The Recurrent Aberration

Marla moved into the converted farmhouse on the edge of Cinder Hollow seeking quiet solitude. The previous tenant had left in a hurry, leaving behind old furniture, dusty bookshelves, and an oddly persistent odor of burnt sugar. The landlord, a nervous man named Mr. Grimble, kept apologizing for the smell, blaming it on the previous tenant’s cooking habits. Marla didn’t mind; the rent was low, and the house was isolated, perfect for her work as a technical writer.

The first oddity was the refrigerator. It would hum too loudly at night, and occasionally, the light inside would flicker even when the door was closed. Marla dismissed it as faulty wiring. Then the grandfather clock in the hallway, a piece she hadn’t wound since moving in, began chiming at odd hours, always at 3:13 AM. She would wake, listen to the gong echo through the cold rooms, and then silence. She chalked it up to the house settling.

The phenomenon that truly unsettled her was the washing machine. It was a modern, front-loading model, but it behaved like a relic. After loading it with jeans and towels and setting the cycle, the machine would stop at random points, the dial spinning back to ‘paused’ as if an unseen hand had pressed the button. She would press start again, and it would resume, only to stop later. Twice she called a repairman, a cheerful guy named Pete, who found nothing wrong. He would shrug and say, ‘Maybe the house is playing tricks on you.’

But Marla began to notice a pattern. Each time the washer stopped, she would find something out of place in the house. A book on the shelf would be upside down. A drawer in the kitchen would be slightly ajar. The photographs on her desk would be turned to face the wall. She forced herself to ignore it, attributing it to drafts or her own absent-mindedness.

Then the computer started acting up. She had a desktop that she always shut down at night, but in the morning, it would be on, the screen saver scrolling through photographs of places she had never visited. She unplugged it from the wall and plugged it into a surge protector, but it still happened. She tried all the outlets in her home office, one of which was a new one she had installed herself. Still, the computer would come on at random times, usually at the same 3:13 AM chime.

One night, Marla decided to stay up to catch the computer in the act. She sat in the dark living room, watching the hallway where the computer room was, her heart beating a rhythm. At 3:13, the clock chimed, and she heard the soft whir of the computer fans starting up. She crept into the office, the glow of the monitor casting weird shadows. On the screen, a text document was open, and words were being typed in real time, the cursor blinking. The text read: ‘You have been sleeping too long. Wake up.’

Marla’s blood chilled. She wanted to believe it was a prank, but no one else had access. She slammed the power button, but the computer did not respond. The words continued, growing frantic: ‘I am not done. I have waited so long. You must see the basement.’

She had never explored the basement. The door was bolted and padlocked, and Mr. Grimble claimed it was storage. But now, compelled by a mix of fear and curiosity, she fetched the bolt cutters from the garage and cut the lock. The door creaked open to reveal a spiral staircase descending into blackness. The smell of burnt sugar intensified.

As she descended, her flashlight revealed a makeshift room, cold and damp, with a table and a chair. On the table was an old reel-to-reel tape recorder, its reels turning slowly. She pressed play, and a voice, raspy and old, filled the room: ‘I am the one who stays. The house feeds on your attention. You must not forget me.’

Marla turned to run, but the light above the stairs flickered and died. In the darkness, she felt a cold draft pass by her, like a hand brushing her cheek. The tape recorder continued on its own, now playing static mixed with whispers that sounded like her own name. She scrambled up the stairs, but when she reached the top, the basement door was closed, and it was locked from the outside.

She stared at the new padlock, her breath misting. From the hallway, she heard the computer typing again. The screen displayed: ‘You cannot leave. I have watched you from the beginning. There is no electricity, no machine, no lock, no bolt that I cannot control. I am the house, and I am hungry for company.’

Now, the digital clock on her phone reads 3:13 AM, but the numbers flicker. The washer in the laundry room spins in a frenzied blur, and the computer screen illuminates her face with a message that repeats: ‘Write my story. Tell them about me. And they will come to visit, and I will never be alone.’

Marla is sitting at the kitchen table, typing this on her laptop, her fingers moving on their own. She cannot stop. The house watches. The clock chimes. And in the basement, the tape recorder plays a loop of her own screams, though she has not yet screamed.