The House That Didn’t Want Visitors

I wasn’t looking for it.

That part matters.

People always think places like this are found by those who search. Adventurers. Dreamers. Curious minds.

I was none of those.

I was just tired.

The forest had been quiet for too long. Not peaceful-quiet. The other kind.

The kind that presses against your ears.

That’s when I saw it.

A narrow stone path. Uneven. Old. Almost pretending to be natural.

It curved upward, disappearing between trees.

And at the end of it—

The house.

Built into a tree. Not beside it. Not around it.

Inside it.

Wooden walls. Soft yellow light glowing through small windows.

A staircase wrapped around the trunk like it had grown there on its own.

I stopped walking.

Something in my body said don’t go.

Something else said you already are.

Each step made a sound.

Not loud. Just… noticed.

The forest didn’t react. No birds. No wind.

Just me, and the sound of my breathing changing as I climbed.

Halfway up, I realized something strange.

The house didn’t look abandoned.

The wood wasn’t broken. The steps weren’t rotten.

Someone had cared for this place.

Recently.

That thought sat wrong in my chest.

I told myself I would only look.

Only stand on the porch.

Only confirm it was real.

That was the lie.

Up close, the windows glowed warmer.

Like there was a fire inside. Or lamps. Or memories.

I knocked.

I don’t know why I did that.

No sound came from inside, but the door opened anyway. Slowly.

As if it had been waiting.

Inside smelled like pine and dust and something familiar I couldn’t name.

There was a table. One chair.

A book open, face down, as if someone had been interrupted.

I didn’t touch anything.

That’s another lie.

I touched the book.

The pages were blank.

All of them.

Except the last one.

My name was written there.

Not printed. Not neat.

Written like someone had paused halfway through the letters.

Like they weren’t sure yet.

I stepped back.

That’s when I noticed the second chair.

It hadn’t been there before.

I felt it then. That pressure again.

The forest. The house. The quiet.

They weren’t watching.

They were waiting.

A thought crossed my mind, sudden and sharp:

What if this place keeps people who stay too long?

Not traps them.

Just… gives them reasons.

Warm light. Silence. No expectations.

No one asking questions you don’t want to answer.

I thought about how tired I was.

How heavy everything had felt lately.

How easy it would be to sit down.

Just for a minute.

My hand touched the chair.

The light flickered.

That was enough.

I left without running.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t take the path slow.

The forest felt louder on the way down. Alive again. Angry, maybe.

When I reached the ground, the path behind me was gone.

No stones. No steps. Just roots and moss.

The tree stood there, ordinary. Tall. Silent.

No house.

Sometimes I think I imagined it.

Other times, I notice things.

Like how I still remember the warmth of that light.

Or how, on very quiet nights, I dream of blank pages filling themselves.

I haven’t gone back.

I don’t plan to.

Some places aren’t meant to be found twice.

And some homes…

Only appear when you’re most willing to disappear.