The House That Listened

I never thought I’d go back.

Not after what happened the summer I turned fifteen.

But you know how some places stick with you, like a song you can't forget, or a dream that won’t let go?

That house?

It never stopped calling me.

My grandparents owned a weird little place buried in the Appalachian woods. It wasn’t creepy in a horror-movie way—more like… off. Like the house was always watching. Listening. Breathing.

The summer I stayed there, Grandpa had just passed. I was fifteen, moody, and being sent off like a package my parents didn’t know what to do with.

One rainy afternoon, my grandma asked me to help clean out the attic. I didn’t want to—too many spiders, too many shadows—but saying no to her felt like kicking a kitten. So I went.

That’s when I found it.

An old reel-to-reel tape recorder, dusty as hell, with a handwritten label on one of the reels:

"July 4, 1973 — Don’t Erase."

So naturally… I hit play.

The voice wasn’t my grandfather’s. It wasn’t even an adult’s. It was a kid—a girl—answering questions from someone else. Someone with a voice that sounded like static wrapped in thunder. It asked her things like:

“What do you dream about?”

“Why don’t you go near the well?”

“Do you remember what happened to the cat?”

Chills. Straight down my spine.

Later, I asked my grandma if she knew anything about the tapes. Her face went white. She told me not to mess with things I didn’t understand. Said it was probably one of Grandpa’s weird audio experiments. But she was lying. You could feel it.

And that’s when the house started acting strange.

Lights flickered at the same time every night. Books fell when no one was around. And sometimes, if I was quiet, I swear I could feel something humming beneath the floorboards—like the house had a heartbeat.

I found more tapes. Dozens. All dated from the early '70s. Always the same deep, distorted voice. Always a different kid.

One night, I set the recorder up and asked it a question.

“Who are you?”

I left the tape running while I slept.

Next morning, I played it back.

There was an answer.

“You know me. You always have.”

I left a day early after that.

Never talked about it. Never went back.

But last month, seventeen years later, I got the call. Grandma had passed. She left me the house.

Everyone told me to sell it.

I should have.

But part of me needed to see it again.

When I opened the attic door, it was spotless. Like someone—or something—had been taking care of it.

And right there on the old desk... a brand new tape. My name written across the label in ink that hadn’t even dried yet.

I haven’t played it.

Not yet.

But the house is different now. Quieter. Like it's waiting.

Maybe some places don’t forget us.

Maybe they remember what we can’t.

Or maybe... some houses never stop listening.