At first, they thought the wind had returned.
A faint shudder ran through the floorboards, stirring the dust, nudging the ashes in the hearth. The air moved in slow rhythm—long, drawn inhalations followed by a low, creaking exhale.
Marcy whispered, "Do you feel that?"
No one answered, because answering meant admitting they did.
The walls expanded slightly with each breath, the wallpaper stretching over the laths like skin over ribs. The sound of it—soft, wet, close—came from everywhere at once.
Evan pressed a hand against the plaster. It was warm. Too warm.He jerked back, swearing under his breath. "It's—alive."
Noah turned in a slow circle, his eyes wide. "No. No, it's mimicking us. Like it's learning how to… breathe."
The chandelier above them swayed in rhythm. The crystals trembled, scattering the dim lantern light into thin, pulsing bands that moved across the room like veins.
Each breath from the house was deeper than the last.
The portraits had changed again.
Every face now wore an expression of strained patience, mouths slightly parted, as if waiting to inhale too. The eyes glistened—not wet paint, but something reflective, catching the light in a way that felt present.
Ben whispered, "It's copying us. Every sound, every—"
He stopped. His reflection in the window was still breathing, even though he wasn't.
The reflection blinked once, slow and deliberate, then smiled faintly.
"Get away from there," Marcy hissed.
He stumbled back, tripping over the rug, and landed hard. The house sighed, as if amused.
Evan grabbed the lantern. "We're not staying here another minute."
He ran for the hall, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the air pressed against him—dense, invisible, like walking into water. The flame dimmed, fighting for oxygen that wasn't there.
Noah joined him, pushing shoulder-first into the resistance. "It's closing in!"
The hall stretched. The floorboards warped beneath their feet, expanding and contracting with the rhythm of the house's breath.
Behind them, the parlor door shut on its own—softly, almost politely.
Marcy cried out, "It's sealing us in!"
The ceiling bowed downward slightly, exhaling a cloud of fine dust. The lantern flickered.
And beneath it all—beneath the heartbeat and the breath—came another sound.A low, wet shuffle, like something dragging itself through soil.
Evan stopped, listening. "That's coming from below us."
Noah shook his head. "No. That's coming through us."
They froze as the air changed again—this time sharper, colder. The scent of damp earth thickened, mixed with something faintly metallic.
Marcy gagged. "It smells like blood."
The next exhale from the house came with sound—an almost imperceptible whisper, the same word repeated on every out-breath.
Remember.Remember.Remember.
The walls quivered with it. Dust rained from the beams above.
Ben clutched his head. "Make it stop!"
"It's not talking to us," Noah said. His voice trembled. "It's talking to itself."
Evan swung the lantern toward the end of the corridor. The light fell on a door they hadn't seen before—narrow, warped, its surface swollen like damp wood. The doorknob pulsed faintly, as though syncing with the house's heartbeat.
Marcy whispered, "We can't keep opening doors. That's how it pulls us deeper."
But the whispering was getting louder. And beneath it—something else. A second rhythm, quick and human.
Footsteps.
Coming toward them.
Soft, bare feet on wood.
Evan raised the lantern higher, eyes fixed on the corner. "Clara?"
No one answered.
The steps stopped just out of sight.
Then—slowly—a hand reached around the corner.
It was pale, familiar, trembling.
Marcy gasped. "Clara—?"
The rest of her sentence dissolved into silence as the hand pressed flat against the wall and sank into it, the plaster rippling like liquid around the fingers.
The wall breathed her name back.
Clara.
Noah stumbled backward, his voice breaking. "It's not her! It's the house!"
The lantern's flame turned blue. The door at the end of the hall began to open on its own, the wood splitting along its grain like the seam of a wound.
Cold air rushed out.
Something beneath the floor responded.
A long, deep inhale.
And when the house exhaled this time, it took the light with it.
Darkness fell, complete and suffocating.
Somewhere in that darkness, Evan whispered, "It's breathing for us now."
Then—
exhale.
The sound rolled through the house like thunder through bone.