I did not buy the house because it was cheap.
I bought it because it felt quiet in the way a throat does right before it screams.
The realtor stood too far from the front door while I unlocked it, as if she’d learned that distance mattered.
“You’ll hear things at night,” she said casually, checking her phone. “Old pipes. Old wood.”
“What kind of things?” I asked.
She smiled without showing her teeth.
“The kind you get used to.”
When I stepped inside, the air pressed against my skin like damp fabric. The door shut behind me on its own, slow and deliberate.
Click.
Somewhere deep in the house, something exhaled.
(Gothic key holder, antique-style entry decor)
The entryway light flickered when I reached for the switch.
“Relax,” I muttered to myself. “You wanted isolation.”
The house creaked, settling.
No—adjusting.
The floorboards shifted beneath my feet as if redistributing weight. The coat rack leaned subtly in my direction.
“Not funny,” I said, and immediately hated myself for talking to a building.
A voice answered anyway.
“You say that a lot.”
I froze.
The sound didn’t come from behind me or ahead of me. It came from the walls. From the space inside the walls.
“I didn’t say anything,” I whispered.
“You thought it.”
The light steadied.
I stood there for a long time, keys digging into my palm, waiting for laughter. A prank. Anything.
Nothing came.
Eventually, I moved deeper into the house.
The living room smelled faintly of dust and something organic—sweet, heavy, like decay masked by perfume. The furniture was old but immaculate, cushions unmarked, upholstery tight as skin stretched over muscle.
When I walked past the couch, the cushions dipped.
Not where I stepped.
Where I would have sat.
I turned slowly.
“Hello?”
The television turned on.
Static gave way to grainy footage.
Me.
Not live. Not recent.
I watched myself sleeping in my old apartment, curled on my side, mouth slightly open. The timestamp in the corner flickered between dates that hadn’t happened yet.
“That’s not possible,” I said.
The version of me on the screen stirred, then sat up.
He looked directly into the camera.
Directly at me.
“You always sit here when you’re scared,” he said softly.
The couch creaked behind me.
(Dark throw blanket or vintage decorative pillow)
I didn’t sit.
I backed into the hallway instead.
It was longer than it had been when I entered. Not by much—but enough that my sense of distance failed me. The walls were lined with framed photographs.
Family portraits. Vacation shots. Holidays.
None of them were mine.
I stepped closer to one frame.
It showed me standing in the hallway, back turned, shoulders hunched.
I frowned. “That’s not—”
In the glass reflection, something stood behind me.
Tall. Too tall. Bent at the neck.
I spun around.
Empty hallway.
When I looked back at the photo, it had changed.
Now I was facing the camera.
Crying.
(Antique-style hallway runner rug)
I ran to the kitchen.
The refrigerator hummed softly, comfortingly. I opened it, desperate for normalcy.
Inside were groceries I hadn’t bought.
Raw meat folded neatly like laundry. Vegetables carved into spirals. A bowl of something dark and viscous that pulsed faintly, as if alive.
I gagged.
“I didn’t order this,” I said aloud.
The fridge door slammed shut.
From inside, something knocked once.
Polite.
“You will,” a voice whispered through the seal.
The sink faucet turned on. Thick liquid poured out, dark and slow, splashing into the basin with a sound like breath leaving lungs.
I backed away, heart hammering.
(DESCRIPTION OF AMAZON ITEM – Kitchen knife set or heavy cutting board)
The bathroom door was already open.
Steam filled the room though no water was running. The mirror fogged instantly when I stepped inside.
I wiped it clean.
My reflection smiled.
I did not.
“Stop,” I said.
The reflection tilted its head.
“Why?” it asked. “You never do.”
The lights flickered. The mirror rippled, like water disturbed by a thrown stone.
When I touched my face, my reflection’s fingers lagged behind—then pressed harder, flattening against the glass from the other side.
(LED vanity mirror or fogless bathroom mirror)
I slept in the bedroom with the lights on.
The bed dipped before I laid down, as if anticipating my weight. The sheets tightened around my legs, not trapping—holding.
“You’re just tired,” I whispered. “This is just stress.”
The mattress hummed softly.
A lullaby without melody.
From the closet came a slow, deliberate inhale.
Then another.
“You always sleep like this,” the house murmured. “Curled. Defensive.”
I bolted upright.
The closet door was breathing.
(Weighted blanket or memory foam mattress topper)
By the third night, the house began correcting me.
When I reached for light switches, they moved. When I paced, the floorboards shifted to shorten my steps. My reflection fixed imperfections I hadn’t noticed—eyes too dull, posture too slouched.
“You can’t do this,” I said, standing in the hallway. “You’re not alive.”
The walls flexed.
“Neither are nightmares,” the house replied. “And yet.”
The closet changed first.
My clothes rearranged themselves into outfits I would wear tomorrow. Shoes faced inward.
At the back of the closet was a door.
Behind it was a room full of discarded versions of me.
Skin hung like coats. Faces peeled and folded carefully. Each one labeled with dates.
“These didn’t fit anymore,” the house said gently.
(Closet organizer or storage system)
The basement stairs were steeper than they should’ve been.
The air was wet. Warm.
The walls pulsed. Pipes throbbed. Something large shifted beneath the concrete floor.
“This isn’t a basement,” I whispered.
“It is now,” the house replied.
The light flickered, illuminating something beneath the surface—movement. Digestion.
(High-lumen flashlight or emergency lantern)
In the attic, I found boxes labeled with dates I remembered.
Inside were objects I had lost. People I had buried.
One box moved.
“You forgot this part,” the house said.
(Heavy-duty storage bins or archival boxes)
I stopped trying to leave.
The house stopped changing.
Satisfied.
Walls firmed. Floors stabilized. The air warmed.
I understood then.
The house does not haunt.
It houses.
Nightmares. Thoughts you never finish. Fears you never say aloud.
It needs someone to dream for it.
And now that I am fully unpacked, it is ready again.
The front door unlocked itself tonight.
I hear footsteps in the entryway.
Someone whispering, “Hello?”
The house inhales.
Plot🫀Pulse | Short Stories & Blog 
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