The listing said “quiet neighborhood, move-in ready.”
What it didn’t say was that the house listened.
Caleb moved in alone, fresh from a breakup and desperate for silence. The house on Alder Row was narrow and tall, its windows dark like unblinking eyes. Still, it was cheap—and empty.
The first night, everything felt normal. Pipes ticked. Floorboards creaked. Old houses did that.
The second night, the house spoke.
“Caleb…”
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t close. It sounded like someone saying his name from another room—soft, familiar, patient.
Caleb sat up in bed. “Hello?”
Silence.
He told himself it was a dream.
The Walls Begin to Listen
Over the next few days, strange things happened. Doors he didn’t remember opening were ajar. His shoes shifted places. His phone battery drained overnight.
And sometimes, the house whispered again.
“Caleb…”
From the hallway.
From the stairs.
From behind the bathroom door.
Never threatening. Never angry.
Just calling.
He checked the vents. The attic. The basement. Nothing. No squatters. No animals. No speakers.
One afternoon, as he cooked dinner, he dropped a glass. It shattered.
From the living room, the house sighed.
A long, settling breath—like relief.
Learning You
Caleb stopped inviting friends over. The house grew louder when others were present—groaning, knocking, whispering names that didn’t belong to anyone there.
One night, his neighbor Mrs. Kline knocked on his door.
“Your house is noisy,” she said. “It keeps saying your name.”
Caleb laughed nervously. “Houses don’t talk.”
Mrs. Kline didn’t smile.
“They do,” she said. “When they’re lonely.”
She told him the truth then. The house had swallowed people before. Not violently. Not all at once. It learned them first.
Their routines.
Their footsteps.
Their voices.
Then it used those things to keep them.
The Imitation
The house grew bold.
Caleb heard his own voice calling from the basement.
He heard his laugh echo from the stairwell.
He heard himself crying in the walls.
One night, he returned home to find the lights on and music playing—his favorite song.
“Welcome back,” the house said.
Perfectly in his voice.
He ran upstairs, heart pounding, and locked himself in the bedroom. The walls hummed softly, like a lullaby.
“You don’t have to leave,” the house whispered.
“I know you now.”
The Doors Won’t Open
Caleb tried to leave the next morning.
The front door wouldn’t budge.
Windows refused to break. The walls absorbed the blows like flesh. The house grew warm, then warmer—like a body.
From every room, his name echoed.
“Caleb.”
“Caleb.”
“Caleb.”
He collapsed to the floor, hands over his ears. “Stop! Please!”
The house grew quiet.
Then, gently:
“Stay.”
The Final Lesson
Days passed. Or weeks. Time bent inside the house.
Caleb stopped fighting. The house rewarded him with quiet. With warmth. With familiar sounds.
It spoke less now.
It didn’t need to.
One evening, he noticed something strange in the hallway mirror. His reflection lagged. Smiled when he didn’t.
The house had learned him completely.
When Mrs. Kline finally called the police, they found the house empty. No signs of struggle. No damage.
Just a soft whisper drifting through the rooms when they entered:
“Welcome…”
And if you stand outside late at night, you can hear it practicing new names—
waiting for the next person to listen.
