The Keeper of Empty Houses

When the city decided to demolish the old neighborhood of Blackthorn Lane, no one volunteered to inspect the houses.

Except one man — Jonas Reed, the last city surveyor willing to do the job no one wanted.

He told himself it was just another assignment.

He didn’t believe the stories — the ones about how people who entered the houses never came back out quite the same.

He should have.

The first house was number 17, a crooked building leaning like it wanted to whisper something.

The front door creaked open before he touched it.

Inside, the air was thick with dust — and something else.

The smell of emptiness.

Furniture covered in sheets, mirrors turned to the wall, old wallpaper breathing with damp.

But it was too quiet.

Jonas clicked his flashlight on and began marking the walls, just as protocol required.

When his light hit the staircase, he froze.

A pair of shoes — small, children’s shoes — rested neatly on the bottom step.

They looked new.

He called out.

No answer.

Only the faint creak of wood shifting under invisible weight.

He continued, trying to ignore the growing hum in his ears.

As he climbed the stairs, the house seemed to inhale — every floorboard tightening, the air pressing down.

At the top of the landing hung dozens of photographs, nailed into the plaster.

But they weren’t of people.

They were of rooms — all empty, all decaying, yet eerily familiar.

He leaned closer to one, squinting through the dust.

It was this very hallway.

Same peeling wallpaper.

Same broken light.

But in the photo, there was someone standing behind the camera — his own silhouette, faintly visible in the glass of a framed picture.

Jonas dropped the flashlight.

When the beam rolled, it caught something — a door at the end of the hall.

Slightly open.

He should have left.

Instead, curiosity — or something darker — pulled him closer.

The door led to a nursery, walls pale blue, ceiling cracked like veins in porcelain.

A wooden crib sat in the center, motionless.

Above it, a mobile of faded stars spun slowly… though there was no wind.

And then he heard it —

A click.

From behind him.

He turned, heart pounding.

The door had shut.

And taped to the back of it was a note:

“Please keep quiet. The house is sleeping.”

Jonas stepped back, breath shallow.

The air felt heavy now, almost wet — as if the walls themselves were breathing.

He tried the handle. It wouldn’t move.

He pounded, shouted — the house groaned in reply.

Then, from the crib, came a small sound.

Not crying. Not laughter.

Something between the two.

He forced himself to look.

The crib was empty — except for a single photograph lying in it.

It showed him — standing in the nursery, eyes wide, face pale.

But in the picture, there was a hand on his shoulder.

By morning, the demolition crew arrived.

They found the front door ajar, the air thick with dust.

Jonas’s clipboard was lying on the floor, flashlight still rolling in slow circles.

But Jonas was gone.

The last photo on his camera showed a dimly lit room — the nursery — with no one inside.

Only a faint outline on the floor, shaped like someone had been standing there… and faded.

Two weeks later, a new inspector came to replace him.

When she reached the same house, she stopped at the front gate.

Because hanging there, nailed to the wood, was a small sign in fresh handwriting:

“This house has already chosen its keeper.”

🕯️ Theme:

Some places don’t forget who enters them — they remember, and they collect.