Possession

People warned me something had to be wrong; no one rents out a house like this luxurious, historical, and in the heart of London for such a pittance unless there's a reason. Deep down, I knew they were right, but curiosity and perhaps arrogance overpowered caution.

The house was a Georgian masterpiece, filled with opulent furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum. It felt like stepping into another time, a dream materialized. I convinced myself this was a sign of my business success, a reward for my hard work. I envisioned grand dinner parties, laughter filling the house, and new connections forming around that elegant oak dining table. I couldn’t pack fast enough.

But the first night should have been my warning. Instead, I dismissed it as a product of exhaustion or an overactive imagination. Now, I realize it was the first act of a torment that would follow me for the rest of my life.

The house was bitterly cold, and the air felt heavy, oppressive as though it had soaked up centuries of grief and malice. The ornate dining room should have been comforting, but as I sat at the massive oak table, I felt exposed, like prey. Shadows seemed to twist and ripple in the flickering candlelight, watching. I forced down a sad excuse for dinner, beans on toast, but nausea gripped me, churning in time with my growing unease.

Then came the crash. A sound so loud it made my heart feel like it had leapt into my throat. I spun around to find the watercolour painting, an otherwise serene landscape, had fallen from above the marble fireplace, its glass shattered. As I lifted it, I froze. The canvas wasn’t just torn; it had been slashed, five jagged gashes raked across it like the work of talons. The claw marks ran deep, shredding the painted tranquillity.

My fear, already at a simmer, boiled over. Desperate for courage, I poured a glass of wine though its pairing with beans on toast felt like some kind of cosmic joke. Exhaustion finally dragged me to bed, though it offered little relief. The night was alive with unease, the kind that crawls under your skin and whispers that you are not alone. Sleep came in fitful fragments, each interrupted by a sickening certainty: something was watching from the dark corners of my room, waiting.

Then it struck. I woke gasping, clawing at the hands I couldn't see but could feel tightening around my throat. The pressure was unrelenting, suffocating. When it finally lifted, I was drenched in cold sweat, unable to decide if it had been a horrifying nightmare or something far worse.

For a few days, the house seemed to lull me into a false sense of normalcy, its malevolence hiding beneath the surface. Then, chaos returned. The air grew frigid, the shadows lengthened, and the house seemed to exhale despair. Depression settled over me like a fog, stifling my thoughts and stealing my will. Items vanished and reappeared in impossible places keys in the freezer, shoes on the roof. Faucets in all three bathrooms turned on in unison, flooding the silence with the sound of rushing water.

But it was the third bathroom that radiated something far darker. Its walls seemed to pulse with a tangible sadness, as if the room itself grieved. The banging sounds started soon after, rhythmic and unrelenting, like a heartbeat. Towels were thrown to the floor as though in a tantrum, though I never saw it happen. Whatever resided here was angry, and it wanted me to know it.

Things reached a horrifying crescendo one morning when I entered the dining room. Every chair had been turned upside down, their legs jutting into the air like skeletal remains. Pools of water glistened on the floor, their source an enigma that defied logic. The sight chilled me to the core, but the worst was yet to come.

As I stood there, frozen, the sound of footsteps thundered above me rapid, frantic, as if someone was running across the ceiling. My skin turned clammy, and the air thickened, pressing against my chest like invisible hands. The sensation of choking returned, stronger this time, as though the house itself was trying to suffocate me.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know what was happening. Summoning every ounce of courage, I resolved to search the house from top to bottom. The ornate staircase loomed before me, its sweeping curve both majestic and menacing. Each step creaked under my weight, the sound echoing like a warning.

The landing stretched out before me, dimly lit and suffused with an oppressive energy. The bathroom that had been the epicentre of so much activity drew me in like a magnet. The air inside was electric, charged with a malevolence that made my skin crawl. As I stood there, the sound of footsteps echoed again this time right in front of me. My breath hitched as the tap turned itself on with a violent gush. Then, out of nowhere, a flannel flew across the room, narrowly missing the back of my head.

I collapsed onto the edge of the bath, trembling uncontrollably. My thoughts were shattered by a scream a single, guttural “NO!” that reverberated through the room. I whipped my head around and saw her. She stood by the window, her form solid yet otherworldly. A young woman with brunette hair, her face and clothes dripping wet. Her eyes, filled with sorrow, locked onto mine, and in that moment, I felt her pain as if it were my own.

She wasn’t evil. I knew that now. Her torment was a desperate cry for help. And then, as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone.

The connection we shared lingered, and with it came a flood of understanding. She had been beaten, drowned in the bath, her life stolen in a moment of violence. The guilt she carried, the belief that she had somehow deserved her fate, bound her to this place. She couldn’t move on, and now, neither could I.

Driven by a need for answers, I turned to my laptop. I didn’t expect to find anything, but there it was a newspaper article from the 1930s. Rosemary, the daughter of the house’s owner, had been a socialite, the belle of every ball. But her charm had a darker side; she had a habit of toying with her admirers, leading them on with no intention of following through.

The night she died, Rosemary had attended a dance with her family and a young suitor. An argument ensued, and she left alone. What happened next was a mystery, but the police believed someone she knew had been waiting for her. The bathroom bore the signs of a struggle, and the official report stated she had been strangled. In a panic, her killer had tried to revive her, dousing her with water in a futile attempt to undo the damage.

Her murderer was never caught. And now, her restless spirit haunted the house, trapped by the weight of her guilt and the injustice of her death.

But that was only the beginning.

That night, the house fell into an unnatural silence. It felt hollow, lifeless, as though it had been drained of all warmth. My head grew heavy, my thoughts sluggish, as if something was trying to take hold of me. At 10 p.m., I went to bed, hoping for rest but finding only terror.

The room was freezing, the darkness alive with flickering lights that danced across the walls. These weren’t reflections from outside; the heavy curtains ensured that. The lights moved with purpose, taunting me. Then came the banging a relentless, hammering noise from downstairs. It wasn’t the creak of an old house settling; it was deliberate, violent.

I ventured downstairs, my heart pounding. The noise stopped as I entered the room off the kitchen, but the air was thick with the stench of sulphur. It clung to my nostrils, burning, before dissipating as suddenly as it had appeared. Determined to uncover the source of this madness, I began a final sweep of the house.

The servants’ quarters on the upper floor were my last stop. The air was colder here, the atmosphere suffused with a malevolence that made my skin crawl. A faint whiff of sulphur reached me just as something icy brushed past, too fast to see. My breath caught as a shadow began to form in the centre of the room not on the wall but suspended in the air.

It grew, twisting and writhing, a mass of darkness that defied explanation. The smell of sulphur intensified, choking me as the shadow pulsed with a sinister energy. It wasn’t just a presence; it was a force, radiating pure evil. My legs refused to move, my body frozen in place as the thing began to morph. Faces emerged from the darkness, grotesque and contorted, their eyes burning with hatred. Each face lunged at me, testing the barrier of willpower I had instinctively erected.

The pain in my head was unbearable, a searing agony that threatened to pull me under. I screamed prayers into the void, clinging to the last shreds of my faith. The thing recoiled, its form collapsing back into a shapeless mass. But the battle wasn’t over. It surged forward, its energy latching onto me, draining me. My vision blurred, my strength waned, and for a moment, I felt myself slipping away.

And then, nothing.

I don’t know what happened next. Did it possess me? Did it drag me to hell? All I know is this:

I am his.

Written by Irene Allen-Block.

Image by Kellepics Pixabay free downloads.

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