The priest arrived without knocking.
One moment the porch was empty.
The next, he stood there still, composed, like the house had known he was coming before I did.
His shoes made only the faintest sound on the gravel, yet somehow the noise echoed through the hallways like a warning. He stepped inside slowly, careful not to disturb anything… or anyone.
He didn't smile.
He didn't greet us.
He simply looked around — truly looked — with eyes that seemed to press against the air, searching for something he expected to find.
"I was told," he said quietly, "that this house has been remembering things it shouldn't."
My skin prickled. He hadn't been here even a minute, but he already knew too much.
I opened my mouth to explain, but he lifted a hand.
"No words," he murmured. "The house is listening."
A soft creak answered him — a beam shifting overhead.
His eyes flicked upward.
He nodded, like the sound had confirmed something.
He walked through each room without asking permission, pausing beside doorframes, running his fingers along wallpaper, leaning closer to corners where shadows gathered unnaturally thick.
"It is old," he said, almost to himself. "But age is not its burden. Memory is."
My heart tightened.
He turned sharply — not at me, but at something behind me.
Annabelle stood there.
Silent.
Unmoving.
Watching him with an expression I didn't recognize.
The priest inhaled slowly. "Yes," he whispered. "It has touched her."
Annabelle stepped closer to me, but she didn't look away from him. Not once.
He reached into a worn satchel and laid its contents across the dining table:
a line of salt,
two pale candles,
a thick book with frayed corners,
and a small object wrapped in cloth that smelled of soil and rust.
He didn't explain any of it.
Instead, he placed his palm flat against the table.
The lights flickered.
The house sighed.
Even the air felt heavier — as if the walls leaned in to hear him speak.
"You cannot drive it out by force," he said. "It is too old. Too rooted."
He looked directly at Annabelle.
"And it has chosen her to learn through."
My knees weakened.
Annabelle's eyes were steady. Too steady.
The priest lit the candles with a single strike of a match. The flames shivered violently, though there was no draft. A hum began in the walls — low, slow, vibrating like a heartbeat out of rhythm.
"It's here," the priest said.
The house inhaled.
The wallpaper rippled.
The floorboards swelled beneath our feet.
Then the priest began to chant.
The words weren't loud — just sharp, cutting through the air like metal through cloth.
The candles strained toward him.
Shadows tightened against the walls, shrinking back.
My chest felt heavy, like something pressed against it from the inside.
Annabelle grabbed my hand.
It wasn't reassurance.
It was fear.
The chanting grew faster.
The hum in the walls deepened.
The air trembled.
Then—
Everything stopped.
No sound.
No breathing.
Not even the house.
The silence was absolute.
The priest opened his eyes.
He stared at Annabelle — or maybe through her.
"It knows," he whispered. "It knows we're trying to see it."
A cold wave rolled through the hallway.
A whisper, not in our ears but under the floorboards, rose like steam:
"Step aside."
The table rattled.
The candles blew out.
The priest staggered backward, gripping the edge of a chair as his face drained of color.
I reached for Annabelle—
but she wasn't beside me anymore.
She was standing at the doorway, staring into the darkened hall, her expression hollow…
…as the wallpaper behind her began to bulge, stretching outward like something inside the wall was pressing its face against it.
And then
A hand pushed through.
Fingers sliding through the plaster.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Reaching for her.
The priest shouted something I didn't understand.
I moved
but the house moved faster.
The hand curled, ready to grip.
And Annabelle…
did not step away.