Unclaimed

The DIY kit arrived in an unassuming cardboard box, slightly crumpled from its journey through the postal system. Michael found it on their front porch, weighing it in his hands.

Too light to be worth much, it felt like an afterthought, the kind of cheap trinket you’d expect at a novelty shop. And yet, Beth carried it inside like it was sacred.

“It’s for them,” she said, brushing past him with the box hugged to her chest.

For them, her parents. The word felt heavier every time she said it.

Their deaths—violent, unthinkable—had ruptured her, but she hadn’t cried since the funeral. Instead, she’d bought this.

That night, Michael found her in the guest room. She’d drawn thick black curtains over the windows, and dozens of small candles flickered along the floor.

In the center of the room sat an Ouija board, a bundle of dried herbs, and a book with brittle-looking pages. Beth worked quietly, tracing symbols on the hardwood with chalk.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Her eyes flashed up at him, sharp and urgent. “It’s just… something to help.”

Help what, he wanted to ask. Help Beth grieve? Help her let go? But something in her tone warned him against prying. He left her to it.

At first, Michael thought the seances were harmless, even therapeutic. Beth grew quieter, less volatile.

She began sleeping through the night again, or so it seemed. But then came the sounds.

Late one night, he woke to the creak of footsteps in the hallway. He rolled over, half-asleep, expecting to see Beth coming back from the kitchen.

But the footsteps didn’t stop at the bedroom door. They continued down the hall, deliberate and slow.

“Beth?” he called softly. No answer.

He got up and peeked into the guest room. Beth sat cross-legged on the floor, the flickering candlelight casting her face in eerie shadows. Her lips moved silent as if speaking to something he couldn’t see. The air in the room felt stifling.

“Beth?”

She looked up, startled, as if caught doing something shameful. “What?”

“Were you just in the hall?”

Her brow furrowed. “No. I’ve been here the whole time.”

The footsteps became a nightly occurrence, always the same: slow, deliberate pacing. Then came the watcher.

Michael woke one night with a sharp, primal certainty that he wasn’t alone. His body froze before his eyes could even focus, but when they did, he wished they hadn’t.

At the foot of the bed stood a shadow. Not a person, not exactly.

It was too tall, its edges too jagged, its presence too cold. It didn’t move, but Michael could feel its attention–heavy and unbearable–pressing down on him.

He couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe. All he could do was lie there, paralyzed, as the thing leaned forward slightly like it was considering him.

Then it was gone.

In the morning, Beth barely reacted. “It’s just them,” she said dismissively. “Don’t be scared.”

“Beth, this isn’t normal. We need to stop this.”

“I can’t stop,” she snapped. “I won’t. They’re here, Michael. They’re here with me.”

Michael began listening outside the guest room door.

The first time, he heard whispers. Beth’s voice was unmistakable, low, and urgent. But the other voice—no, voices—weren’t human.

They didn’t exactly speak in words but in guttural sounds that churned Michael’s stomach. He burst into the room, but Beth was alone, sitting serenely among her candles.

“Who were you talking to?”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Don’t do that,” she said quietly. “Don’t interrupt. It’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Beth, you’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared,” she murmured, almost to herself.

The next night, the air in the house changed. It smelled of rot, of something old and sour. Candles blew out without warning, leaving Michael alone in the dark with footsteps circling closer and closer.

Finally, he confronted Beth.

“This has to stop,” he begged. “Whatever you’ve brought here—it’s not your parents. It’s something else.”

“They’re helping me,” she said, but her voice cracked. “They promised—”

“Promised what?”

She didn’t answer, but her silence spoke volumes.

That night, Michael woke to find Beth standing over him. Her eyes weren’t her own. They were wide and dark, and her mouth twisted into a smile he’d never seen.

“Beth?” he whispered.

“No,” she said.

The thing at the foot of the bed had finally come to claim its prize.