Third person pov
She was alone in the house. Completely alone. Her parents had gone to a friend’s place and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow morning.
The clock on the wall read 12:00 AM. Midnight. The stillness of the house was heavy, almost oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the soft glow of her laptop casting shadows across her bedroom on the second floor.
She had been scrolling through Netflix, trying to distract herself from the creeping sense of unease that always settled over the house at night.
Outside, the world was silent, the streets empty, the only lights the dim glow of distant lamps. Shadows flickered on the walls, stretching long and strange in the glow of her laptop.
Then came the doorbell. Ding-dong.
Her heart jumped. She froze mid-scroll, staring at the closed door below. Who could that be at this hour? Her parents weren’t home. She wasn’t expecting anyone. The bell rang again, sharper this time, cutting through the silence like a warning.
Outside, the night added to the unease. An owl hooted, somewhere close, its call harsh and eerie. A cat yowled in the distance, and a dog barked, faint but frantic. Each sound made her stomach tighten. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her pulse spike.
Cautiously, she rose from her bed and crept toward the stairs, her bare feet making soft whispers on the carpet. Each step felt louder than the last.
The doorbell rang again, insistent, unanswered. She gripped the railing at the top of the staircase, shadows flickering across the walls with every sway of the streetlight outside.
Step by careful step, she descended. The house seemed to hum with anticipation—the wind rattling the windows, the old boards groaning beneath her weight, the faint rustle of leaves outside.
When she reached the first floor, the banging began. Heavy. Loud. Insistent. BANG… BANG… BANG! The sound vibrated through the floorboards, echoing off the walls, making her stomach twist with fear. She froze at the bottom of the stairs, gripping the railing, her heart hammering.
The night itself seemed to join the terror. The owl’s hoot cut closer now, a sharp cat yowl split the air, and the distant dog barked wildly.
Shadows danced across the hallway as the wind whispered through the cracked windows. Every flicker, every creak, every breath of wind made her pulse spike.
With trembling hands, she inched forward, drawn to the source of the sound despite the fear coiling tight in her chest. Step by step, she approached the front door, the pounding continuing with relentless urgency.
The suspense wrapped around her like a physical weight, her imagination running wild with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last.
Finally, she reached the doorway. She paused, taking a deep, shaky breath, before grasping the knob. The pounding paused for a heartbeat, replaced by suffocating silence, and then—she pushed the door open.
And there it was: the figure at the door. Silence hung thick in the air, the tension sharp enough to taste. She stared, wide-eyed, heart still racing, as the unknown and the terrifying converged in that single moment.
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She pushed the door open fully, her fingers trembling on the knob. The sudden exposure of the night outside made her blink against the darkness, heart hammering in her chest. And there he was her friend—standing there, frozen, completely bewildered, as if he had just realized he had walked into the wrong world.
Her eyes widened. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The pounding of the door had stopped, replaced by the quiet hum of the house and the faint rustling of leaves outside. Her pulse slowly began to settle, though her stomach still twisted with unease.
Then she noticed it. The white dust clinging to his hair, his clothes, even his shoes. Wheat. He looked as if he had wrestled through a field before appearing at her doorstep, and the sight was too absurd not to notice.
Her lips twitched, and a quiet laugh escaped before she could stop it.
He froze immediately, eyes snapping to her face, cheeks flushing red. “Don’t… don’t look at me like that!” he stammered, brushing at his hair in a futile attempt to remove the wheat.
Her heartbeat slowed as the tension melted into a strange mix of relief and amusement. She gave him a slow, incredulous look, trying—and failing—to hide the faint grin forming on her lips.
He shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck, every movement radiating embarrassment. They shared a long, silent stare, the air thick with the memory of the pounding, the door, and the absurdity of his appearance.
No laughter. No words. Just a quiet, mutual cringe that seemed to stretch across the doorway, lingering in the space where terror had turned into awkward humor.
Boy: I thought it was my house
Finally, she cleared her throat. “You… really need to check whose house you’re at next time.”
He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, muttering something unintelligible while giving a sheepish shrug. The night settled around them once more, quiet now, the house returning to its normal rhythm—but the memory of the midnight chaos, the pounding, and the wheat-covered visitor would linger far longer.
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Copyright Disclaimer:
All characters, events, and elements in this story are original creations by the author. This work is intended for personal enjoyment, creative practice, and storytelling purposes only. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the author.
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