Creep:Unclear Horror

I couldn't define whether it's been a year or more, but this town feels completely different now—like a reality from some otherworldly place, a life that's entirely separate from what I once knew.

I remember my old life well. I was a high school student with honors, the one everyone expected to be at the top of my class. Back in seventh grade, I was always at the top of the charts, my academic performance flawless. I was proud of it—back then, it was all I needed.

But now, looking back at those days, everything feels as though it belonged to someone else, someone who doesn't exist anymore.

It all started with my father. On November first, he came home with the news that he had found a house—a small, simple place, tucked away in the province. It wasn't much from the photos, but it was enough for him. He was determined to make this his home.

I trusted him. I didn't have doubts. My father had always known what was best for us. When he spoke, it was with certainty, with confidence. And I believed in him. So, when he told us about the house, there was no hesitation in my heart.

He had always dreamed of living in the province. I remember the stories he'd tell about his childhood visits to the countryside, how those few days had etched themselves into his memory as the most peaceful and nostalgic moments of his life. He'd wanted to recreate that feeling, to live in a place far removed from the noise and chaos of the city.

When he found the house, I thought it was perfect. The photos didn't capture everything, but that didn't matter. My father was certain, and that was enough for me. We could finally live in a place that felt like it was from a different time, untouched by the rush of the city.

The house was small, but it didn't matter. It would do, and I trusted that it would bring us closer as a family.

So, on the start of December, he made the announcement: we would spend Christmas at the new house. We were to leave on December 15th, to arrive in Dilopog by the 16th. That way, we would have ample time to prepare for the holiday and settle into our new surroundings.

The excitement in his voice was infectious. The whole family was on board, eager to embrace the adventure. We all trusted my father's judgment, and there was no doubt in our minds that it would be the perfect Christmas.

My father had already booked the tickets to Nimdanao, flying us into Pagadain City Airport. From there, we would take a bus to Nolavi and then head straight to Dilopog—the town where the house was. The bus would drop us off right by the highway, just a short walk from the house.

Calix and my father are exhausted as we arrive at the airport. My father has been sick during the flight. After a moment of hesitation, he takes a deep breath, and we board a bus that will take us through Nolavi municipality and on to Dilopog town.

On our way, i fell asleep while waiting for our destination. The gentle hum of the bus engine and the rhythmic movement lulled me into dreams.

When we finally arrived, my father gently shook me awake. I opened my eyes groggily and look at my phone checking the time(12:13am), stepping out of the bus into the cool night. Stretching my arms, I took a deep breath—and instantly, the cold, clean air filled my lungs. It was unlike anything I'd felt before, a refining sensation, as though the province itself was washing away the weight of city life.

The night sky was vast and open, sprinkled with countless stars. The moon hung bright and blue-tinted, casting an otherworldly glow over everything.

The air was cold but comforting. The sensation of the place was welcoming, yet enigmatic, as though it held secrets waiting to be discovered.

Excitement bubbled inside me as I hurried to grab my things from the bus. My parents did the same. My mother carried my younger brother, who was still sound asleep despite being 15 years old. My father took on the bulk of our luggage, groaning slightly under the weight and already drained from the trip but determined nonetheless. I handled my own belongings and followed closely behind.

As we reached the house, my father unlocked the front gate, a simple fence that enclosed the ground floor.

The first floor was unlike any house I'd seen before. The floor wasn't tiled or cemented but made up of compacted ground covered in cobblestone that act as a natural floor. I crouched down, letting my fingers run over the stones. They were cold to the touch, sending a slight tickle through my fingertips.

The walls of the first floor were curious, too. They weren't solid walls but a kind of fence-like structure, with gaps between the planks that allowed us to see both inside and outside clearly. It felt open and strange, but not uninviting.

Curious, I made my way to the second floor. Dust hung in the air, disturbed by our arrival. It was evident that the house had been untouched for a long time, its old wooden beams creaking gently under my weight.

The second floor was built almost entirely of fine wood, with a layout that intrigued me. There was a main room that connected to two others. The second room's flooring mirrored the first floor's walls—there were gaps between the wooden planks, creating a pattern that let the faint light filter through. A door at the back of the second room led to a wooden staircase descending to the ground floor.

The third room, however, was different. Its door was locked tight, and no amount of force would budge it. There were no visible barricades or notices to explain why. My family speculated it was locked from the inside.

My father assured us that he'd deal with it in a few days. After all, we'd just come off a long trip, and he was in no condition to deal with much right now. He had already vomited multiple times during the plane's landing and departure, leaving him pale and drained.

For now, we settled in, unpacking what we could and preparing to turn this old house into something more than a memory.

After we unpacked as much as we could, we finally finished everything at 12:45am. The quiet was an eerie contrast to the city's constant hum, broken only by the occasional chirp of crickets, croaks of frogs and the distant rustle of leaves.

We decided to sleep in the main room, the only space in the house with conditions suitable for resting. My parents and brother settled on one side of the room, while I spread my blanket near the window facing the highway.

The main room was spacious, though its age showed in the creaking floorboards and the faint smell of dust that clung to the air. One of its windows faced the dimly lit highway, where occasional vehicles headlights flickered past like fleeting ghosts. The other window overlooked a narrow road near a dike. Just beyond that stood a tall mango tree, its thick branches silhouetted against the pale moonlight.

I couldn't help but glance at the tree more than once. Its presence felt strangely imposing, as though it had been standing there long before the house was built, watching over it—or watching us.

The second room, with its empty expanse and single window overlooking the rice field, was left untouched for the night. Its emptiness gave it a strange, hollow feeling, and no one had any desire to stay there.

As we lay down to sleep, the house creaked and groaned softly, its wooden frame adjusting to the cool night air. I found myself staring at the moonlit mango tree through the window, my mind wandering.

The night air was cool and refreshing, but I couldn't ignore the occasional rustling noise outside. It could've been the wind—or something else. Each sound seemed amplified in the silence, tugging at my already tired nerves.

"It's just the house, don't be paranoid Tessa." I whispered to myself, trying to push away the unease.

But as I closed my eyes, one last sound reached my ears—a faint tapping, like fingers lightly drumming on the wood. It wasn't coming from the house but outside, the walls of the ground floor.

I opened my eyes again, staring at a dog peeing on outside, i feel awkward and decided to go back to sleep.

I rolled over and pulled the blanket tighter around me.

The first night in Dilopog was welcoming, yet it carried an air of oddness and awkwardness.