(Dairy of Patrick Smith)
I never told anyone. Not Cilia, not my son, not even when my grandsons came running through the halls with their bright laughter echoing off the walls.
I smiled, always smiled.
That was my duty — to be the pillar, the steady hand.
But inside, the house was eating me alive.
It began the day we moved in.
Cilia loved quiet places. She grew up in the heart of a busy town, where people shouted greetings across the street and neighbors argued loud enough for everyone to hear.
She said she wanted the opposite of that life — "a place where the mountains hold you like a cradle, Patrick, where the air is so still you can hear your own thoughts."
So when I saw the advertisement for a home nestled in the cliffs, overlooking the valley but far from the main town, I didn't hesitate.
It was too cheap for its size, and that should have been my first warning.
But she smiled when she saw the pictures, and that was enough.
A husband's heart is weak before the joy of his wife.
The day we arrived, the house stood like a solemn giant.
Stone walls, weathered roof, windows that reflected too much light.
When the townsfolk heard where we had settled, they gave me strange looks.
One even muttered, "That place… no one stays long." I laughed it off. Superstition.
Old wives' tales. At the time, I believed in neither.
For years, life was good.
We had a son, strong and clever.
He filled the halls with energy, the way children do.
Cilia spent her mornings tending a small garden, her afternoons sewing by the window that faced the cliffs.
Sometimes she would say, "The silence here is perfect. I can hear the mountains breathing."
But silence has a way of sharpening what hides within it.
It started small.
A whisper in the middle of the night.
Not words, not exactly — more like the drag of breath across stone. I
woke up, heart pounding, certain someone was in the room.
But Cilia slept beside me, unbothered.
Next came the shadows.
At first, I thought it was candlelight playing tricks.
But they lingered after the flame was gone, stretching too long across the floor, climbing the walls like vines.
Once, while shaving, I looked into the mirror and saw myself smiling — except I wasn't.
My face was still, razor held steady, yet the reflection grinned wide enough to split skin.
I stopped using that mirror.
I told myself it was stress.
A man working hard for his family.
When our son left for university, I thought maybe the emptiness of the house was simply getting to me.
Fewer footsteps. Fewer voices. Too much space for one's thoughts.
But then the house began to… answer me.
I remember one evening, standing by the window as the storm rolled in, I muttered, "Another night of thunder."
And from the hollow of the wall, from the beams above, came a voice:
"Yes. Another night"
I dropped my wine glass, It shattered across the floor.
Cilia called from the kitchen, asking if I was all right.
I lied. I always lied.
Because she never heard it.
None of them did. Not once.
********
There were footsteps in the halls at night, slow and deliberate, pacing just beyond the door.
Once, I swung it open quick, certain I would catch an intruder — but the hallway was empty, Still, the floorboards creaked as though someone stood inches away, breathing.
The house grew colder.
Not drafts — I knew drafts.
This was something else, something alive.
Some nights I woke up seeing my breath fogging in the air, though the fire still burned hot.
The worse were the dreams.
I dreamed of stone corridors beneath the house, twisting tunnels where walls pulsed like flesh.
I dreamed of a black figure sitting in my chair, wearing my skin like a mask, whispering to my sleeping wife.
And sometimes, I dreamed of the house itself breathing.
Each inhale rattled the windows.
Each exhale smelled of earth and rot.
I tried to leave.
One afternoon, while Cilia was visiting the town, I packed a bag. I thought, I'll take a few days away. Clear my head.
But when I reached the road, I found myself back at the gate.
No matter how far I walked, no matter which direction — east, west, even scrambling through the woods — I always returned to the house.
Its roof rising above the trees. Its windows watching me.
I laughed then, a broken laugh.
Because I knew, deep down, what it meant.
I wasn't the owner of the house. The house owned me.
*********
Years passed. I endured.
When my grandsons visited, I forced the smile, the warmth, the grandfatherly wisdom.
I would not let them see what crouched behind my eyes at night.
Once, little Charles asked, "Grandpa, why don't you sleep in your bed? Daddy says you always sit in the chair by the fire."
I ruffled his hair and said, "Old bones like warmth."
But the truth was, I couldn't sleep in the bed anymore.
That's where the whispers were loudest.
That's where the hands pressed up from under the mattress.
I never told him. I never told any of them.
The house was patient. It didn't rush. It knew I was breaking.
Some nights, I heard Cilia laughing in the kitchen when she wasn't there.
Other nights, I saw my son walking the halls, though he was miles away at university.
And once — God help me — I saw my grandsons as grown men, their faces pale, their eyes hollow, standing at the end of the corridor, staring at me without blinking.
Is the house showing me the future…Or its intentions?
I prayed.
Not loudly — the house didn't like loud prayers.
Quiet, whispered ones. Pleas to God, to saints, to anything that would listen.
And as my bones grew weak, as my breath grew short, I knew my time was ending.
The night before i go, I sat in the chair by the fire. The house was louder than ever. Whispers in every corner.
Scratches behind the walls. My reflection in the glass grinned though I sat weeping.
I looked up at the ceiling and prayed, not for myself, but for them.
"For Cilia, my love, who asked only for peace.
For my son, who grew strong despite me.
And for Darwin and Charles, my grandsons.
They are innocent. They are light. Leave them untouched.
Take me instead. Let the curse end here."
The house breathed deep. The walls shuddered.
I think….. it listened.
The next morning, am sure Cilia will found me still in the chair. A smile on my lips.
They will buried me in the valley, under the pine tree which i love.
And then, the house would wait again.
********
Epilogue
You ask why the grandsons were drawn back there. Why they stayed. Why they suffered?
Because the house never keeps promises.
It only waits.
And when the time is right, it feeds again.
That's the story of Patrick. His love for Cilia, his silence, his prayers — and the house that unmade him.
Stream Commentary; Tape #40. "A Happy Family "
(Kai, in a quiet, voice low)
"…Patrick."
(A long pause. Even the background hum of his streaming room feels subdued. He lifts his chin slightly, the goggle hiding his eyes, then he sighs)
[@Ovesix: He… he endured all of that? For decades? Smiling, loving, pretending nothing was wrong—while the house stripped his soul apart? That man was iron. No… more than iron. He was love itself]
[@Jaija: He didn't scream… he didn't tell anyone… he just kept it inside so his wife could be happy. So his son could grow strong. So his grandsons would never see the shadow gnawing at him. That's… that's not fair! Grandpa Patrick deserved peace too, he deserved better!!]
[@642: No. It's worse than unfair. It's monstrous. That house was feeding on him. It was savoring every crack in his mind, every shiver in his bones. It didn't want to kill him quickly—it wanted him to rot alive]
[@Enchomay: What… what are they, Kai? Those things inside the house. Those whispers. Those shadows. They aren't just ghosts. They spoke to him. They laughed in mirrors. They walked the halls. If they've been there for so long… how long exactly? Years? Decades? Centuries? What's their motive? Why torment one man, silently, while sparing his wife and child? Why wait until his heart was dust?]
(Kai leans forward, speaking slowly, with weight)
That's the cruelty, isn't it? They waited.
Because endurance… is a delicacy.
Breaking Patrick wasn't the goal—it was savoring him.
The motive? Hunger. Some hungers are for flesh. Some are for souls.
These monsters… whatever they are, whatever they once were… they feed on time.
On suffering stretched thin until it snaps.
[@Jaija: But he prayed. He begged them to leave his grandsons untouched. He gave everything. Why didn't they stop?!]
(Kai quietly spoke)
Because monsters lie.
(Pauses)
[@Ovesix: Patrick endured so his family wouldn't bear his burden. That's bravery. That's love in its purest form… even when it broke him]
[@Enchomay: And still the house waits. Still it watches. It never promised an ending… only another beginning]
(Kai sits back, voice sharpening)
Listen well, viewers. Patrick's story isn't just a tragedy—it's a warning.
Monsters don't always rush with claws and fangs. Sometimes, they wait.
They linger. They outlast you.
The real terror is patience.
And the truth?
Not every smile hides joy.
Some smiles are shields… forged in pain, worn for those we love.
(He tilts his head, the screen light glinting against his goggle.)
If you're ever offered a house too cheap, too quiet, too perfect—ask yourself why no one else stayed.
Ask yourself what silence is hiding.
And remember Patrick.
His endurance saved no one.
His silence only fed the dark.
(Pause. His voice drops lower.)
Be careful, readers.
Sometimes, the home you love most… is already waiting to devour you.
(The stream flickers. For a heartbeat, the screen seems darker, as though something shifted behind Kai)
(with a soft smile )
And now… prepare yourselves.
Because our next story is nothing like a quiet house on a mountain.
Oh no. Our next tale?
"Party Party"
[@Jaija: From graves to confetti, huh?]
[@642: What's next, Kai? Balloons that eat people?]
[@Enchomay: Maybe the scariest mask isn't the monster's… but the smile we wear at parties.
( Kai smiles)
You'll see. You'll all see.
Party Party isn't celebration—it's revelation.
And every guest… is on the menu.
STREAM ENDED