacy, and unravel terrifying mysteries within the house she unexpectedly inherited. Her journey will be unforgettable, and I can’t wait to share her adventure with you—when the time is right.

In the meantime, I’m slowing down on blogging to focus on completing this project (and likely giving it a new title). That said, I might drop a poem or a funny story if I need a break from Nayah. 🙂

Thank you so much for your support—it truly means the world to me! Stay tuned for updates!