The house had many rooms, but Arun chose the one upstairs facing the forest. The air there was cooler, though heavy with the scent of moss and damp wood.
That night, he lay awake long after midnight. The silence was thick. The kind that presses on your ears until you start to hear your own blood moving. Then—creak. The floorboards in the hallway groaned as though under weight.
Arun sat up.
"Hello?"
No answer. Only a faint shift of air, like someone breathing just beyond the door.
He told himself it was the house settling, the old wood adjusting. But when he turned toward the tall mirror at the end of the hall, he froze. His reflection was there—slightly delayed, like a film running a second behind.
And as he watched, the reflection smiled.
By the third night, the house had a rhythm. The beams creaked in long, slow breaths, as though the structure itself inhaled and exhaled.
And beneath that rhythm, whispers. Not just noises—words. Sliding, liquid words that seeped through plaster.
Arun pressed his ear against the wall and nearly reeled back at the warmth pulsing inside, like flesh beneath skin. The voices were clearer there. One of them whispered his name. Another repeated something in a language he didn't know, the syllables heavy and ritualistic.
He called the landlord.
Varma's voice was calm. Too calm.
"You'll hear them. Do not answer back. That is how the house chooses."
And then the line went dead.