Everyone in the village avoided House No. 47.
It wasn't broken.
It wasn't burned.
It just… waited.
Ravi rented it because it was cheap—and because the owner warned him only once:
"Never wake up at 3:17 a.m. If you do, don't open your eyes."
Ravi laughed.
On the first night, the house was too quiet. No insects. No wind. Even his phone lost signal the moment he stepped inside.
At 3:17 a.m., he woke up.
Not because of a sound.
Because the bed was breathing.
Slow. Wet. Heavy.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Ravi froze. His heart slammed against his ribs. The air smelled old… like a room that hadn't been opened for decades.
Then he heard it.
A whisper—right beside his ear.
"Don't look at me."
His eyes burned. Every instinct screamed to open them.
Something sat on his chest.
Cold fingers traced his face, counting his breaths.
"One… two… three…"
A drop of liquid fell on his lips.
Not water.
Something warm.
The whisper returned, closer now—inside his head.
"You're already awake. It's rude to pretend."
Ravi's eyes snapped open.
The room was darker than darkness should be.
Standing over him was a shape that looked human—until it smiled too wide, its jaw cracking downward like broken wood. Its eyes were empty holes, leaking black fluid that dripped onto Ravi's face.
Behind it, the walls were covered in handprints.
Some small.
Some burned in.
Some still moving.
The thing tilted its head.
"People usually scream," it said gently. "But you're polite."
Ravi tried to scream.
Nothing came out.
The thing leaned closer, and he realized the smell wasn't from the house.
It was from inside its mouth.
Rot. Dust. And something freshly dead.
"You live here now," it whispered.
The lights flicked on.
Morning.
Ravi's body was found sitting on the bed, eyes wide open, mouth stretched in a silent scream.
The house was empty again.
That night, a new tenant moved in.
At 3:17 a.m., the house breathed.
And somewhere in the dark, Ravi whispered to the sleeping stranger:
"Don't open your eyes."