Chapter 03: The Thirst That Lies Beneath
Sarah’s heart stopped for a moment as the door creaked open. Her breath caught in her throat. The house had been silent just moments before, the wind howling its usual mournful tune through the cracks in the windows. But now, something felt wrong. It wasn’t just the silence; it was the presence—the feeling of something close, something unseen, just beyond her reach.
She stayed still, listening, straining her senses to detect any sound, any movement that would give her a clue as to what had opened the door. The dim moonlight filtered in through the cracks in the shutters, casting long shadows across the floor. The room was cold—colder than it should have been, despite the warmth of the summer night.
Another creak, this time from inside the room.
Sarah’s pulse quickened. She couldn’t tell if the sound was coming from the door itself or from somewhere deeper within the house. It was as if the walls themselves were breathing, exhaling the chill of something ancient, something buried.
She reached for the bedside lamp, her fingers trembling as she grasped the cold metal. The moment the light flickered on, the room seemed to shift. The shadows deepened, pressing against the corners of the walls, thickening as if trying to swallow the small pool of light she had created.
The door hung ajar, but there was no one there.
Her mind raced. Could it have been the wind? Had she imagined the creaking? It was late, and the house was old—old houses had a way of making strange sounds. But she knew, deep down, that this was different. This was something else.
She stood slowly, her legs weak beneath her, and made her way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, as though the very floor was reluctant to bear her weight. Her breath was shallow as she reached for the door, half-expecting something to grab her hand, to pull her into the dark. But nothing came.
With a quick motion, she pushed the door fully open. The hallway outside was dark, the air thick and stagnant. The familiar scent of dust and wood lingered in the air, but there was something else now—a faint, bitter odor, like something decaying. She stepped into the hallway, her bare feet cold against the floorboards.
The door to the guest room stood across from hers, slightly ajar as well. Sarah hesitated before walking toward it, her mind racing with every possibility. What if someone had broken in? What if it was the stranger—was he somehow inside the house now? Her mind spun with images of the man, the strange, unsettling smile on his face, the cryptic words that hung in the air.
But as she reached for the guest room door, she heard it—a low sound, like a groan, coming from behind it. It was unmistakable.
Her breath caught in her throat. Something—or someone—was in the room.
With trembling hands, Sarah pushed the door open.
The room was empty. The bed was untouched, the window cracked open just a sliver, letting in the cool night air. Yet the groan, that unsettling noise, lingered in the silence. It came again, louder now, almost like a gasp for air—dry, desperate, hungry.
Sarah’s stomach turned. The air felt thick with it, the dryness almost suffocating. She turned quickly, retreating down the hallway, her mind racing with confusion and fear. What was happening? Why was the air so thick, so heavy with something she couldn’t name?
Then she saw it.
In the corner of the hallway, at the far end, a shadow moved. It was small, quick, almost imperceptible at first. But when Sarah blinked, it was there again, this time clearer, more distinct. The shadow moved slowly, slithering along the floor like something alive.
She backed away, her heart pounding. The house had grown colder, the very air thick with a presence that felt unnatural. Her throat was dry, her mouth parched as she turned to retreat back into her bedroom. She slammed the door behind her, locking it with a trembling hand, but the unease didn’t leave. It followed her, lingering in the corners of her mind, whispering that something was wrong—something terrible.
And then, she heard it—the whisper.
Faint at first, like the rustling of dead leaves, but growing clearer as it slipped into her consciousness.
“Thirst…”
The voice was hollow, like the echo of someone long dead. It wasn’t from outside the door. It was inside her head.
“Thirst…”
The word repeated, as though it were crawling through the walls, seeping into the very fabric of the house. Her body went rigid with the sound. She pressed her hands to her ears, trying to block it out, but it grew louder, filling the room, drowning out all other thoughts.
She couldn’t escape it. There was no place where it wouldn’t follow.
“Thirst…”
The voice grew more desperate, frantic, as if the very walls of the house were speaking, crying out for something—something Sarah didn’t understand, something terrible that the town had forgotten but could never escape.
A memory flashed in her mind—a distant, half-forgotten story her grandmother had told her long ago. A tale of a town cursed by an ancient hunger, a thirst that couldn’t be satisfied, no matter how much the people drank. The thirst, the story said, didn’t just come for the body—it came for the soul. And once the thirst had taken root, there was no escape.
Sarah’s breath quickened. Her skin crawled with the realization.
She had thought the drought was the worst of it. But this—this was something else. Something far darker.
She felt the first stirrings of fear deep in her chest, like a pressure building from the inside. She knew what the town had been thirsting for, what it had needed for so long.
And she knew, in that moment, that it wasn’t just water.
It was blood.
