I do not remember the first time I felt death settle into my bones, but I know I have been here for a very long time. The house is my prison and my sanctuary. The walls whisper memories I have long since lost, and the floors creak with secrets too heavy to bear.
I watch them come and go, the living. They arrive with bright eyes and hopeful hearts, believing they will make this house their home. They bring their laughter, their love, their petty squabbles, and their human warmth. And I watch, unseen, unfelt—until I decide otherwise.
The newest family is no different. A man, a woman, and a child. The child is the first to notice me. They always are. Young minds are not yet dulled by the rigid rationality of adulthood. She sees me in the dark corners, hears my voice in the wind that slides through the cracks. She whispers about me to her parents in hushed tones at night, voice trembling with curiosity and fear. They do not listen. They never do.
It starts with small things. A flickering light, a misplaced object, a door that was surely closed standing ajar in the morning. They dismiss it, of course. Faulty wiring, forgetfulness, the wind. But the house knows better. It shifts beneath their feet, responding to my whims. I test them, nudge them, waiting to see how they will react.
The man is brash, impatient. He scoffs at the child's fears, waving them away with a condescending smile. The woman is softer, more cautious. She feels the weight in the air, though she does not understand it. I sense her unease in the way she hesitates before stepping into darkened rooms, the way her breath catches when she hears a sound that should not be there.
The child, though—she knows. She speaks to me in the dead of night, whispers my name into the void. She does not know how she knows it, but she does. I have told her in ways beyond words. She leaves small gifts for me—buttons, pebbles, drawings with shaky lines. It is a ritual as old as time, an offering to the unknown. I accept them, though I have no use for such things. It is the gesture that matters. It always has been.
But they never stay. The living cannot share a home with the dead for long.
It happens on a night when the wind howls and the house groans beneath the weight of its years. The woman wakes first, feeling my presence thick in the air. The man stirs beside her, grumbling in his half-sleep. But then they hear it—a whisper, low and insistent. Not from their child’s room, but from within their own. The woman stiffens. The man sits up, listening. I let them feel me now, let the cold of my presence seep into their bones.
The child wakes, drawn by the disturbance, standing in the doorway with wide, solemn eyes. “He’s here,” she says simply. She does not scream, does not run. She understands better than the adults ever could.
The man does not understand. He lashes out in fear and anger, shouting into the darkness, demanding I show myself. Foolish man. They always ask for things they do not truly want.
So I do.
I do not know what I look like to them. I have no face, no true form. I am the house and the house is me. But they see something. The woman gasps, stumbles back, hand clutched to her chest. The man’s breath comes sharp and fast. The child only watches.
They leave the next day. They do not pack properly, do not take all they own. They flee, as they always do, the house forever tainted in their minds. The child looks back as they drive away, searching the darkened windows. I am there. I will always be there.
And I wait.
Because someone always comes. The living never learn. They believe they can claim this house, tame its shadows. But this is not their home.
It is mine.