Ethan did not scream.
His body refused to obey.
The darkness after the lamp died felt thick, almost solid, pressing against his skin. The house exhaled—a deep, hollow breath that traveled through the walls and into his chest.
Then the mirror cracked.
Not loudly. Softly. Like a bone snapping under slow pressure.
Ethan stepped back, his heel striking the bed. His eyes adjusted just enough to see the shape behind the glass. His father's reflection did not move with him. Jonathan Walker remained frozen in the mirror, stitched mouth stretched tight, eyes wet with terror.
Ethan raised his hand.
The reflection did not.
The glass rippled.
A whisper slid out of it, hoarse and broken.
"Don't… stay…"
The mirror shattered.
Shards hit the floor, but none of them reflected Ethan anymore. Each piece showed a different room of the house—corridors he had never seen, doors breathing, staircases descending into blackness.
And in every shard, something moved.
The floorboards groaned beneath his feet. From downstairs came the sound of a chair scraping slowly across the floor, followed by the faint chime of the front door opening.
Someone had entered.
Ethan rushed into the hallway. The corridor was longer than before. The walls felt closer. His childhood room—once at the far end—was now directly in front of him.
The door was open.
Inside, the room looked exactly as it had fifteen years ago. Same bed. Same peeling star stickers on the ceiling. Same wardrobe.
The smell made his stomach twist.
Copper.
The wardrobe door creaked open on its own.
Ethan backed away, heart hammering. "This isn't real," he whispered. "I left this place."
A voice answered from behind him—his own.
"You never did."
He turned.
He was standing there.
Same face. Same clothes. But the eyes were wrong—too dark, too deep, as if the house had hollowed them out.
The double smiled.
"You ran," it said. "Father stayed. And now it's your turn."
The walls shuddered violently. From the ceiling, black liquid dripped, splashing onto the floor and writhing like something alive. The double dissolved into the darkness, melting into the walls.
Ethan ran downstairs.
The front door stood wide open. Cold night air rushed in. Relief hit him like a wave.
Then he saw what stood in the doorway.
It was Jonathan Walker's body.
Not hanging. Not fallen.
Standing upright, supported by thick, black veins growing from the house itself—wrapped around his arms, his legs, his throat. His eyes snapped open.
And this time, his mouth was not stitched shut.
He spoke clearly.
"Son," Jonathan said softly, "the house is awake now."
The door slammed shut on its own.
The veins tightened.
And the walls began to whisper Ethan's name—over and over—until he could no longer tell where his thoughts ended and the house.