He barely slept.
If he did sleep, it wasn't real sleep more like sinking underwater while something watched him from above the surface. When he finally opened his eyes, the house was dim, quiet, waiting.
He sat up, rubbing his face. "I need to get out of here today," he whispered.
But the front door still refused to open.
He didn't want to check it again. He didn't want to hear the house deny him. But he also couldn't stay lying there like prey.
He grabbed his flashlight and stood. His legs were wobbly. His mind foggy.
As he walked through the hallway, he kept glancing over his shoulder.
The shadows felt heavier today. Like they listened.
In the living room, he stopped abruptly.
The notebook he dropped yesterday wasn't on the floor anymore.
It sat on the chair.
Open.
His breath caught. "I… didn't put you there."
He approached slowly, each step forcing courage he did not have.
He leaned over the book.
New writing.
Fresh ink.
WHY ARE YOU STILL HERE?
He backed up immediately, shaking his head. "I didn't write that. I didn't write that. No way."
But the pen marks were unmistakably shaky just like his own handwriting.
He pushed the chair hard, sending it sliding into the wall.
"I didn't write that," he repeated. "I'm losing it. I'm actually losing it."
He forced himself to the front door. Gripped the handle.
"Please open," he whispered. "Please."
He pulled.
It didn't move.
He shoved his shoulder into it.
Nothing.
"Come on!" He kicked it. "Open!"
The house groaned in response low, almost… annoyed.
He stepped back, chest heaving. "What do you WANT?!"
Silence answered.
He spun around, pacing back and forth. "Okay, okay, okay. Think. You're trapped. But you're not trapped. It's just old wood. Old wood. You can break it. You can break it if you need to."
He looked around for something heavy.
Nothing big enough.
Then he noticed the walls. They felt… closer than yesterday.
He walked to the narrow hallway, running his hand along the wallpaper.
He frowned.
"I don't remember this hallway being this tight."
He pressed his palm flat.
The wall felt warm.
He jerked his hand back. "Nope. No. Walls don't get warm. Walls don't—"
A sigh drifted from somewhere above him.
He looked up sharply.
The ceiling seemed to pulse, just once. An illusion. A trick of the light. Had to be.
"Don't do this," he whispered to the house. "Please. Don't."
He turned around and walked toward the kitchen, forcing himself to focus on something normal. Something real. Food. Water. Anything.
Inside the kitchen, the air felt suffocating. He opened a cupboard.
Empty.
Another.
Empty.
Then he opened the bottom drawer.
A map.
His breath caught. "What…?"
He took it out, spreading it on the counter. It was a rough sketch of the house — hand-drawn, crude, but unmistakable. Someone had mapped out each room. Hallways. Doors. Even strange notations like:
NORTH CORNER UNSTABLEBASEMENT KEEPS GETTING BIGGERDON'T SLEEP NEAR THE STAIRS
"This is insane," he mumbled. "This… someone lived here and went insane. That's all. That's all this is."
He scanned the map again.
A small note near the living room:
IT MOVES WHEN YOU'RE NOT LOOKING.
He closed his eyes and shook his head violently. "No. No. We're not entertaining that. Not today."
He folded the map and shoved it into his pocket.
He turned to leave the kitchen—
—and froze.
A figure stood in the hallway outside.
Tall. Thin. Too thin. Like bones wrapped in shadow.
He stumbled backward. "No. No, no, no—"
He blinked.
The figure vanished.
He slumped against the counter, gasping. "Okay. Okay. Hallucination. Lack of sleep. Stress. You're imagining things."
He didn't believe himself.
He walked back to the living room, scanning every corner.
He paused.
A memory surfaced — not fully, just a flash.
Blood on his knuckles.
A man on the ground.
Someone shouting, "Get him up! He owes"
He clenched his fists. "Stop. Don't think. Don't go there."
He shook his head hard, as if he could rattle the memories loose.
He stepped toward the stairs, thinking maybe a higher floor would help him see things clearly.
But something stopped him.
A sound.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Footsteps.
Coming from above.
Coming toward the stairs.
He whispered, "No one's here. No one's here. No one's"
The footsteps stopped right above him.
He stared up, frozen.
Then three loud, heavy steps shook dust from the rafters.
He ran back into the living room, slamming the door shut. His breath heaved uncontrollably.
"What do you want from me?!" he shouted at the walls.
The house hummed again almost a breath.
He backed into a corner before catching himself.
Corners.
He remembered the note.
His eyes darted to the shadows collecting there.
"Don't trust the corners," he whispered.
He stepped away from the corner immediately. His voice trembled. "They weren't this dark. They weren't."
The shadows seemed to deepen as if listening.
"No," he said, pointing at them. "You stay right there. Stay."
His voice cracked.
He grabbed the notebook from the floor with shaking hands. He flipped through the pages.
A new message appeared.
He hadn't written it. He knew he hadn't.
IT KNOWS WHAT YOU DID.
He dropped the notebook like it burned him.
"I didn't… I didn't do anything," he whispered.
He had done things. Terrible things. But no one knew. No one could know.
Except him.
His breathing quickened. "Stop. Stop thinking about that. It's not real. This house is messing with you."
He grabbed his hair with both hands, pacing in circles.
"You're hearing things. Seeing things. That's all. That's ALL."
The house creaked as if laughing at him.
He froze.
Something moved behind him.
He spun around.
A figure in the doorway.
No face.
Just shadow.
He stumbled back, nearly falling.
"Don't come closer!" he yelled.
The figure didn't move.
He blinked.
Gone.
He fell to his knees, whispering, "I'm losing my mind."
But the whisper that came from behind him said:
"You lost it long before you got here."
He didn't look back.
He didn't dare.
He crawled into the center of the room and curled up, arms around his knees.
The house breathed around him slow, patient, hungry.
And as the last thread of sunlight slipped away, he whispered, "I'm not scared of you."
For the first time, the house whispered something new.
"You should be."