The closet door creaked open slowly, hinges moaning like a warning. Claire stared into the dark, her throat dry. Nothing moved. Nothing came out.
But something was in there.
She stepped closer, heart thudding against her ribs. The closet smelled like old rain and forgotten years. A broken hanger hung from the rod like a snapped bone. On the floor sat a child's sneaker—mud-caked, small, and horribly familiar.
It was her brother's.
Claire fell to her knees, fingers hovering above the shoe like touching it might break the memory. She hadn't seen it since the day he vanished. Her parents said he ran away. The police found nothing. But Claire knew.
The house knew.
Behind her, the rocking chair began to creak again.
Back.
Forth.
Claire spun around.
But the chair was empty.
Suddenly, the mirror above the dresser fogged up, as if someone had breathed on it from the other side. Then slowly, a word appeared, written in the condensation:
"LISTEN."
Claire stood frozen. Her breath hitched as the air thickened, the sound of faint crying bleeding through the walls. Then—the mirror cracked.
A sharp, deliberate fracture, straight down the middle.
And in that instant, Claire heard it—not a voice, but voices. Dozens. Whispers crawling through the walls like insects. They didn't come from her mind. They came from the house itself.
Claire staggered back toward the hallway. The floor beneath her feet pulsed, like something alive and breathing under the boards.
She had to get out. Now.
But when she turned, the hallway was gone.
In its place was a corridor of doors. All identical. All closed. And all whispering.
"Claire… Claire… Claire…"
Each voice a different tone, a different age.
The house wasn't just hearing her.
It was learning her.
And it didn't plan to let her leave.