Below is a bit of horror flash fiction inspired by a writing prompt in one of my writing communities. The text might be anxiety-inducing to some as it contains an ominous, creepy, and unsettling tone. Read at your own risk.

A creak sounded in the other room, echoing through the house. Eloise rapidly stirred her breakfast, forcing out any recognition of the noise. Her heart pounded, but she stayed focused.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

The spoon moved in quick succession, banging against the sides of her bowl. Something scraped against the floor in the other room, and she flinched. Death, don’t take your time. Come for me now.

“Eloise,” a soft voice called from the room.

Don’t look, she quickly told herself.

A door squeaked as it slowly opened, filling her entire home with intensity and dread. Why had she thought moving into a house her grandma owned right after she died would be a good idea? She’d seen the movies. No one ever accepted an inherited home without the consequences.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers, and she’d needed a place to stay so badly. With the way the economy was collapsing every day, it was impossible to make ends meet. She worked a corporate job during the day, used her car for food delivery at night, and slept when she’d run out of steam.

Her degree meant nothing.

Her work experience was minimal compared to the older generations fighting for the same entry-level positions.

Everything crumbled around her. Eloise’s parents had been scumbags. Literal asshole who had cast her out the moment she turned eighteen. She struggled through college, taking out loan after loan to keep her from homelessness.

Receiving this house had seemed like a godsend.

Finally.

The universe had answered her prayers.

But three weeks into living within these ominous walls had introduced her to terror she couldn’t handle. Even now, as whatever had been in that room stomped across the floor, she was petrified. Her hand kept moving on its own, stirring the oats that had now turned clumpy and hard.

The footsteps stopped behind her. Her pulse thumped in her neck as she held her breath.

“Look at me,” the deep, rumbling voice demanded. “You are in my home.”

Her toes curled into her house shoes. Spasms racked her body as she trembled. Her eyes closed as she took a deep breath. The voice can’t get to me when I’m stirring my oats, she lied to herself, continuing to move her hand even though the bowl was shaking now.

Warmth brushed against her back, and she whimpered.

“Finally,” the voice sang. “You acknowledge me.”

This can’t be happening!

Arms wrapped around her, and dark, strong fingers took her hands. They were much larger than a person’s, with claws that clinked against her bowl.

With a scream, she swung as hard as she could over her head, hitting something hard. Large eyes and long tusks spreading out of the demon’s head filled her vision. Dark eyes stared into hers, and she went limp, losing her balance.

The bowl clattered to the floor, and her spoon fell a few feet away. Arms wrapped tight around her body as she collapsed in the embrace, no longer able to make sense of anything.

“Good,” the voice echoed. “You are mine.”