The House That Follows

It first appeared across the street.

A quiet, two-story Victorian with peeling blue paint and shuttered windows. The type of house you would hardly notice — except it hadn’t existed the day before.

June spotted it while enjoying her morning coffee, halfway through unpacking the new apartment she had moved into just three days prior. She lived alone — by choice — and preferred tranquil places. The neighborhood was serene, lined with ordinary houses that had children’s bicycles on the lawns and vehicles in the driveways.

Except for this house.

It had no car. No lights. No mailbox. And no doorbell.

Initially, she thought it was undergoing renovations. However, when she crossed the street later that afternoon, the house appeared… wrong. The air around it was still. There were no sounds. No wind. No insects.

Just a silence so profound it felt almost sentient.

She touched the gate. It was cold.

Then something moved behind the second-floor window — just a flicker. A shadow. She blinked, and it vanished.

The following day, the house had disappeared.

She hurried to the window, convinced she had imagined it. But the lot across the street was empty once more — merely a vacant space between two properties, overgrown and neglected. She felt strangely relieved.

Until she relocated again, six months later.

New city. New apartment. New life. She had accepted a position in a coastal town upstate, yearning for fresh air and a fresh start.

And then, on her second morning, she saw it again.

Same house. Same blue paint. Same shuttered windows.

Except this time, it was located behind her building — right at the edge of the woods.

Her hands trembled as she contacted the leasing office. “Whose house is that out back?”

The receptionist hesitated. “What house?”

“The one right by the tree line.”

“There’s nothing constructed back there,” the woman responded. “That land is protected forest. It cannot be disturbed.”

June ended the call.

That night, she heard a series of knocks.

Three distinct knocks.

Then there was silence.

Following that, three more knocks.

She chose not to open the window.

In the weeks that followed, the situation escalated.

She began to see the house in various locations: at the ends of alleys, across parking lots, and outside office windows. It was always the same. Always motionless. And always observing her.

At times, it appeared closer than it should have — as if it had shifted ten feet nearer overnight. Other instances, it seemed larger.

One morning, she discovered muddy footprints on her fire escape. They were child-sized.

She began taking photographs. None of them came out. They were merely static or overexposed blurs.

She attempted to leave.

Three hours into a road trip with no predetermined destination, her engine failed on a desolate stretch of highway. While waiting for a tow truck, she wandered down a dirt path to stretch her legs.

At the end of the path, there it was.

The house.

This time, the front door stood ajar.

She fled.

Back at home, she commenced her research.

There were ancient forums. Conspiracy blogs. Paranormal podcasts. Individuals with similar experiences. They referred to it by various names — The Drifter House, The Bleeding Shutters, The Silent Host.

Most had ceased posting years prior.

One comment resonated with her:

“It thrives on movement. The more you attempt to flee from it, the closer it approaches. The key is to cease. Accept. Break the cycle.”

She did not grasp the meaning of that until she spotted the house again — right outside her bedroom window.

Closer than ever before.

It was time.

That night, she packed a bag, walked down the deserted road, and traversed through the overgrown weeds.

The house no longer appeared old. It seemed alive. The wood slightly breathed, akin to a lung. The windows sparkled like eyes. The doorknob throbbed like a heartbeat.

She entered.

The air was warm. Humid. Sweet, reminiscent of decaying fruit.

Inside, the furniture was identical to the apartment she had just vacated — precisely. The same books on the shelf. The same mug on the counter. The same photograph of her and her sister on the wall.

The walls whispered, but not in words. In memories — her mother’s voice. The cry of a childhood pet. Her first kiss. Her last fight.

Then she saw the hallway.

It stretched impossibly long, far deeper than the exterior suggested. At the far end, a mirror stood. She walked toward it.

In the reflection, she was still.

But the house behind her… shifted.

The walls bent. The doorway blinked. A shape passed behind her, tall and skeletal.

She turned around.

Nothing.

Then she looked back in the mirror.

Now there were two of her.

She ran — out the door, out the yard, into the street. She didn’t look back.

The house didn’t follow her that night.

But it will.

It always does.

It just waits for you to move.

Author’s Note:

This story is a standalone psychological horror piece exploring the fear of being followed by something only you can see — a metaphor for guilt, memory, and the trauma we think we leave behind.