The House That Waited for Me

M Mehran

The house had been abandoned for nearly twenty years, yet the moment I stepped onto its front porch, it felt alive—like it had been waiting for me all along.

When I was a child, my grandmother often told me stories about this place. She would point at the hill from her garden and whisper, “That house remembers things.” At the time, I thought she meant it in a poetic way. Now, as an adult returning to my hometown after her passing, I wasn’t so sure.

The door creaked open with the gentlest push, as though it had been oiled just yesterday. Dust swirled in the slivers of sunlight cutting through broken shutters, and the air carried that strange mixture of mildew and something sweeter—like faded perfume.

I wasn’t there just to satisfy curiosity. My grandmother had left me a note, tucked inside her will, with three short words: “Find the truth.” No explanation, no instructions, just that.


---

The First Night

I decided to stay overnight with nothing but a sleeping bag, a lantern, and my notebook. Most people would call it foolish, but grief has a way of dulling fear.

Around midnight, the silence grew heavier. I could hear the old house sigh with every gust of wind. Then, faintly, came another sound—footsteps. Slow. Steady. As if someone was walking the halls upstairs.

I froze.

I told myself it was the house settling. I even laughed nervously to chase away the unease. But the laughter died when I remembered something: the second floor had collapsed years ago.


---

The Portrait

The next morning, I explored what was left of the dining room. The wallpaper peeled like shedding skin, and broken chairs lay in piles. But one thing stood untouched—a portrait hanging above the fireplace.

It was of a young woman in a long dress, her gaze sharp and unsettling. The strangest part was how new it looked, the paint still vibrant despite the decay around it.

I leaned closer and felt an icy draft brush my neck. Beneath the frame, scratched into the wood, was a single word: “Stay.”


---

Secrets in the Walls

By the third day, I knew I wasn’t alone. Objects shifted places. My lantern flickered at precise moments, like a signal. I began writing down everything, piecing together a timeline.

That’s when I found the letters.

They were hidden inside a hollow part of the wall behind the kitchen cabinet, tied with a red ribbon. Most were dated in the 1940s, written by a woman named Elena to a man named Thomas.

Elena’s words were filled with longing and fear. She wrote about being trapped in the house, about a family who forbade her from leaving. Her last letter ended abruptly:

> “If you find this, know that I tried to escape. But the house does not forgive.”




---

The Final Night

The fourth night, I decided to confront whatever was happening. I sat in the living room with the portrait in view, whispering Elena’s name.

The temperature dropped instantly. My breath came out in clouds, and the shadows in the corners deepened. Then I saw her—faint, like smoke, stepping out of the painting.

Her eyes locked onto mine.

“You came,” she whispered, though her lips never moved.

I wanted to run, but something rooted me in place. She reached out, her hand trembling as though centuries of sorrow weighed on her.

“Free me.”


---

The Ending

The next morning, I buried the letters beside my grandmother’s grave. She must have known about Elena, must have carried the secret her whole life. Perhaps that’s why she told me the house “remembers.”

When I returned to the house one last time, the portrait was gone. The air was lighter, as though the walls had finally exhaled after decades of holding their breath.

I locked the door behind me and left the key on the porch. Some truths aren’t meant to be kept. Some are meant to be set free.