Ethan woke to the sound of breathing.
Not his own.
Slow. Deep. Patient.
For a terrifying moment, he thought the house had finally swallowed him whole—that he was buried inside its walls, becoming one of the whispering voices. His eyes snapped open.
He was lying on the living room sofa.
Morning light filtered weakly through the curtains, pale and sickly, as if the sun itself was afraid to look directly at the house. The black veins that had wrapped around his body the night before were gone, leaving behind dark bruises shaped like fingerprints.
He tried to sit up.
Pain exploded through his chest.
Ethan gasped, clutching his ribs. His shirt was damp with sweat—and something else. He lifted the fabric and froze.
Words had been carved into his skin.
Not cut deep enough to bleed freely. Deep enough to last.
STAY.
His heart pounded so hard he thought it might tear free.
"This isn't real," he whispered again, though the house no longer bothered to argue.
The breathing sound continued.
He followed it.
The sound led him toward the far end of the house, to a door he had never noticed before. It blended into the wall so perfectly that it looked less like a door and more like a scar.
The breathing came from behind it.
Ethan hesitated.
Then the door opened on its own.
The room beyond was circular, with stone walls older than the rest of the house—older than the village, older than the road, older than memory. Candles lined the floor in a wide ring, all unlit, their wax blackened as if burned long ago.
At the center of the room stood a pit.
Not a hole.
A mouth.
It breathed.
Ethan staggered back, nausea rising in his throat. The pit expanded and contracted slowly, pulling air inward, exhaling it again with a low, mournful sound.
"This is where it started," a voice said.
Ethan spun around.
Jonathan Walker stood in the doorway.
Not bound by veins.
Not decayed.
He looked whole. Alive. Almost peaceful.
"Father…" Ethan whispered.
Jonathan raised a hand. "Don't come closer."
"Are you real?"
Jonathan smiled sadly. "Real enough."
He stepped aside, revealing symbols carved into the stone walls—ancient markings, overlapping layers of ritual circles, names etched one over another until they were unreadable.
"This house wasn't built," Jonathan said. "It was grown."
Ethan's stomach twisted.
"Blackwood Hollow used to be empty land," Jonathan continued. "Nothing would stay here. Crops failed. Animals refused to cross it. People disappeared."
Jonathan looked at the breathing pit.
"Something lived beneath this place. Something that feeds on remembrance."
The pit exhaled, louder now.
"Our ancestors didn't banish it," Jonathan said. "They made a deal."
Ethan shook his head. "No. No, this—this is madness."
"They offered it a container," Jonathan said softly. "A house to hold it. And a bloodline to feed it."
Ethan's throat burned. "You knew."
"I learned too late," Jonathan said. "By the time I understood, the house already knew you."
The candles around the pit ignited suddenly, flames leaping to life without heat. Shadows twisted across the walls, forming human shapes—hundreds of them.
"They're all Walkers?" Ethan asked.
"Some," Jonathan said. "Others were… chosen."
The shadows pressed closer.
"You tried to stop it," Ethan said. "That's why you died."
Jonathan closed his eyes.
"I tried to starve it."
The room darkened.
"The house grows restless when unfed," Jonathan continued. "It bends reality. It brings back the dead. It lies."
"Then why is Lily here?" Ethan demanded. "Why did I see her?"
Jonathan's face broke.
"That wasn't Lily."
The pit inhaled sharply.
"She was the first thing it learned how to copy," Jonathan whispered. "Your grief taught it well."
Ethan backed away, heart racing.
"Then why keep me alive?" he shouted. "Why not just kill me?"
Jonathan looked directly into his eyes.
"Because the house doesn't want corpses anymore," he said. "It wants caretakers."
The candles flickered violently.
"The last Walker must choose," Jonathan said. "Feed the house… or become part of it."
The walls began to bleed.
Black liquid streamed downward, forming faces as it moved. The shadows screamed, soundless but violent.
Jonathan's body began to fade.
"You still have time," he said urgently. "Before the next feeding."
"When?" Ethan asked.
Jonathan's voice echoed faintly.
"Tonight."
The room collapsed into darkness.
---
Ethan woke again—this time in his childhood bedroom.
The clock on the wall read 1:58 a.m.
Rule One slammed into his mind.
Never sleep between 2:17 and 3:03 a.m.
The breathing sound returned, louder than ever.
From downstairs came footsteps.
Not dragging.
Walking.
Confident.
Ethan crept to the door and opened it a crack.
The hallway was full of people.
They stood silently, shoulder to shoulder, filling the space from wall to wall. Villagers. Strangers. Faces from different decades. All staring toward the staircase.
At the center stood Lily.
Perfect.
Smiling.
She looked up and met Ethan's eyes.
"Come down," she said gently. "It's time."
The clock ticked.
2:16 a.m.
The walls leaned inward.
The house inhaled deeply.
And for the first time, Ethan realized the truth—
The house was not haunted.
It was preparing.