The mistake wasn’t moving in.
The mistake was staying the night.
Arjun had told himself it was temporary. Three weeks, maybe four. Just until the paperwork cleared and the city called him back. The job had fallen through. The apartment had flooded. Life, as usual, had collapsed politely without asking permission.
So when the agent showed him the house—cheap, isolated, “peaceful”—he didn’t ask the questions he should have.
He noticed things, though.
The road leading to it narrowed strangely, like it didn’t want visitors. Trees leaned inward, branches overlapping above, blocking out the sky in places where the sunlight should have reached.
“This place… anyone lived here recently?” Arjun asked.
The agent smiled too quickly. “Not for a while.”
That should’ve been enough to turn back.
The front door opened without resistance.
Inside, the air smelled neutral. No mold. No dampness. No scent of abandonment. It felt lived-in without evidence of life—like someone had just stepped out of the room and forgotten to return.
Arjun’s footsteps sounded wrong. Too loud. Too final.
The house had three floors. He only toured two.
“Basement’s locked,” the agent said casually. “Old structure. Unsafe.”
Arjun nodded. People always said that.
He signed.
That night, the silence arrived early.
Not the comforting quiet of countryside nights—but the heavy kind. The kind that presses against your ears and waits for you to notice it.
At 3:17 a.m., Arjun woke up.
He didn’t know why.
His phone screen glowed faintly on the bedside table. No notifications. No alarms. No missed calls.
3:17.
He rolled onto his side.
That’s when he heard it.
A sound like someone breathing very slowly—not in the room, but inside the walls.
He froze.
Held his breath.
Listened.
The sound continued. Steady. Patient.
He told himself it was pipes. Old houses made noises. Everyone knew that.
Still, he didn’t sleep again.
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