The night air pressed down like rain-soaked bedsheets. Old, worn shoes rubbed Anthony Barron’s sockless ankles raw as they slapped against cracked concrete. Behind him, a Holtson City cop’s flashlight jittered between houses.

“Stop running, boy!”

He knew better than to stop. Mama might have been high all the time, but she ain’t raise no dummy.

Heavy boots hit the pavement in time with Anthony’s own. He didn’t dare look back. His legs burned, chest hollowed with each gasp. He pushed harder. 

Ain’t done nothing. Just rested too long on a city bench.

Another beam appeared ahead. Another white voice yelling for him to stop. He cut down a side street where the houses thinned and shadows swelled over wrap-around porches. He ran straight into a dead end. The big house at the end of Pine Street. Used to be the nicest house in town, or so they say. 

Its old, abandoned shell crouched under ivy and mold, paint peeled to bone-gray wood. The porch sagged like a mouth struggling to swallow. A shutter dangled by one rusted hinge, creaking in the still air. 

People used to dare each other to knock on its door. Kids swore it ate the ones who went in. No one ever found bodies, though. Just stories. 

“Gonna be so much worse if you don’t stop,” one of the cops yelled.

Nowhere else to run. Anthony darted up the leaning steps and through the door that hung open like an invitation.

Inside, the dark was thick. The air stank of mildew and rot, heavy enough to choke. Wallpaper sagged in curling strips, slick with mold. Cabinets gaped like broken jaws, glassware still inside but filmed over with grime. The floor gave under his weight, wood soft as sponge.

He pressed against the wall, listening. His breath thundered in his ears. The cops were close — voices cussing, boots crunching in the tall grass.

“You sure he went in there?” one yelled. 

“Go back, call it in. I’m goin’ ’round the side.”

Neither followed him in. He knew he was alone. Until something breathed with him.

A slow inhale. Wet. Ragged.

He froze. Told himself it was the wind. But no — it was steady. Patient. Warm on the back of his neck. No matter how much he fought it, the tremor rose from his ankles and surged to his shoulders. His eyes squeezed shut. Please, Lord. Please. 

Slow, steady scraping just above him. Like something slithering down the wall behind him. Wood creaked and cracked as the sound grew louder. He trembled harder, hugging himself, bracing for the end. 

Silence.

Anthony let his eyes open the tiniest bit. Everything was still. Nothing breathed against his neck. His eyes opened fully, slowly scanning the room. Empty. He let out a deep sigh of relief.  

A flashlight beam cut through a broken side window, swinging across warped boards and peeling paint. Anthony crouched below the light and let it pass by as he moved further into the house. He looked back, making sure the light wasn’t following him. The light slid along the peeled wallpaper — then stopped. A gray, rotting corpse stood where he’d just been pressed against the wall. Its head nodded down as if it were looking right at Anthony. 

He let out a scream.

“Got you now,” the cop bellowed outside.

The house swallowed the words, like the walls absorbed them whole. Anthony leapt toward the back, desperate for another way out. His hand found a doorframe. He pushed into a narrow kitchen.

The ceiling peeled in sheets, brown rot hanging like dead skin. A lightbulb dangled naked from a cord, unmoving though the air felt alive. Something scuttled across the ceiling — too fast for a rat. Too heavy.

His breath hitched.

The back door loomed ahead, glass cracked, screen half gone. He lunged.

Outside, the night smelled of damp earth. The porch steps sagged beneath him. First step, second — on the third, wood splintered and he fell, shoulder slamming dirt. He tried to push up, but weight crushed him down.

The cop had him. Knee grinding into his spine, hand forcing his face into the soil.

“Shoulda stopped,” the cop growled. “Now it’s yo’ ass.”

The familiar scrape of a baton clearing its holster grinded against Anthony’s eardrums. He clenched his teeth, braced for the hit.

The grass hissed.

“What the fu—” the cop started.

The weight lifted. A scream tore loose. The cop was yanked backward, dragged across the yard. His face smashed the broken step, splintered boards digging into his chin. Something lashed him loose like a fresh sheet on the line. The house swallowed him whole. His flashlight clattered, beam rolling wild.

Another scream. Ripping cloth. A wet thud inside.

Then silence.

Anthony staggered up, chest heaving, staring at the doorway. Nothing moved.

He bent over, hands on his knees, air sawing in and out. A laugh broke from his chest. He was alive.

“Thank you, Lord,” he whispered. 

Something seized his ankles. He knew what Mama would’a said. “Should’a kept runnin’,” were his last words.

He hit the ground hard, breath gone. Ivy coiled tight as rope, slick against his skin. He clawed the dirt, nails splitting, legs sliding backward.

The doorway gaped wider. The dark reached out. He was yanked in, scream strangled to nothing.

The night settled. Crickets and locusts filled the silence.

Morning sun lit Pine Street. Two kids trudged past the house on their way to school. They slowed at the edge of the overgrown yard.

“Looks thicker today,” one whispered.

The other kept staring. Ivy smothered the mold-covered porch. He swore he saw it shift.