he house didn't creak like an old building should. It breathed.Elias had moved into the Victorian rental two weeks ago, seeking the kind of silence only a remote town could provide. For the first ten days, the silence was absolute. Then came the tapping. It started at exactly 3:14 AM—a rhythmic, insistent sound from directly above his bedroom.He climbed the pull-down ladder to the attic, flashlight cutting through the dust. The room was empty, save for a single, heavy wooden rocking chair in the far corner. He moved it to the center of the room, thinking perhaps a draft had caused it to tip.The next night, the tapping returned. He ignored it until he heard a new sound: his own voice."Elias?"It was a whisper, thin and dry, coming from the attic floorboards. He froze. He lived alone. There were no speakers, no neighbors, and the windows were bolted shut. He climbed the ladder again, his heart hammering against his ribs.The rocking chair was back in the corner.He didn't sleep. He sat in his kitchen with a butcher knife until dawn, watching the ceiling. When the sun rose, he decided to leave.
He packed a single bag, but as he reached for the front door handle, his phone buzzed. It was a voice memo from an unknown number.He pressed play.It was a recording of him sleeping. He could hear his own rhythmic breathing. Then, a second voice—the same dry whisper—joined in, perfectly synchronized with his breath."Don't leave yet," the recording whispered. "We're just learning how to sound like you."Elias looked up. The attic door was hanging open. A pair of pale, elongated fingers gripped the edge of the wood, pulling a face into view that looked almost like his—except the eyes were too wide, and the mouth was stitched shut with black thread.As it dropped silently to the floor, Elias realized the tapping hadn't been a ghost. It had been the creature practicing the rhythm of his footsteps.