The Crimson Groom

My first memory is of the day we moved into the Hollis House. I was six, clutching my mother’s hand as she unlocked the heavy oak door. The house was a Victorian relic, wrapped in creeping ivy and perched on a lonely hill above the town of Greyhollow. The moment I stepped inside, a cold dread settled in my stomach, like I’d swallowed a stone. The air was thick with the smell of dust and old wood. My sisters, Clara and Rose, skipped ahead, their laughter echoing in the empty halls, but I lingered by the door, staring at the grand staircase that seemed to lead into darkness.

My mother noticed my hesitation. ‘What’s wrong, Max?’ she asked, her voice tight with the stress of the move.

I couldn’t articulate the feeling. ‘I don’t like it here,’ I whispered.

She sighed, rubbing my shoulder. ‘It’s just old. Give it time.’

That night, I lay in my new room, listening to the wind whistle through the eaves. The house creaked and groaned, and I told myself it was just settling. But on the fourth night, I heard it: footsteps. Running footsteps, heavy and urgent, directly above my ceiling. My attic room was at the top of the house, and the only thing above me was the empty attic. I pulled my covers up to my chin, my heart pounding. The steps would stop, then start again, as if someone were pacing. I didn’t sleep.

The next morning, I told my mom. She was making toast in the cramped kitchen, the windows fogged with steam. ‘It’s just animals,’ she said, not looking at me. ‘Probably raccoons in the attic. I’ll have someone look.’

But the steps continued every night. Sometimes they were slow, deliberate. Other times they were frantic, like a panicked chase. I never saw what made them. I grew used to the constant dread, the way my skin prickled whenever I was alone.

When I was nine, I experienced something far worse. I was in my room, playing a computer game, the evening light fading through the dusty window. I had that feeling again, the one I’d had on the first day—being watched. I turned slowly, my breath caught in my throat. Standing in the doorway of my closet, which was slightly ajar, was a man. He was tall, with slicked-back dark hair and skin so pale it seemed to glow in the dim. He wore a blood-red suit, crisp and immaculate, like he was dressed for a wedding. But his eyes were the worst: black as coal, with no whites, no pupils, just endless voids that seemed to suck in the light. In his hand, he held a long, gleaming knife.

I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came. He smiled—a slow, unnatural smile that stretched too wide—and then he took a step forward. That broke the spell. I shrieked and bolted from my room, careening into Clara’s door. She yanked it open, her face alarmed. ‘Max, what’s wrong?’

‘There’s a man in my room! He had a knife!’ I sobbed, pointing.

Clara frowned, then marched to my door and flung it open. The room was empty. The closet door was closed. ‘Nothing there,’ she said, but her voice wavered. She looked at me with worry. ‘Just a nightmare.’

I knew what I saw. I described him to my family—the red suit, the black eyes—but they dismissed it as a vivid imagination. My mother said, ‘You’re going through a phase.’ But I couldn’t shake the image. He was always in the periphery of my mind, a lurking threat.

Years passed, and the footsteps continued, but the man didn’t appear again. I tried to convince myself it was my imagination, that I’d conjured him from fear. I threw myself into school, avoiding the attic and the memories. But I couldn’t escape the house.

Then came Christmas morning, 2009. I was thirteen, old enough to know better, but the dread never fully left. We were in the living room, the tree twinkling with lights, presents scattered around the base. My mother was sipping coffee, Clara and Rose were tearing into gifts. The air was filled with the crinkle of wrapping paper and laughter. And then, from the kitchen, came a sound that froze us all: the gurgling, hissing sputter of a coffee maker brewing.

We all looked at each other. We didn’t own a coffee maker. My mother had a French press she used every morning. I saw Clara’s face go pale. ‘That’s coming from the kitchen,’ Rose whispered.

My mother slowly set down her mug. ‘Stay here,’ she said, but we followed her anyway. In the kitchen, on the counter, sat a sleek, modern coffee maker, its red light blinking, a fresh pot of dark liquid slowly filling the carafe. The smell of coffee mingled with a sickly sweetness, like rot.

My mother stared at it, her hand trembling. ‘Who left this?’ she demanded.

We all shook our heads. Then, without warning, the coffee maker shut off with a click. In the sudden silence, I heard it: footsteps, running up in the attic, rapid and heavy, as if something was fleeing.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of the man in the red suit haunted me. I lay in bed, listening to the house’s sounds, when I heard a new noise: something dragging across the attic floor. Then a thud, as if something had fallen. I knew, with a certainty that made my blood run cold, that the man was still there, waiting.

I crept out of bed, my feet silent on the cold wood. I moved to the attic door, which was in the hallway ceiling. A pull cord dangled from it, swaying slightly, as if someone had just let go. I reached up and tugged it. A ladder unfolded with a creak, revealing the dark maw of the attic above.

I don’t know what possessed me to climb. I was shaking, but I had to see. I had to know.

The attic was cluttered with boxes and old furniture, the air thick with dust and the smell of mothballs. Moonlight filtered through a grimy window, casting pale rectangles on the floor. And there, in the center, stood the man in the red suit. He was facing a full-length mirror, his back to me. He was adjusting his crimson tie, humming a tune I didn’t recognize.

My hand flew to my mouth to stifle a gasp. But he must have heard. Slowly, he turned. His black eyes fixed on me, and he smiled that terrible smile. ‘Ah, you’ve come,’ he said, his voice smooth as silk. ‘I was wondering when you’d finally take the bait.’

He raised a hand, and in it appeared the knife, gleaming. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, stepping closer. ‘I’ve been waiting for you. We’re to be married tonight.’

I screamed and stumbled backward, but the ladder was gone. The trapdoor was shut. I was trapped. He advanced, his smile widening, and I noticed his teeth were needle-sharp. ‘You’ll be my bride, little one. You’ll be my bride forever.’

I backed into a pile of boxes, my heart pounding. He was almost on me when I noticed something on the floor: a crumpled photograph. I reached down and picked it up. It was an old sepia picture of a woman in a white dress, standing beside a man in a military uniform. The man’s eyes were scratched out. On the back was written: ‘My dear Edmund, I will never be a bride. Forgive me.’

Edmund. The name echoed in my mind. I looked up at the man, who was now reaching for me. ‘Edmund?’ I whispered.

He stopped, a flicker of confusion crossing his pale face. ‘How do you know that name?’

‘This woman,’ I said, holding up the photo. ‘She rejected you. She wouldn’t marry you.’

Edmund’s face contorted, his black eyes widening. ‘She was promised to me! She broke her vow! And you—you are her descendant. You will fulfill what she did not.’

I shook my head, backing away. ‘No, I won’t. I don’t want to be your bride. I’m just a child.’

‘But you are the last of her line,’ he hissed. ‘I have waited a century for this.’

As he lunged, I threw the photograph at him. It fluttered through the air, and as it touched his chest, he let out a terrible scream. He convulsed, his form wavering, becoming translucent. The photograph fell to the floor, now singed, and I saw that it had burned his red suit. He staggered back, his face pained.

‘No! You cannot–‘ he started, but the photograph smoldered, and he began to crumble like ash.

The attic door above me burst open, and I heard my mother’s desperate voice: ‘Max!’

They found me on the attic floor, crying. I was clutching the photograph, which was now just ash in my hands. The coffee maker in the kitchen was gone the next morning, as if it had never been. The footsteps never returned.

We moved out of Greyhollow a month later. I never spoke of what happened in the attic, and my family never asked. But sometimes, in the dead of night, I think I see him in a mirror, his black eyes watching me, waiting for a promise that will never be fulfilled.