There it goes again. That noise. What the fuck was it? It started a few nights ago, the sound of something heavy moving outside the door, but usually it would pass, and in the morning he would dismiss it as another brie-induced nightmare. However, suitably un-nerved, he had since taken the precaution of locking the door when he retired for the night. Now, there it was again and this time there was no denying it. Something was moving outside that door. Something that knew he was in the room and wanted to be in there with him. What there was also no denying was the fact that he was terrified. Pure, bone chilling, wet the bed terror that had completely immobilized him, frozen him to his bed despite every fibre of his being screaming at him to get up out that bed and run. Run as far and as fast as he could and to never look back.
They had warned him, they had positively relished in giving him every last gory detail of the history of the place. They'd told him about the old lady who, when she died aged 107, had lived in the house her whole life and had never once stepped outside the door in her lifetime. About the strangers who would come to visit her at midnight twice a year but were never seen to leave. Then there were tales of the 3 people who had moved into the property after she died. The first one simply disappeared, leaving all of his worldly belongings in the house, including the obligatory half-eaten meal on the dining room table. The second one was found dead at the bottom of the basement steps, his head missing and his pockets stuffed with pages from The Bible. The third one was currently serving life in Broadmoor, having butchered his wife, their 2 children, their dog, cat and budgie and, oh yes, his wife's fancy-man.
These stories hadn't bothered him though. He was a man of science and reason. There was no such thing as ghosts, spooks, 'bad energy' and all that other fanciful nonsense. All he knew was that the property was an amazingly rare example of Georgian architecture at a ridiculously low price and he jumped at the chance to own it. He had even named the property "Bon Chance" in recognition of his good fortune in finding it, and superstitious fairy tales be damned.
Now, as he lay quivering with terror in a puddle of his own piss, his mind could not even grasp what life was like before the last few moments. His whole existence was focussed on the bedroom door and the wailing of something huge, angry and hungry that was behind it and beating itself upon it with increasing force, causing the hinges to bend, and the wood to splinter and break…..