The next morning, the house felt even bigger — and emptier.
Aiden woke up feeling like he hadn't slept at all. Every creak, every gust of wind had kept him half-awake through the night. When he finally got out of bed, the air inside felt thick and old, like it hadn't been moved in years.
He yawned and looked around. "Alright, old house. Time to make you a home."
The house didn't answer, but the floorboards groaned under his feet as if complaining.
The living room looked like something out of a horror movie. The wallpaper was peeling, the wooden floor squeaked with every step, and the fireplace looked like no one had used it in forever. There was dust everywhere, and the light coming through the windows looked weak and pale.
Still, Aiden smiled a little. "Nothing a bit of work can't fix."
He opened the windows to let some air in — only to get hit with a cold blast of sea wind that almost knocked him back. "Okay, maybe a little less air," he muttered, shutting one window halfway.
He spent most of the morning cleaning and fixing what he could. The constant sound of creaking wood and his broom brushing against the floor slowly started to feel… normal. Like the house was finally waking up with him.
Just as he was starting to get used to it, his phone buzzed loudly, making him jump.
He grabbed it from the dusty counter. "Hey."
"Aiden! You still alive or did your creepy house eat you?" his friend Liam's voice shouted through the speaker.
"Good morning to you too," Aiden said dryly. "And no, I'm fine."
"Fine? You moved into a house on a cliff. In the middle of nowhere. That's not fine, that's the start of a ghost movie."
Another voice joined in — Mia, laughing. "Please tell me you didn't buy that house people say is cursed."
Aiden rolled his eyes, smiling. "It's not cursed. It's just old. The realtor said it belonged to some old lady who moved away."
"Yeah, moved away. Sure," Liam said. "I bet she 'moved away' the same way ghosts do — straight into the walls."
Aiden sighed. "You two are hopeless."
"We're worried!" Mia said, though she didn't sound that worried. "Just promise you won't do anything stupid, like open a creepy basement door."
He laughed. "No promises. Anyway, I'm heading to the village to get supplies. Talk later."
He hung up before they could tease him again, grabbed his jacket, and left the house.
The path down to the village was narrow and a little overgrown. Mist hung low over the trees, and the air smelled of salt and wet leaves. The small town at the bottom of the hill looked peaceful — quiet streets, old stone houses, and people who looked like they all knew each other.
When Aiden stepped into the hardware store, a bell jingled above the door. The man behind the counter looked up — gray hair, weathered face, eyes sharp but kind.
"Morning," the man said.
"Morning," Aiden replied. "I just moved into the house up by the cliffs. Thought I'd grab some nails and tools. The floors are a mess."
The man paused, his brow creasing. "The old ridge house?"
"Yeah, that's the one."
A short silence followed. Then the man nodded slowly. "That place has been empty a long time. People say it's got… history."
Aiden gave a polite smile. "Every old house does."
The man's lips twitched like he wanted to say more, but he just handed over the supplies. "Keep it warm. Cold air up there does strange things."
"Right," Aiden said, trying to sound casual. "Thanks."
When he left the store, he could feel the quiet stares of a few locals following him. It wasn't hostile — more like cautious curiosity, or maybe warning.
By the time he got back, the sky was cloudy, and the wind from the sea had picked up. The house looked darker than before, even though it was still daytime.
Inside, he got to work again. He fixed loose boards, hammered nails, wiped down dusty shelves, and replaced the old curtains with some bright ones he found in a box. It helped. The place looked a little less like a ghost house and a little more like somewhere someone might actually live.
But every now and then, he'd pause — because he could swear he heard something.
A slow creak from upstairs.
A faint sound like fabric sliding over wood.
A soft breath that didn't belong to him.
Each time, he'd stop working, hold his breath, and listen.
And each time… nothing.
By evening, the light was dim and golden, and Aiden sat on the floor, tired but proud. "See?" he told the house. "You're not so bad after all."
The house didn't answer.
But from somewhere behind the walls, a quiet, dragging sound echoed — soft and slow.
Aiden froze.
Waited.
Listened.
The sound stopped.
He swallowed and let out a shaky laugh. "You're just tired," he muttered, brushing sawdust off his hands.
Still, as he climbed the stairs that night, the feeling wouldn't leave him — that the house wasn't just old. It was watching.