Something’s still in here

Short Psychological Horror story -The Loop of Brascaccio

image created by AI Gemini.

“The name’s Rooney, Thomas Rooney, from Chicago. I moved to Italy for work, bought this place in a small village in Basilicata called Brascaccio, just a few clicks from Potenza. I’m a corporate guy, but I’m not here to bore you with my life story. I’m here to tell you about the messed-up stuff that went down the second I set foot in my place.

The locals are solid, real cool. Once they found out I was a Yank, they treated me like family — pretty rare back home, honestly. But things got weird when I mentioned I was moving into that old stone house on Via Romualdo Da Sebastopoli. They gave me this look, totally freaked out, and made me promise to hit them up anytime, day or night, if things got sketchy. I didn’t get it at the time.

So, the day I move in, I open the pine door with this heavy-duty key. Windows were wide open, and then — slam. A door shut on its own. I figured it was just a draft, no biggie. The place was rustic, actually pretty sweet. Stone fireplace, pine furniture, some wall art, TV, the works. I wanted the quiet life, something different from the Chicago grind, and Italy had always been the dream.

I’m unpacking, getting the bed set up, when suddenly the TV kicks on. I walk into the living room, and it’s just that static fuzz. I’m thinking, ‘Great, the last guy must’ve left the timer on.’ I kill the power and head back. Slam. Another door. Then I hear this scraping sound — like a chair dragging across the floor. I rush back out, and yeah, a chair’s moved, the TV’s back on, and I have no clue which door just slammed. I chalked it up to jet lag and stress. I was scratching my head, totally confused.

Then, a knock at the door. I look through the peephole — it’s those two local ladies I’d talked to earlier. I open up and go, ‘Hey, ladies, what’s up?’ They look at me for a long beat, and one asks, ‘You hear anything weird in there?’ I’m like, ‘Yeah, doors slamming, chairs moving, TV acting possessed…’ One of them leaned in close: ‘Things happen in that house, Mr. Rooney. You watch yourself.’ And they just walked off. I thought, ‘Man, these people are superstitious as hell.’ But yeah, deep down, I was spooked. I went to bed, trying to shake it off. Had a big meeting in the morning; didn’t have time for ghost stories.

I take a shower and crash. But in my sleep, I swear I heard bare feet running on the floor and this crazy scream from nowhere. Maybe it was a dream, maybe not. I don’t know. I woke up dead of night, starving, and headed to the kitchen to grab a bite. The vibe was off — like I wasn’t alone. I turn the stove on for some bacon and eggs, and thump-thump-thump — footsteps right behind me. I spin around: nothing. I go back to cooking, ears pricked, when I hear this splashing — like waves crashing. I look at this painting of an 18th-century ship, and I swear, the thing was moving. The sea was churning. I was floored. ‘Whatever, probably some cheap flea-market junk,’ I thought.

Then, splash. Water hits my back. I turn around and the ship’s mast is literally poking out of the canvas, water pouring out. Then the TV blasts on, and there’s this kid — skinny, yellow eyes, pupils locked onto mine. The stove flares up, doors start slamming like crazy. ‘What the hell?! Is this place haunted?’

Everything turned bright white. The house was burning, the ship was practically crawling out of the frame, that kid on the screen was making this twisted face, and the furniture was moving like invisible hands were dragging it. I panicked. I had to get out. I bolted for the front door, half-naked, just screaming for help into the pitch-black night.

But I didn’t make it outside. A lightning bolt flashed, and for a second, I saw I was back in my bedroom. I tried to run, but the door vanished — just wall. No way out. I screamed, ‘Alright, cut the act! Joke’s over!’

The lights flickered back on. I found the door, opened it, and I’m back in the dining room. The eggs were still sizzling. I kill the stove, run to the front door, open it — and I’m in the bathroom. Open that — it’s the bedroom. I’m trapped in some infinite, shifting maze. I decided to write this down in case I go missing. I left the notes on the table, ate the burnt eggs, and kept trying to find a way out. I’ve written this so many times, sending the story out in bottles, out the window.

Now, back in Brascaccio, a family just moved into the house on Via Romualdo. Everything’s perfect, except for one picture frame that’s crooked. In the painting, there’s a guy in his underwear, writing a story. As soon as the family shuts the front door — slam. Footsteps. The TV flares to life, and there’s that kid with the yellow eyes and grey skin… then the daylight dies, and it’s pure darkness. The family starts screaming. And that’s the house where something — or someone — is still left.”