The Alford family was desperate for help when they hired me. Their son, Sam, was their only child—a delicate, silent boy who barely spoke. The agency told me he had gone through several caretakers, all of whom had quit suddenly. His mother, Margaret, seemed weary beyond her years when I met her, her hands trembling as she wrung them together. Mr. Alford, a cold, severe man, barely made eye contact. But it was Sam who struck me. Those wide, solemn eyes held something I couldn’t place, something that both intrigued and unnerved me.
No one knew the truth about me, of course. For all intents and purposes, I was your average caretaker, a quiet, attentive woman in her thirties. I blended in, moved through life like a shadow, my real nature hidden under layers of practice. I had been careful for years, feeding only when necessary, never leaving traces. This job, taking care of a frail child in an old house, seemed perfect. An easy mark, and plenty of time alone.
The Alford house was an eerie place, even by my standards. The sprawling mansion was dimly lit, filled with strange drafts that snaked through the halls, carrying whispers I could never quite make out. It felt as though the walls themselves were watching, breathing, and the shadows seemed to stretch and shift at the corners of my vision.
The first night, I was woken by a sound—a quiet, persistent tapping coming from the hallway. I thought it might be Mr. Alford, wandering sleeplessly. But when I opened my door, there was no one there. Only darkness and the faint smell of something rotting.
I tried to ignore it. After all, I had my own plans for the Alfords, and I couldn’t let my mind wander. I told myself it was the old house settling, the usual creaks and groans of ancient wood. But as I closed my door, I heard a child’s voice, so faint it was almost inaudible.
“Miss? Are you here?”
It was Sam.
My heart skipped a beat, a mixture of excitement and dread pulsing through me. I hadn’t expected him to be up at this hour, but I followed his voice, my bare feet padding down the hallway to his room.
He was sitting up in bed, his pale face half-hidden in shadow. His eyes, wide and unblinking, fixed on me as I entered.
“Miss, are you…hungry?”
I froze, the words hanging heavy in the silence. His voice was strange, too calm, too knowing for a child his age. “Why would you say that, Sam?” I asked, forcing a smile.
He looked at me with those dark eyes, and a shiver crawled down my spine. “They told me. The others.”
A cold chill ran through me. “What others?” I asked, laughing lightly, though my voice felt hollow in the quiet room.
He just smiled, a slow, unsettling grin. “The ones who watch from the walls.”
The next few days, things only got stranger. At night, I would hear soft whispers coming from behind the walls, voices that seemed to echo with laughter, too faint for anyone else to notice. During the day, I began to see things—reflections in the glass, a flicker of something behind me when I turned too quickly.
One evening, I found Sam drawing in his room, surrounded by crayons and paper. He didn’t look up as I entered, so I leaned over to see what he was working on.
My breath caught in my throat.
He had drawn faces. Dozens of them, crowded onto the page, all twisted in agony. Eyes wide, mouths open in silent screams. One of the faces looked eerily familiar—a caretaker I had worked with years ago. Someone who had vanished without a trace.
“Do you like it?” Sam asked, his voice soft. “They told me to draw them. They wanted you to see.”
I stepped back, my hand trembling as I forced myself to smile. “You have a vivid imagination, Sam.”
He looked up at me, his face expressionless. “They’re not imaginary. They’re here.”
He pointed at the wall, and I couldn’t help but glance over. The wallpaper seemed to shift, the patterns writhing as though something was moving beneath. I blinked, and it was gone, but the unease lingered, thick and suffocating.
That night, I decided I couldn’t wait any longer. The hunger was gnawing at me, and I could feel myself losing control. I needed to feed, needed to taste that sweet, innocent blood that pulsed just beneath Sam’s skin.
I slipped into his room, my footsteps silent as I approached his bed. He was asleep, his small body curled under the blankets. I leaned in, my mouth watering as I caught the scent of him, warm and inviting.
But as I reached out, my hand brushed something cold and sticky. I pulled back, my fingers coated in a dark, viscous substance. The smell hit me immediately—coppery, thick, unmistakable.
Blood.
I staggered back, my mind reeling. There was no wound, no source for the blood, but it was everywhere—soaking the sheets, dripping from the ceiling, pooling on the floor. And then I heard it—the whispers, louder now, filling the room with their mocking laughter.
“He’s ours,” they hissed. “You thought you could take him, but he belongs to us.”
I stumbled back, desperate to escape, but the door slammed shut, trapping me in the dark, blood-soaked room. Shadows crept along the walls, twisting into shapes—faces contorted in agony, hands reaching out, clawing at the air.
Sam sat up, his eyes glowing in the darkness, an unnatural, otherworldly light.
“You can’t take what’s already taken,” he said, his voice not his own. It was layered, as though a dozen voices were speaking through him. “You came to feed, but you’re the one who will be fed upon.”
I tried to scream, but my voice was swallowed by the darkness. The shadows closed in, their cold fingers wrapping around me, pulling me down, deeper into the void.
I don’t know how long I was trapped there, in that place between worlds. Time lost all meaning as I drifted in the dark, surrounded by the faces of those who had come before me, their silent screams echoing in my mind. I could feel the hunger gnawing at me, consuming me from within, but there was no escape, no relief.
I was part of them now, bound to the house, to the darkness that pulsed within its walls.
And Sam, that twisted, innocent-looking boy, was our master.
He still wanders the halls, his laughter filling the empty rooms as he draws more of us to him, one by one. Caretakers, visitors, anyone foolish enough to cross the threshold.
We wait in the shadows, watching, hungering, trapped in the endless night of the Alford house.
And soon, perhaps, you’ll join us, too.
