The house stood at the end of a narrow road, half-hidden by tall trees and wild grass.
No one in the town talked about it directly.
But everyone knew.
If you stayed there overnight, you wouldn't leave the same.
When the new tenant arrived, he didn't believe in rumors.
He was practical. Logical. A man who trusted facts, not stories told by tea-stall gossip.
The rent was unbelievably cheap for such a large house — two floors, wide balcony, wooden staircase, old antique furniture left behind.
The landlord had only one condition.
"Don't go to the attic."
He laughed.
"Why?"
The landlord didn't smile.
"Just don't."
The First Night
The house felt old but peaceful.
Dust floated in the evening sunlight. The wooden floors creaked softly, like they were adjusting to his footsteps.
At 10 PM, he locked all doors and windows.
He double-checked.
Everything secure.
He lay down.
At exactly 2:17 AM—
A sound woke him.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Above him.
In the attic.
He sat up.
It must be rats, he thought.
Old houses make sounds.
The footsteps stopped.
Then came three knocks.
From the ceiling.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
He held his breath.
Silence returned.
After ten minutes, he convinced himself it was imagination.
He slept again.
The Second Night
The next morning, he inspected the attic door.
It was locked with a thick iron padlock.
Old. Rusted.
Untouched.
He felt embarrassed about last night.
That evening, he invited a colleague over for dinner.
They laughed, ate, drank tea.
He casually asked, "Do you believe houses can… remember things?"
His colleague frowned. "Remember what?"
"Like events. People. Trauma."
"That's not how buildings work," she replied.
They both laughed.
At 11 PM, she left.
He locked the door behind her.
At 2:17 AM—
The footsteps returned.
But this time, louder.
Dragging.
As if something heavy was being pulled across the attic floor.
He stood up.
His heart pounded, but anger replaced fear.
He grabbed a torch.
Walked to the attic door.
The padlock was still there.
But swinging.
Slowly.
As if it had just been touched.
He swallowed.
And then—
From inside the attic, something whispered.
"Let me out."
The Newspaper
The next morning, he went to the town library.
Old towns always have old secrets.
He searched through yellowed newspapers.
After hours of flipping pages, he found it.
Headline (1997): "Family Tragedy: Man Claims House Is Possessed Before Killing Wife and Daughter."
The address.
It was the same house.
According to the report, neighbors heard screaming at 2:17 AM.
Police found the man sitting calmly in the living room.
He kept repeating:
"The house made me do it."
The attic had been locked from inside.
But no one was found there.
The man was declared mentally unstable.
Case closed.
House abandoned for years.
Until now.
The Recording
That night, he prepared.
He set his phone to record video facing the attic door.
He kept the lights on.
Sat in the hallway.
Waiting.
2:16 AM.
Silence.
2:17 AM.
The temperature dropped.
His breath became visible.
The lights flickered once.
Twice.
Then the attic door shook violently.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
The padlock snapped.
Fell to the floor.
The door creaked open slowly.
Darkness spilled out like smoke.
He couldn't move.
From the darkness, he saw something shift.
Not a full figure.
Not human.
Just… wrong.
A shape that didn't fit the space.
Then the whisper came again.
"We remember."
His ears rang.
Suddenly, images flooded his mind.
Not his memories.
A little girl crying.
A woman begging.
A man holding a knife, shaking.
And behind him—
Something tall.
Watching.
Guiding his hand.
The shape wasn't attacking.
It was showing him.
Showing what the house had seen.
What it had absorbed.
Fear.
Violence.
Despair.
The house wasn't haunted by a ghost.
It was haunted by memory.
And memory wanted to be repeated.
The Influence
The next day, he felt different.
Irritated.
Restless.
Angry for no reason.
Small things annoyed him.
A message left on "seen."
A delivery arriving late.
A neighbor playing loud music.
By evening, his thoughts felt darker.
A whisper inside his mind.
"They don't respect you."
"They deserve punishment."
He stood in the kitchen, staring at a knife.
His hand moved slowly toward it.
His reflection in the window looked unfamiliar.
He dropped the knife.
Stepped back.
"No."
The whisper grew sharper.
"You live here now. You belong to us."
The Truth
That night, he didn't wait.
He went straight to the attic.
No fear left.
Only determination.
The attic smelled of damp wood and something metallic.
In the center of the room, the floorboards looked slightly different.
Newer.
He grabbed a hammer from downstairs.
Started breaking the wood.
Piece by piece.
Underneath—
He found bones.
Small bones.
And beside them—
A rusted knife.
Suddenly the air grew heavy.
The shape formed again in the corner.
Taller now.
Clearer.
It wasn't a ghost.
It was layered shadows.
Faces overlapping.
Every person who had lived there.
Every violent thought they had ever acted upon.
The house didn't force them.
It amplified them.
It fed on the worst parts.
And once it tasted blood—
It wanted more.
The Fire
He understood.
The house wasn't possessed.
It was a predator.
And predators must be destroyed.
He poured kerosene across the attic floor.
Down the stairs.
Across the living room.
The whispers turned to screams.
Walls shook.
Windows rattled violently.
"You can't leave."
"You are ours."
He lit the match.
For a second, he hesitated.
The house showed him one last vision—
Himself.
Standing over someone.
Knife in hand.
Future memory.
If he stayed.
He dropped the match.
Flames erupted instantly.
The screams became unbearable.
Not from outside.
From inside his head.
He ran.
As he stepped outside, the fire swallowed the house.
The windows shattered.
The roof collapsed.
The screams faded slowly.
Until there was nothing left.
Only burning wood.
And silence.
The Last Line
Weeks later, he moved to a new apartment in the city.
Modern building.
Bright walls.
No attic.
No history.
One night, while unpacking, he found something in his bag.
A small, blackened piece of wood.
From the attic floor.
He didn't remember taking it.
As he stared at it—
The lights flickered.
Very slightly.
And from somewhere deep inside the walls—
He heard it.
Soft.
Almost gentle.
"2:17."