The bedroom door remained slightly ajar.
I didn't move.
I couldn't.
Every instinct screamed to run, but my body was locked in place — as if the air around me had thickened, holding my limbs still.
The room was impossibly quiet. Even the lamp's low hum felt smothered. My eyes strained to see into the shadowed corners, but darkness clung stubbornly to the walls.
And yet… I knew I was being watched.
A faint exhale drifted through the room — slow, deliberate, like air drawing through old, hollow bones. The sound brushed my skin and left a trail of cold behind.
I blinked.
Beside me, Annabelle stirred in her sleep. Her breathing was steady, unbroken. Calm.
Too calm.
The rest of the room… wasn't.
The walls felt closer than before, leaning in.
The ceiling seemed lower, pressing downward.
The floorboards beneath us vibrated — a subtle pulse, like breath filling a lung.
The house was inhaling.
"Annabelle…" I whispered.
No response.
I touched her shoulder. Her skin was warm, alive. Normal.
But when I pulled my hand back… the warmth lingered in the air, hanging there unnaturally, as though the house had absorbed it. Kept it. Studied it.
Minutes crawled by. Maybe hours. Shadows shifted with slow, deliberate intent. Every creak, every distant groan felt purposeful — like the house was speaking in a language I wasn't meant to understand.
Then it started again.
The whispering.
Not words this time.
Just breath.
Moving around me.
Circling.
Studying.
Shhhh.
I turned sharply.
Nothing.
The breath shifted to my other side.
Shhhh.
My heart hammered.
It was testing me — pushing, waiting, learning.
I sat at the edge of the bed, forcing myself to breathe slowly. One breath. Two. Three…
And then I realized something horrifying.
The whispering matched Annabelle's breathing.
When she inhaled, it paused.
When she exhaled, it breathed with her.
When she shifted, the walls seemed to shift too — a ripple beneath the wallpaper.
The house wasn't haunted.
It was aware.
Of her.
Of me.
Of the space between us.
The lamp flickered twice and steadied.
Annabelle murmured something, her voice soft, dream-thick.
I leaned closer.
Her lips moved. Her voice was hers… but the tone wasn't.
"It knows the door…"
My blood froze.
The bedroom door groaned.
And slowly — far too slowly — it opened wider.
A cold shadow spilled across the floorboards. It wasn't mine. It wasn't hers.
It was wrong.
The air near the doorway thickened, heavy with breath.
I felt the walls tremble behind me.
The wallpaper tightened, pulsing — a faint heartbeat beneath the paint. The floorboards shuddered, exhaling dust.
Annabelle whispered again, softer this time:
"It's behind you…"
I spun.
Empty air.
But something pressed against my back — the sensation of eyes. Dozens. Watching. Measuring.
I tried to speak, but my throat felt full of cold air. My voice barely made it out:
"Who's there?"
Silence.
Then—
A breath, warm and ancient, hissed against my ear.
Not human.
Not asleep.
Not Annabelle.
It mimicked her breathing, but slower… older.
The lamp flickered violently.
Shadows lengthened across the walls, stretching into long, twisted limbs. For a heartbeat, I saw a silhouette — something tall trying to stand upright, learning movement like a newborn fawn.
I forced myself to look at Annabelle.
She slept peacefully, unaware.
But the house…
the house was learning her.
Copying her.
Shaping itself around her.
A low hum trembled through the walls, through the mattress, through me ....
syncing with my heartbeat. Matching it.
Then the whisper returned.
Clearer.
Practiced.
"I remember the door.
I remember the door.
I remember… the door."
It wasn't repeating.
It was rehearsing.
Learning.
Preparing.
The lamp steadied.
Annabelle sighed in her sleep, a tiny, innocent sound.
For one moment, the room felt still. Empty. Quiet.
And then...
The bedroom door, now wide open, closed itself.
Slowly. Carefully.
Like an unseen hand pushed it shut.
The house exhaled.
And I realized, with cold certainty:
We were no longer guests here.
We were specimens.
And the house was learning fast.