My grandma passed away 3 years ago

Her scream shakes the windows.

That’s when my father finally breaks.

By morning, he looks hollowed out. His confidence is gone, splintered like rotting wood. He grips the counter as if the house itself is dragging him under. “This place isn’t right,” he mutters.

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Marla stares at me. “You did this.”

I tilt my head. “Did what?”

“You’re feeding the house,” she whispers.

Dad slams his fist down. “Stop it! You sound crazy!”

She flinches as if struck.

I almost feel bad.

Almost.

By the fourth night, the house stops pretending.

Doors open without touch.
Reflections distort.
Footsteps echo in empty halls.

Dad drowns himself in denial and alcohol, muttering about stress and faulty wiring—until a handprint slowly appears on the inside of the fogged bathroom glass at 2:17 a.m.

His scream joins hers.
For the first time, I see him truly afraid.

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