The house greeted him with dust. Dust on the windowsills, dust on the wooden floor, dust swirling like slow ghosts when he pushed the door open. He wasn't afraid at first. Just tired.
He dropped his backpack onto the floorboards. The thud echoed too long for an empty house.
"Great," he muttered. "It's hollow as a coffin."
No reply. Of course not. Just wind slipping in through a cracked pane somewhere deeper inside.
He checked his phone no signal. He turned it off.
The house smelled of wood rot and something older like time itself had been left to mildew here. But it was shelter. It was away from the noise outside. Away from the things he didn't want to think about.
He walked through the narrow hallway, hand dragging along peeling wallpaper. Every few steps he whispered the same thing:
"It's just a house. Just a house."
He wasn't sure if the chant calmed him or made him sound insane. Maybe both.
He reached the living room. A single wooden chair waited in the center of the room as if positioned for him.
He frowned. "I didn't put that there."
His voice was too loud, bouncing off the empty walls. He stared at the chair, then shook his head.
"It's an old place. Maybe… left behind. Whatever."
He sat on the chair. It creaked, and at the same time, something creaked upstairs.
He froze.
The house was supposed to be empty.
He swallowed, breath tight. "Houses creak. Wood expands. Happens all the time."
But some part of him didn't buy it. He stood up again, pacing slowly, listening to the old structure settle. After a minute, he forced himself to speak, because silence felt like it had teeth.
"I'm staying one night. That's it." He eyed the ceiling again. "Just need a place to clear my head."
The ceiling gave no comfort.
He moved to the kitchen a rusted sink, broken cabinets, the stench of mold. He turned the faucet; nothing came out. "Fantastic. No water. Just what I needed."
He filled a cup with bottled water and drank it slowly, sitting on the counter. His own heartbeat sounded too loud in his ears.
Then
Tap.
A small, sharp sound down the hallway.
He held his breath.
Tap. Tap.
He set the cup down. Quietly. Very quietly.
"Who's there?" he called, instantly regretting it. Why invite an answer?
Silence.
He forced a laugh. It cracked halfway through. "It's probably… I don't know. A pipe."
He walked back into the hallway, every shadow feeling a little too tall, a little too aware. The house felt like it leaned toward him.
Then he remembered something. His aunt's voice. The last time he saw her, years ago, in a hospital bed:
"The old house… don't stay in it alone. You hear me?"
He shook off the memory. His aunt had dementia near the end. She also once accused her bedside table of plotting against her.
Still, he found himself whispering, "Should've listened."
At the far end of the hallway, a door he didn't notice before sat slightly open. No light beyond the crack. No reason it should be open.
He stepped closer. "I definitely closed all the doors."
His hand hovered near the doorknob. His breath fogged a little though the air wasn't cold.
"Alright," he said softly. "On three."
He counted silently.
One.
Two.
Three
He pushed the door open.
Empty room. Completely empty, except for a window with broken glass and a rusted bed frame. Bird droppings covered the floor. A branch knocked against the outside of the window in the wind.
"There," he exhaled. "That's it. The tapping. Just a branch."
He almost convinced himself.
He closed the door firmly.
As he turned away, something whispered behind him: a soft exhale.
He spun around. "Hello?!"
The door was closed. Still.
He backed away toward the living room. His palms were damp. His heartbeat too fast.
"You're jumpy," he told himself. "Just nerves. Long week. Stress. You're fine."
He sat again in the lone chair.
Then
rrradck.
The floorboard behind the chair groaned as if someone stepped on it.
He didn't turn around.
"Nope," he said, voice trembling. "Not falling for it."
He squeezed the armrests, knuckles white. He imagined something standing behind him, leaning close, breathing on the back of his neck.
He felt warm air brush his skin.
He bolted up so fast the chair toppled backwards.
"Okay—okay, stop. Stop imagining things!" he shouted. His own voice shook him more than the creak did. He reached behind himself, touching the back of his neck.
Dry. No breath. Just his imagination.
He forced the chair upright.
"Sleep," he muttered. "I just need sleep. That's all."
He went upstairs. The staircase complained under each step, but at least he expected that. On the top floor, he picked the room with the cleanest-looking mattress. Still awful, but less awful than the others.
He lay down but didn't turn off the flashlight.
Minutes crawled past.
His eyes refused to close.
He kept staring at the doorframe. It felt… wrong. Too narrow, as if someone might peek in from the dark.
Finally, he turned on his side.
A whisper slid in from the hallway.
A real voice this time.
"…hey."
He sat up instantly.
"No," he breathed. "No. That wasn't real. That wasn't—"
Again.
"…hey."
He grabbed the flashlight, shaking, and pointed it at the doorway.
Nothing.
"Who's there?!" His voice cracked.
The hallway seemed to inhale.
Silence stretched until it felt like it might strangle him.
He shut the door, locked it, shoved a small dresser in front of it.
Then he sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the flashlight like a weapon.
"It's just the house," he whispered.
Something scratched lightly at the other side of the door.
He held his breath until his vision blurred.
"Just the house," he repeated, more desperately.
The scratching stopped.
He lay back again, trembling, and stared at the ceiling until dawn bled weakly through the dirty window.
When he finally drifted into a half-sleep, he whispered one last thing to no one:
"I'm not scared of you."
But the house, in its silent breathing way, felt like it disagreed.