The House That Breathed at Night

The house stood at the very edge of town, where the road turned into broken stones and the streetlights no longer reached. People whispered that it was alive, that if you stood close enough, you could hear it breathe.

I never believed the stories—until the night I stayed inside.

It began with small things: the creak of the stairs when no one walked, the faint sound of whispering behind closed doors. Then came the drafts of icy air, like the house itself was exhaling. I told myself it was just old wood, shifting, but deep down I knew better.

At midnight, the walls seemed to pulse. My candle flickered as if the house’s breath tried to smother the flame. I pressed my ear against the wall, and what I heard was not silence. It was a heartbeat—slow, steady, ancient.

I should have left, but curiosity pinned me in place. That was when the whisper finally grew into words.

"You should not have come here."

The house inhaled, and the air was torn from my lungs.

I never told anyone what happened after that night. All they found was my candle, burned down to nothing, sitting in the window like a warning to the next soul who dared to enter.

Some houses are not built to be lived in. Some are built to remember.