The ceiling dropped.
Rooms folded inward.
Evelyn's breathing synced with the house.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Not hers anymore.
She held her cross.
"I belong to God!"
The house replied:
"Then become shelter."
A mirror formed from shadow.
Her reflection smiled before she did.
Its lips moved independently:
"The house forgot God.
Now it remembers people."
Cold smoke slid into her chest.
Not possession.
Construction.
Hallways built inside her ribs.
Windows opened in her lungs.
Doors grew behind her eyes.
She screamed — and sang instead.
A hymn she never learned.