The House

Damn! He’d tripped on nothing again. He stared accusingly at the carpet as a small splash of untasted coffee darkened a patch in the hallway. With a sigh, he shuffled into his home office, set the mug on his desk, and trudged back to the downstairs closet for a clean towel.   By the time he returned, the spill was hard to spot. Nearly dry. He dropped the towel over the area and stepped on it a few times. Barely any liquid remained. He’d hit it with that new carpet cleaner later—after coffee and a bit of internet browsing.   The old house seemed to sigh with him as he sank gratefully into his office chair. The coffee was perfect this morning. It felt like he’d finally figured out the secret to a good brew.   Dominic glanced around his little home office. Comfortable. Hardwood floors with a geometric throw rug. A big, functional desk. Heavy curtains covered the large, north-facing windows. Outside, it was still dark—sunrise just minutes away.   Once again, he was struck by the feeling that this room was different from when he’d first toured the house two months ago. Not the furniture or decor—but the structure itself. His memory didn’t match the present. He remembered a fireplace and high, narrow windows. But the room had none of that. The windows were wide, and there was no fireplace at all. Perhaps it wasn’t unusual. Human memory was notoriously unreliable.   Still, he was glad the memory wasn’t real. The big windows were far more appealing, and the fireplace he’d imagined had been something too Victorian—like it belonged in a little old lady’s parlor.   The office was exactly what he’d always dreamt of having someday—a place to sit and write. It was as if the architect had tapped into Dominic’s dreams and built what he saw there.   Come to think of it, he must’ve been a bit out of it that day. Other details he’d expected to change didn’t line up with what was actually here. The kitchen, for example, seemed much more modern than he recalled. Maybe the ongoing cleanup during the tour had made things look worse than they were.   The house couldn’t be more perfect. Well—almost. The basement was damp and creepy, but that could be fixed. The attic door was still locked and jammed tight; the frame had shifted at some point, and it stuck badly. The local handyman promised he could fix it—just not for another three weeks. That was fine. Dominic had no reason to go up there anyway.   He’d lived here for three weeks now, and just yesterday he’d finished unpacking the last of the boxes. For the first time in his life, he felt truly at home. He wasn’t sure he’d understood that phrase before—at home. But now? It felt like he belonged here. Like he’d always belonged here.   The house was peaceful. Quiet. Hidden in the woods, with no neighbors for half a mile. No traffic. No city noise. Just the sound of the forest—and the house itself.   It was an old house—turn-of-the-century old—and with age came noise. Settling, the real estate agent had called it. Creaks, sighs, the distant burble of water during a storm. Sometimes, Dominic imagined the house was talking to him—not in words, but in feelings. It seemed... content. Maybe even happy.   Vermin were wonderfully absent as well. Dominic had fully expected cockroaches, mice—maybe even squirrels or raccoons in the attic—but so far, not a single pest had made an appearance.   Birds and insects mostly avoided the house too, except for the hummingbirds that visited the feeders and the ravens that perched on the peaks of the roof. Even then, the ravens were quiet while perched on the house. They flew off to caw and croak in the surrounding woods, but on the roof, they were silent.   Almost reverent.   Time to head into town.   He had a craving—ham and potato chips again. Not something he’d ever cared about before moving here, but lately it was all he wanted. And as long as he didn’t put on too much weight, what did he care?   He needed to be careful with that. What he’d bought just a couple of days ago was already gone. He didn’t remember eating that much, but it wasn’t like there was someone else here to eat it. He must’ve just forgotten.   He wondered for a moment if sleep-eating was an actual thing.   He should also grab some paint for that half-finished bedroom. The last owner had left it a mess—walls half-painted, old junk stacked in the corner: moldy curtains, broken planks, two collapsed mattresses. He’d cleaned it all out last week.   The previous owner had planned to turn the place into a bed and breakfast before he... disappeared. Officially, it had something to do with financial trouble. Unofficially? Who knew. The man had vanished under mysterious circumstances.   A great break for Dominic, getting the house at such a low price—but still, it was unsettling. People didn’t just vanish.   Probably off enjoying a beach somewhere. No extradition. No taxes. Just sun and sand.   Probably.   The house made an odd sound, as if clearing its nonexistent throat, followed by a noise like feet shuffling sideways.   Dominic blinked and shook his head.   He was definitely spending too much time alone out here.   Lately, he’d started attributing thoughts and moods to the house. It was probably the isolation—hours with no one to talk to, no nearby neighbors, just the woods and the creaking of old beams.   Maybe he’d stop at the bar in town. Grab a burger. See some other people for a change. The locals were friendly, and they always had another story to tell about how his house was haunted. Not serious ghost tales—more the kind of folklore small towns thrive on. Still, it was strange how often the stories came up.   Dominic arrived home late that evening.   Several of the patrons at the bar had bought him drinks. The food was good. The company was better than expected. Conversation drifted, and as usual, it circled back to the house.   They all had stories. Footsteps in the attic. Disappearing guests. A rocking chair that moved by itself. Whispers. Cold spots. The usual.   Dominic played along, laughing at the tales, never letting on just how well the house suited him.   And if a haunted reputation kept people away? All the better.   By the end of the night, he was too drunk to drive, so he accepted a ride from Herman, a soft-spoken neighbor who lived a few miles down the road. They didn’t talk much on the drive.   The front porch light made a golden puddle of the front steps and a bit of the yard—inviting, really.   Herman bid farewell and continued on around the circle drive and back down the road.   Quiet fell over the house and yard.   The house beckoned with the promise of a warm bed and a good night’s sleep.   Dominic awoke in the dark.   For a moment, he didn’t know why.   Then he heard it again—voices. Muffled. Downstairs. A man speaking, then a deeper voice replying. Both voices low and tense.   Someone was in the house.   He strained to listen. He couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was unmistakable—frustrated. Angry.   Not good.   He had no weapons. Why would he? This place was supposed to be safe—isolated, hidden in the woods, tucked away in a town so small it barely registered on a map.   The feeling in the house had shifted. The comfort, the peace—gone. Replaced by a slow, creeping dread.   Maybe if he stayed still, stayed silent, they’d go away.   Then came the sound he dreaded most: the creak of the second stair step—the one that always groaned when stepped on.   They were coming up.   Staying put no longer seemed like a good idea.   The master bedroom was at the far end of the hallway, past two smaller bedrooms and the narrow full bath. Across from his room was a sitting area, and beside it, the half-painted bedroom. That one still had tools in it—maybe something he could use. Not much help if they had guns, but better than nothing.   The thought of defending himself—of fighting back—stiffened his spine. He pushed down his fear, reached for the doorknob, and slipped into the hallway.   The carpet muffled his footsteps. He kept one eye on the end of the hall, where faint flashes of light flickered—flashlights. At least two of them.   He crossed quickly and eased the door open. It never latched properly—something he’d meant to fix once the room was painted and furnished.   Odd, the way that thought surfaced now, in a moment like this.   Moonlight poured through the large window, casting pale silver across the floor. The glass framed the moon perfectly in its arched top, serene and full, watching.   Dominic stepped inside and scanned the room for something—anything—he could use.   A new sound caught his attention—wood sliding against wood. Smooth. Too smooth for a drawer. Louder, heavier. Like some large wooden mechanism being shifted into place.   Then the deep voice returned, louder now, echoing faintly up the stairs.   “Boss, this door just opens onto a wall. What kind of weird house is this?”   A pause. Then another voice—sharper, more familiar.   “Shut up and find the Doc. He’s heard us by now.”   Dominic froze.   Andre.   He recognized that voice. Andre—one of the goons from a life Dominic thought he’d left behind. Which meant the other man was one of Andre’s many nameless henchmen. There were always more.   If two were inside, there were likely others. One in the car. Maybe two outside. Andre never worked with small crews.   The only real question was why they were here.   To kill him? Or just to take him somewhere else to do it?   Either way, Dominic was sure of one thing, Death was on their agenda.   Eventually.   A crowbar lay on the floor beside the paint pan and brushes.   Handy.   Not much of a weapon—but it was something. The only thing.   Dominic picked it up and moved to the door, positioning himself just inside the frame. If he was fast—lucky—maybe he could take one of them down, grab a gun. Even the odds.   Anger surged in him. Hot. Focused.   And for a moment—just a moment—he felt it reflected. Not just in himself, but from the house. As if its old bones were humming with the same rising fury.   A strange thought surfaced: The feeling in a home is a reflection of the feelings of its owner.   Where had that come from? He couldn’t recall ever hearing it before.   But the idea stuck.   Maybe his little fantasy—that the house could feel—wasn’t quite as imaginary as he’d believed.   The sound of sliding wood returned, louder now. Then a creak. A door opening.   Hinges groaned in the dark.   None of the doors in the house had ever creaked.   Not once.   Odd.   A shot rang out.   Then another. And another.   Shouting erupted—Andre’s voice, sharp with panic, barking at the other man.   “Something’s wrong! There’s people here—feds, maybe cops!”   More gunfire. More shouting. The two upstairs yelling now, overlapping with voices from the first floor. Confusion. Questions.   Then—screams.   Wet. Choked. Sudden.   A terrible series of crunches followed—too many, too close together. Bone? Wood? It didn’t matter.   Then—silence.   Heavy. Complete.   Several long seconds passed.   Then came that sound again: wood sliding against wood. Deep and deliberate. Something unseen locking back into place.   Stillness followed. No footsteps. No more voices. No breathing.   Only the house.   The feeling inside it shifted. Where there had been fury and fear, now there was something else.   Satisfaction.   Vindication.   Dominic’s muscles ached—tense and coiled from standing so long, waiting. He exhaled slowly and let the crowbar drop. It hit the hardwood with a loud bang, startling in the silence.   Then he felt it.   Not just quiet.   Presence.   The house reached out—not with words, but with something deeper. A brush of thought against thought. A question, soft and curious.   Then a feeling—firm, calm, resolute.   It had done what it must.   To protect him.   To protect itself.   Images and impressions flooded Dominic’s mind. He knew what the house had done. Where the intruders had gone. He understood now what the screams had meant.   They would not be back.   The car parked out front—gone too. Along with its driver.   Swallowed. Erased.   The house had taken care of it.   The house had protected him.   And it would again.   It would always do what was necessary.   The house agreed with him—it was better if no one knew.   About what it could do.   About what it had done.   Dominic nodded to no one.   There was so much to discuss—questions on both sides. Answers that would take days to unpack.   But there was time now.   Plenty of it.   Besides, the kitchen had cold ham, chips, and the coffee was already brewing.   He hadn’t set any coffee to brew, but somehow he knew—it would be just as perfect as the cup from that morning.   Time enough to sit.   Time enough to think.   Time enough to... talk?