I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it—that slow, heavy feeling, like the air around me was watching.
At exactly 6:00 a.m., the house sighed.
I know how that sounds.
Houses don't sigh.
But this one did.
A long, tired breath moved through the walls, making the windows tremble softly, as if the house itself had woken up before I did.
I stepped out of my room.
The hallway smelled… different.
Not bad.
Not good.
Just old—like dust mixed with memories.
The floorboard creaked under my foot.
Then it creaked again.
Behind me.
I froze.
Slowly, I turned.
Nothing.
But the walls had changed.
Tiny cracks ran along them, rising and falling—almost like ribs moving under skin.
The house was breathing.
In…
Out…
"In… Out…" I whispered, trying to calm myself.
The moment I spoke, the house stopped.
Silence.
Then a voice came from the staircase.
Not loud.
Not clear.
But familiar.
"Come down…"
It sounded like my own voice.
I laughed nervously. "Okay, that's not funny," I said, even though no one was joking.
Each step on the staircase felt warm—too warm. Like the house didn't want me to leave its touch.
At the bottom, I noticed something new.
A door.
That door had never been there before.
It was small, old, and scratched—like it had been opened a thousand times by hands that didn't belong to adults.
Carved into it were words:
WE PLAY HERE.
I reached out.
Before my fingers touched the handle, the house inhaled sharply—
—and the door knocked back.
Once.
Twice.
Exactly like last night.
Behind me, the mirror in the hallway whispered:
"Don't forget the rules."
"What rules?" I asked.
The mirror cracked.
And from inside the crack, a child's laughter poured out—happy, wild, and completely wrong.
I finally understood something.
This house wasn't haunted.
It was hungry.
And it had remembered me.