The House That Waited for Me

I always thought fear came from things we didn’t understand. But the house at the end of Shalimar Road changed that. Some fears aren’t born from mystery—they come from recognition, from something deep inside you waking up too slowly to warn you.

The house wasn’t abandoned in the usual sense. It wasn’t broken, collapsing, or covered with graffiti. Its windows weren’t shattered. Its gate wasn’t locked with chains or warnings. It simply stood there, untouched, as if the world around it had evolved while it remained stuck in a memory.

I had passed the place dozens of times without really seeing it, but one night, the moon lit up the entire street except that one roof. Everything else glowed silver; the house swallowed the light. Something about that bothered me in a way I couldn’t explain.

Maybe that’s why I started noticing it more.
And then I began dreaming about it.

In the first dream, I was standing in the garden, the grass brushing against my legs, the air thick with fog. The front door was open, and a boy’s silhouette stood inside. In the second dream, he was closer, almost at arm’s length—though his face was always blurred, like someone smeared it with their thumb.

After the second dream, curiosity won.
Or maybe something was pulling me.

A week later, on a quiet, windless evening, I walked to the house. The street was empty, the air unnaturally still. The gate wasn’t locked—just held by a thin, rusted chain that gave way under the slightest touch. The garden felt wrong. The plants didn’t sway with the breeze; they leaned, almost hunched, pointing toward the door like silent witnesses.

When I stepped onto the porch, I felt cold fingers of air slip across my skin from inside the house. The door stood slightly open—an invitation or a warning, I still don’t know. I pushed it gently, expecting a creak, but it moved without a sound.

The living room looked like it belonged to another decade. The furniture was old but not decayed. A thin layer of dust covered everything except one small corner near the window, where the floor was unnervingly clean.

Someone had been standing there.

A portrait hung crooked on the wall. A family of three—mother, father, and a boy around twelve. The mother’s face had faded, the father’s smile looked too deliberate, but the boy… his eyes had an intensity that made my chest tighten.

It felt like he knew me.

My phone buzzed in my hand. The bright screen lit the dark room and showed a message from an unknown number:

“You came back. Don’t go upstairs.”

My throat dried instantly. The message didn’t make sense. How could I have “come back” to a place I had never been?

My phone buzzed again.

“He remembers you.”

Something cracked upstairs—slow, deliberate, as if someone shifted their weight. I turned toward the staircase, and the light in the house seemed to dim.

Instinct told me to leave.
The house told me otherwise.

The front door slammed shut with a violent thud that shook the frame. My heart hammered as the footsteps upstairs grew louder. They weren’t the random creaks of an old home. They had rhythm. Weight. Purpose.

Someone was there.

I tried the window. It didn’t budge. I tried the door; it wouldn’t open. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and stopped.

Silence.

A suffocating silence that pressed against my ears until it almost hurt. I didn’t want to turn around. I didn’t want to see what waited there. My phone buzzed once more.

“Run.”

But I had nowhere to run.

The air behind me thickened, as if the room itself was breathing slowly and deeply. I felt the presence before I heard it. A shift in the air. A faint exhale. A coldness that had nothing to do with temperature.

I shut my eyes.

For a moment—just a moment—the world dimmed, like someone turned down reality itself. When I opened my eyes again, the door stood wide open behind me. The house was quiet. The presence was gone.

I didn’t think. I sprinted out and didn’t stop until I reached the main road.

That night, unable to sleep, I searched for old records of the address. After some digging through archived reports, I found a missing-person case from the late 90s. A boy, twelve years old.

The same face from the portrait.

The same cold eyes.

His name was listed below the photo, though reading it sent a strange, heavy ache through my chest. Under it was a final note from investigators:

“Last seen with a neighborhood child who was never identified.”

Something inside me froze.

Maybe that’s why the boy recognized me.
Maybe that’s why the house waited.

Memories don’t always return gently. Some come back like a door slamming shut in the dark—loud enough to shake you, but too late to escape what’s already inside.

And every night since, at exactly 3:11 AM, my phone buzzes with a single message:

“Come back.”