The house has started breathing.I hear it when the air conditioner clicks off—the faint inhale, the sigh through the vents, like lungs buried behind the walls. Every sound feels alive. The refrigerator hum sounds like a growl now, the ceiling fan moans when it spins.
It's like the building's been listening too long, and now it's learned to speak.
I try not to think about it, but when you spend too many nights awake, your brain starts painting monsters in the dark. The walls, the shadows, the echoes—they stop being background noise. They start feeling like witnesses.
She's gotten worse. Pale, jittery, eyes red from crying. Her laughter's gone, her perfume's gone, even her reflection looks afraid. She used to hum while making tea. Now the silence is thick enough to choke on.
I watched her from the doorway this morning. She didn't see me. She just sat at the table, staring at her phone. The last message from the "stranger" (me) was still open. Her lips trembled as she read it over and over:
"You can't hide from what you did."
When she finally looked up, her eyes met mine. For a second, it felt like she knew. Not guessed—knew."Dhruve," she said quietly. "Do you… hear things in this house?"
I froze. "What kind of things?"
She hesitated. "Voices. Like… someone's talking when no one's there."
I forced a smile. "You need sleep."
She nodded, but I could tell she didn't believe it. Hell, I didn't believe it either.
That night, the whispers returned—louder, clearer, sharper.Not random anymore. They were rhythmic. Like someone calling my name between the beats of my heartbeat.
"Dhruve… Dhruve…"
I got up, grabbed my phone, used the flashlight to scan the room. Nothing. No one.But when the light passed over the wall near the bedroom door, I saw something faint—handprints. Tiny, grey smudges, like someone had pressed against it from the other side.
I touched the wall. Cold. Too cold.
And then, faintly, I heard a voice—her voice—whispering right into my ear:
"Stop."
I spun around. She was asleep on the bed.
I stood there for a long time, just watching her. My throat felt dry. The echo of her whisper—whether dream or ghost or guilt—wouldn't leave my head.
By dawn, I was sitting in the living room again, watching the light creep in through the curtains. The air felt heavier than usual. My reflection in the TV screen looked tired, older, worn.
"Is this what you wanted?" I whispered to it.
The reflection didn't answer, but for a second, I thought I heard the house breathe again, like it was mocking me.
And that's when it hit me. Maybe the echoes aren't hers. Maybe they're mine. Maybe everything I've buried—the anger, the guilt, the need for revenge—it's leaking out now, filling the walls, haunting the air.
Because sometimes the monster you create to destroy someone else doesn't stay in the cage.
Sometimes… it learns your voice.