Ethan did not remember falling asleep.
One moment he was standing in the hallway, his father's voice still echoing inside his skull, the walls whispering his name like a chant. The next, he woke up on the cold wooden floor of the living room, his head pounding, his mouth dry as ash.
Morning light filtered through the windows.
For a brief, dangerous moment, he thought it had all been a dream.
Then he saw the veins.
Black, root-like veins crawled across the walls, retreating slowly as sunlight touched them, sinking back into cracks and corners like living things hiding from exposure. The air smelled burnt—like extinguished candles and old blood.
Ethan sat up sharply.
The front door was closed.
Locked.
He staggered to his feet and tried the handle again.
Nothing.
The house was silent now. Too silent. No birds. No insects. Even the wind outside seemed to have forgotten the house existed.
He noticed something new on the center table.
A notebook.
It had not been there the night before.
The cover was cracked leather, warped with age. When Ethan touched it, a jolt ran up his arm—sharp, electrical, like the notebook had recognized him.
Inside, the handwriting was his father's.
Not shaky. Not panicked.
Careful.
Deliberate.
Ethan read the first line:
If the house lets you read this, it means I failed.
His chest tightened.
The house is not evil. It is starving.
Ethan flipped the page.
It feeds on memory, guilt, unfinished lives. The spirits inside it are not prisoners—they are offerings.
The words blurred as Ethan's breathing grew uneven.
There are rules. I learned them too late.
A list followed.
Rule One: Never sleep between 2:17 and 3:03 a.m.
Rule Two: Do not answer voices that sound familiar.
Rule Three: Mirrors are doors after midnight.
Rule Four: If the house shows you the past, do not try to change it.
Rule Five: If you see someone who should be dead—run.
Ethan shut the notebook.
The silence broke.
From upstairs came a low, rhythmic sound.
Crying.
A child's cry.
Thin. Broken. Repeating the same pattern again and again.
Ethan's stomach dropped.
"No," he whispered.
The notebook trembled in his hands.
Rule Two.
Do not answer.
The crying grew louder.
More desperate.
"Please," the voice sobbed. "I'm scared."
Ethan pressed his hands to his ears.
The house reacted.
The walls pulsed once—hard—like a warning. The floor creaked beneath his feet, guiding him toward the staircase despite his resistance.
He did not decide to move.
The house moved him.
Each step upstairs felt wrong, like climbing into someone else's memory. The air thickened. The smell of copper returned, stronger now.
The crying came from the end of the hallway.
From behind a door Ethan did not remember existing.
It was small.
Too small.
Child-sized.
His hand hovered inches from the knob.
Rule Five whispered in his mind.
If you see someone who should be dead—run.
Ethan turned away.
The crying stopped.
Silence stretched.
Then came laughter.
Not childish.
Mocking.
The door burst open.
A little boy stood there, no older than six, wearing old-fashioned clothes stained dark at the chest. His eyes were empty sockets, leaking black fluid that ran down his cheeks.
"You remembered the rules," the boy said calmly.
The walls screamed.
Ethan ran.
The hallway twisted as he sprinted, doors appearing where there were none before. One slammed open as he passed, revealing a room full of faces pressed into the walls—men, women, children—all screaming silently, their mouths opening and closing like drowning fish.
"Help us," they mouthed.
Ethan reached the staircase and tumbled down, landing hard at the bottom. Pain exploded through his shoulder.
The house laughed.
A deep, satisfied sound vibrating through the floor.
"You're learning," it whispered. "Learning lasts longer."
Ethan crawled into the kitchen and slammed the door shut behind him. The room felt smaller than it should have been. The walls were closer. Breathing harder.
On the kitchen wall, something was written in dried blood:
EVERY WALKER MUST FEED THE HOUSE.
Ethan backed away.
"What do you want from me?" he shouted.
The lights flickered.
Then the window showed him something impossible.
Outside, the orchard was gone.
In its place stood dozens of people.
All staring at the house.
All staring at Ethan.
Some wore modern clothes. Others were dressed in styles from decades ago. Their faces were hollow, eyes dark and patient.
His father stood among them.
Jonathan raised his hand slowly.
Behind him, the crowd parted.
A woman stepped forward.
Young. Pale. Eyes too familiar.
Ethan's breath caught.
"Lily?" he whispered.
His younger sister.
Dead.
She smiled gently.
"We're not angry," she said. "We're hungry."
The glass cracked.
Ethan screamed as black veins erupted from the walls, wrapping around his arms, his legs, pulling him toward the center of the room.
The notebook fell open on the floor.
A final line appeared, bleeding through the page in fresh ink:
The house does not want you dead.
It wants you to stay.
The lights went out.
And somewhere inside the walls, something ancient shifted—making room.