Luca Horton woke at 10:37 a.m.— exactly three hours past his intended time.
The first thing he did wasn't brushing his teeth. It was staring blankly at the ceiling and sighing.
From the corner of the room, his old TV was replaying a cheap instant-noodle commercial at volume 2 out of 10 — just enough to make the room feel "alive."
"Good morning, world. Thanks for not waiting for me,"
he muttered, then dragged himself upright.
On the desk lay a pile of job applications scattered by the fan.
Each page bore the same red-inked line:
"Thank you for applying, but we have chosen a more suitable candidate."
Luca laughed — the dry laugh of a man far too used to rejection.
Yesterday's coffee sat cold in the cup, but he drank it anyway.
The bitterness hit hard — depressingly, it was the only flavor he could still clearly taste all day.
The House at 17 Ashwood Street
The house had belonged to his parents once.
His father died early; his mother moved to another state with another man, leaving Luca the old, half-moldy, half-empty home.
The living room always smelled of dust and paint.
The bathroom mirror was so foggy that sometimes its reflection lagged by a heartbeat.
But Luca didn't care. He'd lived there three years already.
Every strange sound — the creaks, the faint giggles of distant children, the dripping faucet that was definitely off — had become background music in his unemployed life.
There was only one thing he always avoided looking at: the wall to the right of his bed.
Not because it scared him — but because it made him feel guilty.
That's where he used to hang a picture of Clara, his ex-girlfriend.
It had fallen and shattered one stormy night last year.
He couldn't remember what happened that night — only the smell of burning…
and a whisper, right behind his ear:
"Luca, don't turn around…"
That afternoon, Luca went to the grocery store to buy cheap noodles and cheaper beer.
The shopkeeper — who affectionately called him "the handsome yet useless boy" — greeted him with her usual wrinkled smile.
On his way back, he passed his old neighbor, Mr. Morgan, sitting on his porch, petting a black cat.
As always, the old man said:
"Your wall was talking again last night, Horton. I heard it clear as day."
"Probably the pipes, Mr. Morgan."
"Pipes that know your name?"
Luca chuckled awkwardly, waved, and kept walking.
He didn't want to think about it anymore.
That night, it rained.
Luca played some jazz and opened his laptop to rewatch an old gaming livestream with friends.
He was mid-laugh at a stupid joke when a faint knock sounded.
Tok. Tok. Tok.
He paused the music.
Listened.
The knocks came again — louder this time.
From inside the wall.
"Probably the pipes, right? Or a rat. Or maybe the pipes jamming with a rat on drums,"
he said aloud, joking to himself.
He pressed his ear to the wall.
Nothing.
But just as he started to turn away, a whisper brushed against his ear like a breath of cold wind:
"Luca…"
He froze.
The room was empty.
Rain fell outside. The light flickered.
"Luca, don't you remember me?"
The voice seeped through the wall — soft, tender, and freezing.
His scalp tingled.
He stumbled back, heart hammering.
Then — the power went out.
The entire house sank into darkness.
Luca groped for his phone and turned on the flashlight.
As the beam hit the wall, he saw the paint peeling away, revealing rough, carved words beneath.
They weren't stains — they were etched into the plaster.
"Horton Lineage – Ritual of Recollection."
He froze.
Horton — his surname.
Ritual?
He'd never seen those words before.
Amid the dust, a scorched handprint appeared — small, like a woman's.
Before he could react, the wall trembled slightly.
A cold breath escaped from within, carrying a faint, familiar laugh.
Clara's laugh.
"Still keeping the house, Luca?"
He stood motionless, his mouth open but no sound coming out.
On the wall, his shadow stretched — and then moved differently from him.
Ding-dong!
The doorbell made him jump.
He opened the door to find a soaked young man with messy hair, a raincoat, and a backpack shaped like a cartoon cat.
The guy grinned brightly.
"Hi! I'm Milo Vance — exorcist intern. I picked up a spiritual anomaly signal from… your house."
Luca blinked. "Exorcist intern? Here?"
"Yup. You've been hearing voices in your wall, right?"
"…Yeah. But how did you—?"
"Oh, easy. It's yelling your name right now."
At that moment, a low, eerie laugh rippled through the house.
The lights flickered on, off, on again — and across the wall, the carved words shifted into:
"WELCOME BACK, HORTON."
Luca swallowed hard.
Milo winked.
"Congrats! You've officially been classified as a haunted object. Don't worry, I brought my vacuum."
"…Your what?"
"My exorcism-grade vacuum cleaner. Prototype model. Works great on weak ghosts and rats."
Luca wasn't sure whether to laugh or run.
Thunder boomed outside.
Inside, the wall cracked — a long, jagged line, as if something inside was crawling… trying to get out.