The Last Guest

[god]

Lena never anticipated much when her grandmother's house came to her—a creaky floor and dusty picture books, maybe. The house was empty for years, closed tight since the night her grandmother died alone.

It was quiet enough on the first night. Unnaturally silent. No traffic, no wind, no crickets—only an oppressive stillness. Then, at midnight, the doorbell rang.

She remained glued there.

Nobody should have known she was inside.

Peeking through the peephole, Lena saw a man in a dark suit, holding a wide-brimmed hat to his chest. His face was pale, eyes sunken.

“Evening,” he said calmly when she opened the door a crack. “I’m here for the wake.”

“What wake?” Lena asked, heart pounding.

“The wake,” he repeated, stepping forward without waiting for an invitation. “For her. She always said the last guest would come late.”

The air turned cold.

Behind him, more figures appeared, dressed in funeral black. Silent. Motionless. Some she recognized from old family portraits, others were strangers with rotted skin and glassy eyes.

As they filed in, the clocks in the house began to tick all at once—dozens of them, ticking in unison. She didn’t remember them being wound.

The man tipped his hat to her.

“Thanks for keeping the house ready. We’ve been waiting a long time.”

And then Lena noticed the dust on the mirror was disturbed, but not by her, by a pale, small handprint.

The front door slammed shut behind her.