The key turned too easily.

  He expected resistance—rust in the lock, a door swollen with age—but it swung open without a sound. Inside, the air was thick, unmoving. He stepped in, shoes tapping against the floorboards.

  Outside, silence lay steadily like regret—heavy, unmoving, impossible to sweep away.

  I was standing there, in what could best be defined as a wooden tomb, while the world beyond stood still, drained of life… dead.

  I laid my back against the sofa, staring at the window, peering outside, waiting for something to happen. The quiet felt unwelcoming. I didn’t dare look at the sky; instead, I kept my eyes on the flickering streetlamp, its unsteady glow the only thing illuminating my room.

  My hand caressed the linen of the sofa, feeling the lumps beneath. It was warm.

  The curtains fluttered as air slipped in, the silence finally breaking—a single cricket chirping, distant, hesitant.

  I got up and walked toward my bedroom. The journey felt unusually long, my tired body dragging itself toward the promise of soft pillows.

  "Through neglect, it had grown patient—watching, waiting, remembering."

  All that stood between me and my bedroom was a flight of stairs. In the dark of night, the staircase almost seemed… diseased.

  The fading paint, damp walls, and the smell of old carpet made me picture a sick, wasting body.The railing wobbled under my grip. Loose, unreliable. It wouldn’t catch me if I slipped. Would it?

  Each step felt like wading through tar, the exhaustion of the day clinging to me, pulling me down.

  I reached my destination—my bedroom. I stared down at the door, a looming, ominous structure standing between me and my bed, as if it didn’t want me inside.

  I threw my weight against it, pushing it inward. Nothing else in the world mattered—only my need to sleep.

  I woke up in the middle of the night for no reason.

  Or maybe it was the cold—it was colder than it should have been.

  Sounds of creaking echoed throughout the house, slow and deliberate, as if the wood itself was shifting—breathing.

  It felt like an orchestra conducted by the house itself—nature’s forces playing something strange, unexplainable.

  "It could not act, but it could allow. It had no hands to push, no voice to command, but it could open a door left unlocked."

  Next morning I was woke up by the house maids soft footsteps in my room.I roused myself, then, gathering the right words, I exclaimed, You must not move objects without my permission,my voice cold, carrying an unspoken command.

  The maid laughed, for it was not uncommon for me to wake in a state of confusion. I sat on my bed, annoyed, struggling to find the proper words to express my displeasure at her laugh. As I stared at the trinkets on my drawers, I felt a strange calmness, one that unsettled me, as I realized nothing had been moved.

  It was a rude awakening for someone who prided themselves on accuracy and precision, particularly concerning material things. How could this be possible? Questions raced through my mind, but my dazed self couldn't yet grasp the answer.

  The daylight illuminated more than the trinkets; it revealed the proportions of the room, laying the darkness of the night to rest.The hallway outside led the resident to a staircase, which descended to a cozy living space. Downstairs, it split into multiple rooms: the kitchen, the washroom, and so on.

  After getting dressed, I made my way to the window to check the weather. But as I approached, another blow to my pride struck me—one I hadn’t expected. The cigarette I’d smoked earlier was resting on the window sill, and I could have sworn I had placed it in the ashtray. Two mistakes in one morning made me reconsider the food and drinks I consumed from the night before.

  I pushed the door open and stepped out, my mind absent. The rest of the day was spent shoveling through paperwork.In the afternoon, I paid a short visit to one of my friends and took my tea at the Grand Café. Though I was in a somewhat nervous frame of mind, I saw no indication of any failure of my senses, despite the unusual experiences of the morning that had led me to fear some sensory degradation.

  At evening, I found myself at the root of my madness—my house.Though my mind was again worn from the day's work, the maid served me my dinner, which consisted of roasted meat, boiled potatoes, and a modest portion of stewed greens. The meal was warm, filling—ordinary.

  After finishing, I sat in silence for a moment, gazing at the empty plate. The house, too, seemed to settle, as if waiting for the next inevitable step in the evening’s routine.

  I was brought to my senses by the random gust of wind which slipped through the window, the cool evening breeze washed away my thoughts for that moment, well no point in further dilly-dallying, I said to myself. My murmuring was interrupted by my maid, who entered the room abruptly.

  She stood still, gripping the edge of her apron as though she had forgotten why she had come. The air felt thick, heavier than before.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  She kept staring at me, her lips parted slightly, as if wanting to ask something but held back by some unnatural force.

  It was the way she breathed—shallow, careful—that unsettled me. The way her fingers twitched against the fabric, the way her gaze kept flickering to something just past my shoulder.

  I turned.

  Nothing.

  But the weight of the silence in the room had changed.

  I was the one to speak first, asking her, reasoning with her. But my words barely left my lips before I realized—they meant nothing to her.

  She moved past me as if I weren’t there, her body rigid, her steps mechanical. My voice rose, questioning, demanding—still, she ignored my pleas, my growing unease.

  Her path was deliberate. Straight to my chamber.

  It was not an act of absentmindedness, nor was it curiosity. It was urgency, a wordless compulsion.

  I followed, slower than I should have, feeling a weight settle in my chest.

  What did she expect to find?My feet begrudgingly followed her up the unwelcoming staircase. The wood groaned beneath me, as if displeased by my presence.

  She stood before my chamber door, her fingers grazing the handle, her head tilting slightly as though listening.

  Then, with no explanation, she pushed it open.

  Then closed it.

  Then opened it again.

  A slow, methodical rhythm.

  The sound of the latch clicked in and out of place, the door's hinges sighing with each repetition. My patience frayed at the edges, my lips parting to demand an explanation, but before I could speak, she stopped.

  The madness seemed to drain from her posture all at once.

  She turned to me. Her voice was calm. Plain. Unconcerned.

  I heard creaking of the floorboards,she remarked.I believe she was expecting to find someone there who wasnt welcomed by us, but alas it was just the house groaning.It was the oldest house on the street—perhaps the oldest for miles.

  It had witnessed more history than any scholar I had ever known, standing silent through decades, observing. A few creaking boards were to be expected.

  Its history and architecture were what lured me to it, what made me want to live within its walls—to experience it.

  But as I stood there, listening to the way the boards groaned beneath an unseen weight, I found myself wondering…

  Had I been observing the house all this time?

  Or had it been observing me?

  "Stone remembers the hands that built it. Wood recalls the weight it has carried. And a house never forgets the ones who have left it behind."

  The house, though old, had remained untouched by my hands.

  I believe that every stain in a house tells a story that would have otherwise gone untold. Every piece of furniture carries the weight of someone’s presence. Everything, together—the worn floorboards, the faint scent of aged wood, the lingering fingerprints on forgotten surfaces—makes the house not just something, but someone.

  And sometimes the house learns to hate.

  After dinner, I sat in my chamber, preparing documents for the next day’s work. Yet, after the events of the evening, every moment felt strangely unsteady. The windows no longer framed the outside world; instead, they seemed to watch me. The floorboards creaked, not with age, but with something closer to laughter—a low, knowing amusement. The air slipped through the gaps in the windows, humming a tune I did not recognize, yet felt I had heard before.

  A misplaced date in my documents caught my eye. Then another. Words blurred, rearranged themselves, or perhaps my tired mind betrayed me. I pressed my fingers to my temples, but the feeling remained.

  I decided to retire myself for tonight though unease clung to me like the stale air in the chamber. As I stood, the candlelight flickered—only once, but enough to make the shadows leap, stretching long fingers across the walls.

  The floorboards, obedient to my every step, groaned beneath my weight. The air, no longer content with merely humming, whispered something just beyond the reach of understanding.

  As I was preparing for bed I couldn't help but notice the alignment of my drawers were off, the dusty silhouette of the furniture imprinted on my walls made it clear. I would've called my maid and given her a stern lecture but I decided to let her go for this night,I'll talk to her next morning, I thought.

  I moved to straighten them, but as my fingers brushed the wood, an odd sensation crept over me—a hesitation, as if I were touching something that did not belong to me. The dust had settled thickly along the edges, undisturbed except for where the furniture had been shifted.

  I turned away, convincing myself of my own reasoning. The maid, surely. A careless attempt at cleaning, nothing more.

  The air, however, did not agree.

  As I prepared for bed, the silence pressed closer. The usual sounds—the distant ticking of the clock, the occasional sigh of wind—seemed to have been swallowed whole, leaving something weightier in their place.

  It was unexpected, my tired body didn't feel the need for sleep it wanted answers and most of all it wanted to be aware, the silence in the room was too perfect, too expectant.My eyes were only brave enough to keep looking at the ceiling, I went on thinking,reasoning.

  Then, just as my thoughts threatened to unravel into something senseless, a sound. Soft, deliberate. Not the house shifting, not the wind, but something closer—inside the room.

  A whisper of fabric, as if someone adjusting their position.

  I did not move. My body, exhausted yet thrumming with awareness, refused to obey the simplest impulse to sit up, to look. My eyes remained on the ceiling, unblinking, as if the act of turning my head would acknowledge something I could not afford to recognize.

  "There are noises that make one doubt if they were ever truly heard—or merely remembered too late."

  The train of incidents was interrupted by a sudden cry for help—it was my maid. I found her curled in the corner of her room, frightened and in pain. The cupboard beside her bed had toppled onto her leg, leaving a dark bruise where the wood had struck. As I stepped inside, the air felt heavy, charged with something unspoken. For a brief moment, an understanding passed between us—me, her, and the house.

  We were not wanted. The house longed to be left alone, to dwell in the echoes of its past, to cradle the memories of those who had once called it home. It wished to mourn, to grieve the absence of voices it could no longer hold within its walls. It wanted answers—why had it been abandoned? And we were intruding.

  The house’s loose windows and doors, once left to the mercy of the wind, now shut themselves tightly, as if shielding us from the cold night’s breeze. It bore neither malice nor resentment—only sorrow.The once-wobbly railing of the staircase now felt steady beneath my hand, as if, at last, the house knew we understood.

  The house was abandoned by me after a while. Perhaps that is why this story is being composed—to give it a voice, to grant it the farewell it was denied. It was a sad little structure, like a pet left behind by its owner, longing to return but unable to. We left, not out of fear, but so it could sulk in peace.

  On the morning of our final day, the house made its quiet amends. The windows allowed only the most delicate rays of sunlight to creep in, casting warmth where shadows once lurked. It gathered the sweetest scents from the world outside, offering them as parting gifts. Even the creaking hinges, once ominous, sang a melody almost… serene.

  "Some houses are built to shelter, others to remember. And some, perhaps, only to grieve."

  An ever-present lament, had grown silent, as if the house had finally found its rest.

  And as I closed the door for the last time, I thought I heard it breathe—one final sigh, neither of relief nor sorrow, but of something older. Something patient.

  "Some places do not demand to be remembered. They simply wait, knowing that, in time, we will return."