The Green Pea Incident

My name is Elara, and I’m sixteen. Since we moved into this old farmhouse on the edge of Morrow’s Hollow, things have been… off. Not just strange, but specific. Every single odd occurrence happens when I’m by myself. If my mom or my little brother are around, the house is as quiet as a tomb. But the moment the door clicks shut behind them, it starts.

The first time, I was in the kitchen, microwaving some leftover peas. I had a handful of them, and out of boredom, I tossed a few onto the floor for our cat, Jasper. He sniffed at them, gave me a look of pure disdain, and sauntered off to his bed in the corner. I shrugged and went to the living room to watch TV, pulling my feet up on the worn-out couch. The peas were still on the linoleum, tiny green dots. About ten minutes later, I felt a sharp sting on my shoulder. I swatted at it, thinking a fly, but my hand hit something small and hard. It bounced onto the cushion beside me. It was a pea. One of the ones I’d thrown on the floor. The rest were still there, but this one had just… hit me. From across the room. I sat there, frozen, staring at the remaining peas, willing them to move. They didn’t.

That was just the beginning. A few days later, I was in the same spot, playing an old RPG on my console. The TV was the only light in the room, casting long shadows. I was stuck on a puzzle, and I leaned forward, concentrating. Suddenly, my controller was yanked from my hands. It clattered to the floor, skittered across the wooden planks, and stopped near the fireplace. I got up, my heart thumping, and picked it up. The batteries were still in it, the power light on. No one else was home. I told my mom, but she just said it was probably the wind or a draft. There was no wind. The windows were closed.

But the worst one—the one that still makes me shiver—happened two weeks ago. My mom and brother had gone to the grocery store. I was in the bathroom, brushing my teeth, when the bathroom door slammed shut. I thought it was just the air, but then the doorknob started rattling. Not the faint shake of a loose handle, but a violent, continuous rattle, as if someone was on the other side, trying to get in. I dropped my toothbrush, and my reflection in the mirror seemed to waver, like a heat haze. I stared at it, and for a split second, my reflection smiled. But I wasn’t smiling. I ran, throwing the door open, and it swung easily. The hallway was empty. My toothbrush was on the floor, covered in toothpaste foam. The mirror was normal.

I’ve started keeping a notebook. I jot down every incident: the time the kitchen cabinets opened by themselves, the day my bedroom door creaked open when I was reading, the night I heard the faint sound of a child laughing from the attic—but we don’t have an attic. The common thread is always me being alone. And I’ve noticed a pattern. It’s always small, almost playful things at first, like the peas, but then it escalates. The rattling doorknob. The smile in the mirror. I’m afraid to be alone now, but I’m also curious. What does it want? Why does it only come when I’m by myself?

Last night, I decided to test a theory. I told my mom I was going to bed early, but instead, I hid in the downstairs coat closet, leaving the living room empty. I left a single green pea on the floor in the middle of the rug, right where I’d been sitting. I watched through the crack in the door. Nothing happened for an hour. I was about to give up when the pea started to roll. It moved slowly at first, then faster, tracing a perfect circle on the rug. Then it stopped. And I heard it—a soft, dry whisper, like dead leaves skittering across pavement. It said my name. ‘Elara.’ I felt the air grow cold, and the whispering came again, right next to my ear. ‘I see you.’ I burst out of the closet, my heart hammering, and ran to my room. I locked the door and didn’t sleep. When morning came, I found the pea on my pillow. And on my mirror, written in condensation, were the words: ‘You can’t hide.’ I have a journal in my backpack, and I’m writing this down now, even though I’m scared to look up. Because when I’m alone, I’m never really alone. And I think it knows I’m writing this. In fact, I’m starting to think it’s the one telling me to.