They said the house wasn't there yesterday.
Rain poured heavy over the sleepy town of Elowen Ridge as commuters shuffled past the corner of Hemlock and Bellamy — now staring at the three-story Victorian house that stood where an empty park used to be. Its wooden frame was soaked black from the storm, vines crawling over its porch railings like frozen fingers. No signs. No lights. No address. Just a brass door knocker shaped like a weeping eye.
But only some could see it.
Not everyone. Only the ones who were tired of pretending they were fine.
---
Saira Devlin, 28, stood alone at the bus stop, her umbrella long since flipped inside-out. Her soaked clothes clung to her frame, and her eyes were dark with a kind of weariness that went deeper than sleep. It had been 73 days since she last picked up a paintbrush. 73 days since the morning she nearly threw herself into traffic — and chose instead to be late for work.
Today should have been like the rest.
But then she saw it.
That house. Towering. Silent. A shadow in the rain. No one around her reacted. A couple stood next to her, looking down the street. An old man glanced at his watch. No one saw it.
Except her.
And then the mailbox creaked open.
The metallic sound sliced through the hush of the storm like a scream. Saira blinked.
Inside the mailbox, dry despite the downpour, was a letter addressed in elegant silver ink:
> To the one who stopped dreaming.
This house offers no comfort — only truth.
Enter by dusk. Or let it vanish.
You won't get another chance.
— L.
Her hands trembled.
She looked around. No one noticed. The house seemed to breathe — windows fogging slightly, then clearing. A slow pulse in wood and brick.
She should have walked away.
Instead, her hand reached for the letter.
---
Inside her apartment that night, the letter lay on her desk like a heartbeat. No return address. No explanation. Just the strange seal on the back — a crescent moon encircling a keyhole.
At 5:54 PM, Saira stood at her door with her coat on.
By 6:06, she was standing before the house again — now seemingly darker, heavier, as though waiting to exhale.
The door creaked open before she knocked.
Candles lit themselves one by one as she stepped in.
She crossed the threshold — and the door slammed shut behind her.
Everything changed.
---
She was no longer in Elowen Ridge.
The air smelled like old parchment and something impossibly familiar — like turpentine and cinnamon. Before her, a wide hallway stretched endlessly, lined with paintings. Each one showed a version of herself — younger, brighter, sadder, crueler.
Then she saw one that stopped her cold.
It was her — the night of her brother's accident. Standing at the top of the stairs. Holding the phone. Crying. Frozen in oil paint.
Beneath the frame, a plaque read:
> "The Moment You Gave Up on Yourself."
Her breath hitched.
And behind her, a voice whispered — soft, velvet, and not entirely human:
"The house knows what you buried. The question is... will you dig it up?"