By morning, I convinced myself I was losing my mind.
That was the only explanation that made sense.
Old house. New town. Sleepless nights. Fear has a way of turning shadows into monsters. I repeated that thought again and again as I washed my face in the bathroom sink.
But the mirror didn't agree with me.
The crack was still there—thin, sharp, running straight through my reflection. And for just a second, I thought I saw something move behind my eyes.
I looked away quickly.
I needed air. Real air. People. Noise.
The house felt different in daylight, but not safer. The walls were stained, the floorboards creaked under every step, and the hallway felt longer than it should have been. As I walked toward the front door, I noticed something that made my stomach tighten.
There were photographs on the wall.
Old ones.
Black and white. Faded. Dust-covered.
I stopped.
I was sure those pictures hadn't been there yesterday.
Each photo showed the house—from different years, different angles. The front gate. The hallway. My bedroom.
My bedroom… decades ago.
I leaned closer, my breath catching.
In one photograph, a group of people stood in the living room. Their faces were blurred, except for one boy standing in the center.
He was staring directly at the camera.
At me.
He looked about ten years old.
And he looked exactly like me.
"That's not possible," I whispered.
The air around me grew colder.
"You're remembering," a voice said softly.
I turned around.
Nothing.
But I felt it again—that presence. Close. Familiar. Like a memory brushing against my skin.
I backed away from the photographs and rushed outside, slamming the door behind me. The sunlight felt harsh, unreal. My hands were shaking.
I needed answers.
The only person who might have them was the landlord.
Mr. Holloway lived at the far end of the street, in a house that looked newer than the rest—clean, untouched. When he opened the door, his smile faded the moment he saw me.
"You stayed the night," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes," I replied. "You didn't tell me about the photographs."
His eyes darkened. "So it's started."
My heart sank. "Started what?"
He hesitated, then stepped aside. "Come in."
Inside, his house smelled of old paper and incense. He led me to a table covered with files and newspapers. One headline caught my eye immediately.
BOY DISAPPEARS IN GREYWICK HOUSE – CASE UNSOLVED
The date was twenty years ago.
Mr. Holloway slid the article toward me. "That boy," he said quietly, "was found living alone in that house. No records. No family. He didn't remember where he came from."
I swallowed hard. "What happened to him?"
"He vanished," Mr. Holloway replied. "Same night the house was sealed."
I felt dizzy. "Why does he look like me?"
Mr. Holloway met my eyes, fear flickering across his face. "Because the house doesn't forget the ones it claims."
A sudden realization hit me like ice water.
"I've been there before," I whispered.
"Yes," he said. "And it let you leave once."
A chill ran down my spine.
"Why?" I asked.
He looked past me, toward the door, as if expecting something to be listening.
"Because it wanted you to come back… when you were ready."
Behind me, I heard a soft whisper—warm, pleased.
Welcome home.
What the House Took
I didn't remember walking back to the house.
One moment I was standing in Mr. Holloway's living room, his words echoing in my head—the house doesn't forget the ones it claims—and the next, I was at the rusted gate, my hand resting on cold iron.
The house stood silent, watching me.
That was the only way I could describe it. The windows felt like eyes. The doorway felt like an open mouth, waiting.
You don't have to go in, a voice inside me whispered.
Another voice replied, calm and familiar.
Yes, you do.
I pushed the gate open.
It creaked loudly, as if warning me. Or welcoming me.
Inside, the air felt heavier than before, thick with the smell of dust and something older—something rotten beneath the walls. I stepped inside and froze.
The photographs were gone.
The hallway wall was bare, stained only by age. No frames. No pictures. No proof that I hadn't imagined everything.
My heart began to race.
"Stop messing with me," I said aloud, my voice shaking. "I know you're here."
The house answered with silence.
I moved deeper inside, every step echoing too loudly. When I reached the living room, my breath caught in my throat.
There was a child's shoe lying in the center of the floor.
Small. Worn. Mud-stained.
I recognized it instantly.
I had owned a pair just like it when I was a child.
My knees felt weak as I knelt down and picked it up. The moment my fingers touched the shoe, a sharp pain exploded behind my eyes.
The room vanished.
I was standing in the same house—but it was different.
Cleaner. Brighter.
Laughter echoed through the hallway.
A woman's laughter.
I turned and saw her standing near the kitchen doorway. She was young, smiling, her eyes full of warmth.
My chest tightened painfully.
"Mom?" I whispered.
She turned toward me.
But her smile faded.
Her eyes widened with fear.
"Aarav, run!" she screamed.
The walls began to bleed.
Dark stains spread rapidly, crawling like living things. The lights flickered violently. The laughter twisted into screams.
I felt small.
Small hands.
I wasn't an adult anymore.
I was a child.
The shadow appeared at the end of the hallway, taller than the ceiling, its form tearing through the light. It moved toward us slowly, confidently.
"You belong to me," it said.
My mother grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the back door. "Don't look back!" she cried.
But I did.
I always did.
The shadow stretched its arm, fingers splitting and reforming, reaching for her.
"No!" I screamed.
The world shattered.
I collapsed onto the living room floor, gasping for air. The shoe slipped from my hand and rolled away.
Tears streamed down my face before I even realized I was crying.
That memory felt too real.
Too detailed.
Too painful.
"That's why," I whispered. "That's why I don't remember."
The house had taken it.
Taken her.
A slow clap echoed through the room.
I froze.
"Well done," a voice said, amused. "You're remembering faster this time."
The shadow emerged from the corner, peeling itself away from the darkness. It didn't touch the floor. It hovered, shifting constantly, as if it couldn't decide on a shape.
"What are you?" I demanded, forcing myself to stand.
It tilted its head. "I'm what was left behind."
Anger burned through my fear. "You killed her."
The shadow laughed softly. "No. I kept you."
The walls around us began to change. Paint peeled away, revealing cracks shaped like twisted faces. Whispers filled the air—hundreds of voices, overlapping, desperate.
"They all lived here," the shadow said. "They all belonged to the house. And so did you."
"I escaped," I said.
"Yes," it replied. "Because she begged me to let you go."
My heart shattered.
"And now?" I asked.
The shadow moved closer. I could feel its cold pressing against my skin, seeping into my bones.
"Now you've come back on your own."
The lights went out.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Something grabbed my wrist.
I screamed and tried to pull away, but the grip tightened. I felt fingers digging into my skin, not flesh, not bone—something else.
"You can't leave again," the shadow whispered. "The house is hungry."
A door slammed somewhere above us.
Then another.
Footsteps echoed from the upper floor.
Children's footsteps.
Dozens of them.
I heard whispers calling my name.
"Aarav… Aarav… Aarav…"
The grip released me suddenly, and I fell backward. The lights flickered on.
The shadow was gone.
But the house was awake.
The staircase creaked as something began to descend slowly, one step at a time.
I backed away, my pulse roaring in my ears.
"I won't stay," I said through clenched teeth. "I won't let you take me again."
The whispers grew louder.
The temperature dropped sharply.
The front door slammed shut on its own, the lock twisting with a loud click.
On the wall in front of me, new words began to carve themselves into the paint, slowly, deliberately:
YOU WERE NEVER MEANT TO LEAVE
The footsteps stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
Something unseen exhaled right behind my ear.
"You don't remember everything yet," it whispered. "But you will."
I squeezed my eyes shut.
When I opened them again, I was alone.
The words on the wall were finished.
And beneath them, in smaller letters, one final message appeared:
CHAPTER ONE WAS JUST THE INVITATION
Somewhere deep inside the house, a door opened.
And I knew—without any doubt—that whatever waited behind it was meant for me.