1998: Linnet Street 14 [Chapter 3]

Chapter 3: The Darkness Grows

The days turned into weeks, and the tension in the house on Linnet Street 14 continued to tighten, like a rope slowly being pulled taut. Duane’s drinking spiraled deeper into darkness, and with it, his behavior became more erratic, more terrifying. He was no longer just the man who came home late and grumbled about the long hours at work. He was something else entirely now—volatile, unpredictable, a ticking time bomb that could go off at any moment.

I did my best to keep Therése and Rickard out of his way, but it was getting harder. Duane’s outbursts became more frequent, his temper flaring at the smallest provocation. He’d shout, slam doors, throw things. And then there were the nights when he’d simply sit in the living room, staring into space with a glass in his hand, his eyes glazed over, like he was seeing something the rest of us couldn’t.

Those nights were the worst because I never knew what would set him off. One wrong word, one wrong move, and he’d explode. I tried to stay calm, to be the buffer between him and my siblings, but the fear was always there, gnawing at me, making it hard to breathe.

The house didn’t help. It felt like the walls were closing in on us, like the air was thick with something heavy and oppressive. It wasn’t just the tension with Duane—it was something more, something I couldn’t explain. The coldness that had been there since we moved in seemed to grow colder, and I started noticing things, little things that made my skin crawl.

It started with noises. At first, they were subtle—a creak in the floorboards, the soft rustle of fabric when no one was in the room. But then they grew louder, more distinct. I’d hear footsteps in the hallway late at night, slow and deliberate, like someone was pacing just outside my door. But when I opened it, there was nothing there. Just the empty hallway, silent and dark.

One night, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The house was quiet—too quiet. I could feel the weight of the silence pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. Then, out of nowhere, I heard it—a whisper, so faint I almost thought I was imagining it.

“Christer…”

I shot up in bed, my heart pounding in my chest. The room was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the streetlamp outside. I listened, straining to hear, but there was nothing. Just the sound of my own ragged breathing.

But I knew I hadn’t imagined it. Someone—or something—had whispered my name.

I pulled the covers up around me, trying to shake off the fear that clung to me like a second skin. But the coldness was back, creeping into my bones, making me shiver. I lay there for what felt like hours, too afraid to move, too afraid to sleep. When I finally drifted off, it was only to be plagued by nightmares—dreams of dark, endless corridors, of being chased by something I couldn’t see, something that wanted to hurt me.

The next morning, I tried to tell Yvonne about the strange noises, about the whisper I’d heard in the night. I needed her to know that something wasn’t right, that something was wrong with this house. But she just brushed it off, saying I was probably just having trouble adjusting to the new place.

“Sweetheart, it’s just stress,” she said, her voice tired and strained. “We’ve all been through a lot with the move, and I’m sure Duane’s behavior isn’t helping. But there’s nothing to worry about, okay? It’s just a new house. You’ll get used to it.”

I wanted to believe her, but I couldn’t. The fear in my chest told me otherwise. But what could I do? Yvonne was working so hard, trying to keep everything together, and I didn’t want to add to her stress. So I kept quiet, kept my fears to myself, and tried to convince myself that it was all in my head.

But the house had other plans.

The phenomena grew more intense. I’d be sitting in the living room, trying to watch TV, and the lights would flicker, the air growing colder and colder until I could see my breath. Objects would move on their own—a chair scraping across the floor, a book falling off the shelf, a door slamming shut with no one near it.

And always, there were the footsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing through the halls at all hours of the night.

I stopped sleeping, too afraid of what I might hear or see if I closed my eyes. I’d sit up in bed, listening to the sounds of the house, trying to convince myself that it was just the old wood settling, that it was just the wind, just my imagination. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.

Then, one day at school, I learned something that made everything click into place—or at least, made it all the more terrifying.

It was a history lesson, something about the local area, how the town had grown over the years. The teacher was talking about how the land had once been a farm, a long time ago, before it was divided up and sold off for development. She mentioned the Perón Farm, how it had been one of the biggest in the area, and how the owner, Gordon Perón, had taken his own life after a series of tragic events.

As she spoke, a chill ran down my spine. I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was talking directly to me, that somehow, this was connected to what was happening in our house.

Could it be? Could our new home be haunted by the ghost of the man who had died on this land? It seemed impossible, but the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The coldness, the footsteps, the whispers in the night… it all pointed to something, or someone, trying to reach out from beyond.

But what could I do with this knowledge? Who would believe me? Yvonne had already dismissed my concerns, and there was no way I could talk to Duane about it—not in the state he was in. I was alone in this, trapped in a house that was becoming more hostile by the day.

That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about Gordon Perón, about the life he must have led, and the despair that had driven him to take his own life. I tried to imagine what it must have been like for him, alone on that farm, watching everything he’d built crumble around him.

Was that what he was trying to tell me? Was that why he was still here, still haunting this land? Or was it something else, something darker, something I couldn’t even begin to understand?

As I drifted off to sleep, the last thing I heard was the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, making their way down the hall toward my room.

And in the darkness, I could almost hear the faint whisper of my name.