Daily Flash Fiction

Detective Maria Santos crouched by the splintered door, the scent of old wood and rain heavy in the air. Locals whispered of haunted cries and strange lights in the abandoned house on the edge of town, but duty outweighed superstition.

Inside, the flashlight beam slashed through decades of dust. It revealed cracked figurines, peeling wallpaper, and an overturned table - evidence of a struggle, but nothing ransacked. This felt less like a break-in and more like a haunting made physical.

A tattered armchair slumped near a shattered window. Movement flickered, and Maria whipped around to find a small girl drenched in rainwater. Wide, haunted eyes shimmered in the flashlight beam.

"Nobody lives here," she whispered, her voice barely a rustle.

Before Maria could question her, the shattered window exploded inward. In the silence that followed, the rustling from deeper in the house seemed unbearably loud. The girl turned towards the doorway. "They're coming," she said, a strange calm replacing her tremor.

Something compelled Maria to flee. It felt like self-preservation, not cowardice. Racing to her cruiser, she chanced a glance back. The house was empty, only the dying flashlight beam marking her visit.

At the station, concerned nods greeted her report. Empty for generations, they assured her—just kids playing pranks. Yet, on her desk sat a single shard of glass from the broken window. And upon it, clear and impossible, the hauntingly small outline of a handprint.