3Rddegreefilms
Kenna James, Lucas Frost Pic(s)
The house settled into a deep, unnatural silence, the only sound the frantic thrumming of my own pulse in my ears. A floorboard groaned directly overhead, a long, slow exhalation of wood that was not part of the familiar nightly chorus. The air, once warm and still, now carried a subtle chill that raised the fine hairs on my arms, a phantom breath ghosting across my skin. My fingers, which had been idly tracing the pattern on the sofa cushion, stilled completely, every sense straining into the oppressive quiet. A faint, metallic scent, like old pennies and damp earth, teased my nostrils, a stark contrast to the lingering aroma of microwave popcorn. From the dark hallway, a shadow detached itself from the deeper blackness, moving with a liquid, deliberate slowness that froze the breath in my lungs. I could feel a presence, a palpable weight of attention focused solely on me, pressing down until the space between my shoulder blades prickled with a cold sweat. The television’s silent screen reflected a distorted, elongated figure creeping closer, its movements a grotesque parody of a dance. A single, warm drop of condensation from my forgotten water glass traced a path down my thigh, the sensation shockingly intimate and terrifying amidst the gathering dread.
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