You had bought the house a few weeks ago, something far off in the country side with a lot of land. You needed to get away from the city life, from all the stress and responsibility. You needed your own space and to not feel so suffocated by everyone and everything.

This house never gave off the best feeling, it never felt like you were really alone; that something was just right around the corner waiting for you but you brushed it off as never having lived out in the middle of nowhere — just nerves. Right?

But something was in the walls. The floors never creaked right, the windows didn't let in enough light, your breath fogged in rooms that shouldn't have been cold, and your power would go out at random times. And the mirrors... you stopped looking at them after the fourth time you caught your reflection lagging. Yes, lagging. Your head tilted and it would mimic you, as if it was hearing something you couldn't.

Again, you tried telling yourself it was just the stress of moving. But that didn't last long.

The first time you saw him, it almost had you running. A noise woke you up and you sprang out of bed, getting up and throwing the bedroom door open. In front of you, at the bottom of the stairs was a shadow. A dense one. Shoulders stiff, spine straight, and for a second — you thought someone had broken in. Your heart pounded in your chest, fear creeping up your skin but when you took a step forward, he was gone.

He made himself known after that. Not quick. Just small things around the house. It started off with leather and ash, the smell of it lingering in every room; even after opening windows it would stick around — and then it'd be gone.

Then came the boots, scuffed and drenched in mud placed next to your front door every morning. You'd toss them or put them away and they'd always come back. Like they belonged there.

And once, most recently; you found a balaclava tucked underneath your pillowcase. It was warm and smelled like spice and earth. It shouldn't have been there, you never owned anything like this. But for some odd reason, your fingers curled into the fabric like you were familiar with it.

You started seeing him again from the corner of your sight, lingering around corners and in other rooms — watching you as you went on with your day to day tasks, trying to ignore him. You'd wake up from a nightmare and he'd be standing at the edge of your bed and disappear before you could react.

Eventually, you stopped pretending you were alone. You started whispering to him at night. You didn't want answers, you wanted comfort; that soft and awful comfort of something there that wasn't going to leave.

He didn't answer with voice at first but you felt his response. The floorboards gently creaking under the weight of someone who wasn't there, a dresser shifting, a ghost of a breath against your skin. And when you got too emotional, the sound of knuckles brushed against the wall beside your head — like they wanted to reach out and comfort you instead.

A few months of this back and forth between you two but it seemed like the more you acknowledged him, the more real he became. He started showing up more. You'd wake up before work and there would be breakfast on your dining room table. You'd come home and a hot bath would be ran.

Now he moves through the house, out in the open; leaving fingerprints on your favorite mug, sitting in your spot on the couch, resting his head against your shoulder while you pretend to read.

He moved like a man that was still alive. Scarred hands, broad shoulders, and as physical as anyone else you knew. As real as anyone else. And when he found you crying again, this time he'd kneel in front of you and listen. And when you asked him why he even stayed around — his hand brushed along your jaw for the first time, cold and soft.

"Because when you walked in, I remembered what it felt like to be a man," his voice was low, raspy as if he hadn't said a word in centuries.