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| The haint-blue paint is fading— |
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I hadn't been back to Grandma's house in almost ten years, and it showed.
The place looked smaller—leaning a little, settling into itself like an elderly woman who'd grown tired of standing straight. The porch boards sagged, the windows were filmed with dust, and the paint had faded into dull, curling flakes.
Most of all, the porch ceiling was no longer blue.
When I was little, Grandma—Miss Mabel to everyone else—kept it painted a bright sky-blue shade. “Haint blue,” she'd say, tapping her brush against the rim of a rusted can. “Keeps the spirits confused. They don't know where the sky starts or ends, so they stay away.”
My mother used to fuss about it.
“Don't fill her head with that nonsense, Mama.”
But Grandma would just wink at me and say, “Old ways ain't nonsense. They're warnings with the fat trimmed off.”
I never believed the stories, but I loved hearing them—enjoyed the way she told them with her whole face, enjoyed the secretive little thrill of a ghost tale whispered at dusk. They were entertainment, nothing more. Bedtime-spooky, not real.
Now the haint-blue paint peeled in long strips, gray as ash, and whatever protection it had once offered was long gone.
“Come on, Frank,” I said.
Frank hopped down from the car, tail giving one hopeful wag—then he stopped. His ears flicked forward. He drew in a deep, uneasy sniff. The fur along his shoulders rippled.
“It’s okay, buddy.”
But he didn’t think so. He stepped onto the porch, then froze like he’d hit an invisible wall. His tail lowered. He pressed against my leg, body tense as a bowstring.
“It’s just Grandma’s place,” I whispered, giving him a reassuring pat.
He followed me inside, but reluctantly—each paw placed with cautious care, nose working overtime, body glued to my side. He was a protective dog, and loyal to his core, but fear made his steps hesitant. His eyes never stopped scanning the shadows.
The house exhaled a cold, stale breath as we stepped in.
It smelled like cedar and dust—Grandma’s house always had—but there was something else beneath it now, something metallic and old.
The front door creaked behind us. I turned to close it—and froze.
The slide bolt was halfway across.
Not latched.
Not open.
Just perfectly centered in the middle, like someone had started locking it… then stopped.
A prickle lifted the small hairs on my neck.
“Old hardware,” I murmured, sliding it fully open. “Nothing spooky.”
Frank let out a soft grunt like he didn’t agree.
I spent most of the day cleaning—dusting off shelves, boxing up faded knickknacks, folding old quilts. The air felt heavy the longer I stayed, like the house was holding its breath.
Frank never left my side. When I moved rooms, he followed. When I stopped too long, he nudged me gently, pushing his head against my hip, pacing until I started working again.
In the cedar chest I found a dusty photo album.
I sat with it on the sagging couch, flipping through the stiff, yellowed pages.
There was Grandma at church picnics, Grandma in her garden, Grandma holding me at the age of three. Deeper in, the photos shifted to black-and-whites—thinner paper, more serious faces.
One picture stopped me.
Grandma at maybe twelve or thirteen, standing in front of this same house. The black-and-white photograph was brittle with age, but you could still make out the details—porch rails straight and true, paint fresh. Even without color, that ceiling stood out, painted distinctly lighter than the weathered boards around it. Haint blue, already doing its work.
But her face…
She wasn’t smiling. Her hands were knotted tight in front of her, knuckles pale. And at the very edge of the frame, just beyond the porch steps, the shadows warped strangely. It might’ve been a trick of the old camera… or maybe the light caught someone moving behind her. Someone tall. Someone thin. Someone stepping back as the picture was taken.
My stomach gave a faint twist. I told myself the film had degraded. Or maybe Grandma shifted at the wrong moment.
Still… something about the angle of her body, the tension in her shoulders, made me close the album a little quicker than I meant to.
By the time I finished packing boxes, the sun was sliding behind the trees, turning the yard gold. The shadows stretched long across the floorboards.
“All right,” I said, brushing off my jeans. “Let’s get some dinner and sleep in a real bed.”
Frank perked up immediately, tail wagging.
But when I turned the key in the ignition—
Click.
I frowned. Tried again.
Click.
Nothing.
Not even the hint of a struggle.
“Oh, come on.”
The battery looked fine. The cables looked fine. Nothing made sense. But the car wasn’t starting, and the nearest mechanic had closed an hour ago.
Frank watched me with round, worried eyes, tail low.
“It’s one night,” I said. “We can handle one night.”
He leaned into me, uneasy but loyal, and followed me back inside.
The house felt different once the sun went down.
I lit two thick candles and set them on the coffee table. Their glow flickered weakly against the faded wallpaper, making the shadows in the corners look deeper.
The temperature dropped—fast.
August should’ve felt humid and thick.
Instead, the air settled cold against my skin, heavy in my lungs.
A floorboard creaked somewhere in the hallway.
Frank froze mid-step, staring with his ears pinned.
“It’s an old house,” I whispered. “It settles.”
I crossed the room to check the door.
The bolt—the one I’d shoved all the way open—was halfway across again.
My breath caught.
I reached out and slid it back firmly, feeling the gritty scrape under my fingers. Something deep inside me whispered that touching it was a mistake.
Frank paced in a tight circle, toenails tapping fast against the floorboards. He let out a tiny, panicked whine.
“Frank,” I whispered, “it’s fine.”
But it wasn’t.
The sound drifted in from the yard.
Soft.
Thin.
Trembling.
A baby crying.
My skin went cold all over.
“No,” I breathed. “No, that’s—”
It came again, louder. A hitching wail, the kind that curled straight through your chest. The kind that made your body react before your brain could stop it.
Except it moved too fast.
The first cry came from deep in the trees.
The next… from the yard.
The next… directly under the porch steps.
Frank barked—high, sharp, terrified.
The bolt slid.
I watched it this time.
It pulled itself halfway open.
Slowly.
Steadily.
Like invisible fingers were guiding it.
The crying shifted again—right beneath the living room window now.
Too close.
Too fast.
Then the footsteps started.
Light, rapid taps across the porch—moving in a sharp, impossible line. Not human. Not animal. Something running wrong, like joints bending the wrong way.
My throat tightened.
I grabbed a chair and shoved it under the doorknob, hands shaking.
The crying cut off mid-sob.
Silence pressed against the door, thick as mud.
Three soft knocks followed.
Gentle.
Patient.
Knuckles on wood.
Frank’s tail jammed between his legs. He pressed himself so hard against my thigh it hurt.
The house felt like it was inhaling.
“Sadie…?”
My name.
In Grandma’s voice.
Except it wasn’t right.
No warmth.
No rasp.
No age.
Just the shape of her words—strung together in the wrong rhythm, like someone mimicking a song they’d only heard once.
“Sadie, honey… let me in.”
My blood went cold.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Slow.
Heavy.
Frank whimpered.
I turned.
The candlelight reached only a few feet into the hall, leaving the far end in thick, breathing darkness. Something stood there—tall, narrow, bent slightly at the joints. Like a figure sketched by someone who’d never seen a real human body.
It wasn’t moving.
But the shadows around it pulsed, like it was trying to decide what shape to be.
“Sadie…” the voice cooed.
This time from inside the house.
Behind me.
I didn’t think.
I grabbed Frank’s collar and ran.
Cold air hit me as I burst onto the porch.
Frank lunged ahead, nearly dragging me down the steps. Something brushed the back of my neck—icy, weightless, wrong.
I didn’t look back.
I scrambled into the driver’s seat and Frank shoved himself halfway across my lap trying to hide. My fingers shook so badly I nearly dropped the keys.
“Please,” I whispered. “Please, please—”
The engine roared to life immediately.
Smooth.
Easy.
Like nothing had ever been wrong.
I slammed into reverse.
As the headlights washed over the house, the front door swung open on its own.
Something stood inside the doorway.
Tall.
Still.
Watching.
I didn’t blink again until the house had vanished from the rearview mirror.
The next morning, the mechanic squinted under the hood of my car.
“Battery’s perfect,” he said, sounding almost annoyed by it. “Alternator too. Starts right up.”
“It didn’t last night.”
“Well, it should have.”
His tone brooked no argument.
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t go back to the house either.
I called a realtor from the parking lot and told her to list it as-is. I didn’t care about the furniture. Or the quilts. Or the dust. It could all rot with the peeling haint-blue paint.
That night, Frank finally relaxed—curled against me on the motel bed, his breath warm on my leg.
I must’ve drifted off because the next thing I knew, the TV was off and the room was quiet. The only light came from the red glow of the alarm clock: 2:17 a.m.
Frank wasn’t on the bed.
He crouched by the motel door, belly flat, tail tucked, trembling.
“Frank?” I whispered.
He didn’t look at me.
Three soft knocks tapped against the other side of the door.
My breath froze in my chest.
“Sadie…”
Grandma’s voice.
Stripped of life.
Stripped of meaning.
Just sound wearing my grandmother’s shape.
Frank pushed his nose under the crack of the door, whining like his heart might break.
The presence lingered.
Waiting.
Then… faded.
Not footsteps.
Not retreat.
Just absence.
I didn’t move until sunrise, my hand buried in Frank’s fur.
Grandma used to say haints learned by listening.
I should’ve listened to her.
Some things out there still don’t know where the sky ends—
And now they know my name.
© 2025 Karen Cody. All rights reserved.
This original story was written exclusively for the Urban Legends, Mystery, and Myth blog.
Do not copy, repost, or reproduce without permission.
This tale may appear in a future special collection.
Catch up on more terrifying tales in our companion book series, Urban Legends and Tales of Terror, featuring reimagined fiction inspired by the legends we feature here. And don't forget to read last week's story, The Screen Mirror Ritual.
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