Morning tried to pretend nothing was wrong.
Sunlight filtered through the dusty windows, painting soft gold across the walls. Outside, birds sang. A normal house, in a normal town, on a normal street.
But the air inside felt… delayed.
When Evelyn stepped forward, her sound followed twice. First her foot. Then a softer copy of it. Like the house repeated her, learning her rhythm.
She carried boxes down the hall.
Tap.
Tap-tap.
She stopped.
The second sound arrived late.
Behind her.
She turned quickly. The hallway stretched empty, but the wallpaper seemed to ripple, as if something beneath it shifted its weight.
To steady herself, she began praying aloud.
"Lord, bless this home. Fill it with Your presence."
Her words floated. Then returned.
Not echoed.
Rephrased.
"…fill it… fill it… fill it…"
The whisper crawled through the walls, pressing syllables into the wood.
Evelyn's mouth went dry.
She walked into the kitchen. The temperature dropped instantly, like stepping into a cellar. Her breath fogged.
On the hallway wall she saw them.
Handprints.
Not dusty.
Not dirty.
Indented.
As if someone inside the wall pressed outward, trying to escape skin-first.
Small ones.
Adult ones.
One looked like a child dragging fingers while screaming.
When she touched them, the wall felt warm.
Too warm.
That night, sleep wouldn't come.
From the guest room she heard sounds.
Not walking.
Not talking.
Kneeling.
Joint by joint.
Pop.
Shift.
Settle.
Someone was praying in pieces.
She opened the door.
Nothing stood there.
But the carpet slowly rose.
And fell.
Like lungs.