THE HOUSE ON INDIGO STREET

the 3:07 c***k

I didn’t sleep.

Not really. I lay in the narrow bed in the room that used to be my grandmother’s, staring at the ceiling until the streetlights outside faded and the only sound was the rain tapping the tin roof.

At 3:06 a.m. I told myself it was nothing. Old house. Wood settling. Wind.

At 3:07 a.m. the floorboard by the door creaked.

One long, deliberate sound. Like a footstep. Like someone shifting their weight from heel to toe.

I sat up. The air in the room had dropped ten degrees. My breath made a faint cloud in the dark.

“Hello?” My voice sounded small and stupid against the silence.

No answer. Just the steady drip of water from the kitchen tap.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and reached for the torch on the nightstand. The beam shook as I pointed it at the floorboard.

Nothing there. No dust disturbed. No gap widened. Just plain, old wood, same as it had been when I moved in yesterday.

But the smell was new. Wet cotton. Indigo dye. The same smell that clung to the blue fabric tied around the key.

I walked to the door, torch in one hand, the other hovering over the knob. The hallway outside was darker than it should be. The moonlight from the small window at the end didn’t reach this far.

Another creak. This time from the top of the stairs.

I should have gone back to bed. I should have locked the door and pulled the blanket over my head and pretended I hadn’t heard it. That’s what a sensible 17-year-old would do.

I didn’t.

I followed the sound.

The stairs groaned under my weight, one step, then two, then — nothing. The third step, the one halfway up, didn’t make a sound. It never did. I tested it twice, pressing my weight down hard. Silent.

When I reached the landing, the hallway was colder. The air felt thick, like I was breathing through wet cloth. And at the far end, the door to the second-floor room that the landlord said was locked was standing open a c***k.

I didn’t remember opening it.

The torchlight caught something on the floor just inside. A small puddle. Not water. It was darker, and it reflected the light like oil.

I stepped closer. The puddle rippled.

Even though there was no wind. Even though my hand wasn’t near it.

And from inside the room, a whisper. Not words. Just a sound, like someone trying to say my name but with a mouth full of water.

*Maa… ra…*

I dropped the torch.

The light rolled across the floor and stopped pointing at the puddle. The ripple stopped. The whisper stopped.

The room went completely black.

I stood there for a long time, heart pounding, listening. Waiting for the whisper to come again. Waiting for the footsteps to come down the stairs behind me. They didn’t.

When I finally picked up the torch and shone it back into the room, the door had swung shut on its own. The puddle was gone. The floor was dry.

I didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

But I did leave the key on the table. Just in case it wanted to be used again.