Chapter 10: The House That Shouldn't Exist

I don't know why I followed the voice. Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the way the shadows had begun to blend into my reality, but when I heard it again, late at night, whispering through the cracks in my window, I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my coat and headed out into the cold, dark night.

The city was alive with its usual sounds—cars speeding by, distant sirens, the low hum of streetlights flickering overhead—but none of it seemed to reach me. I walked through it all as if in a trance, my feet moving of their own accord, driven by the quiet murmur of the voice leading me deeper into the city's labyrinth.

I didn't question where I was going. I just followed.

The streets were empty, save for the occasional figure huddled under a bus shelter or wandering aimlessly like me. But I knew they weren't like me. They weren't hearing the voice. They weren't being drawn somewhere by an unseen force. The thought should have scared me, but it didn't. If anything, it felt like I had no choice in the matter.

After what felt like hours of walking, I found myself in a part of the city I didn't recognize. The buildings here were older, their facades worn down by time and neglect. The streetlights flickered more erratically, casting long, distorted shadows across the cracked pavement.

And then, I saw it.

The house.

It was an old, crumbling Victorian-style mansion, tucked away at the end of a dead-end street, shrouded in darkness. I could have sworn it hadn't been there before. The last time I passed this way—whenever that had been—there had been nothing but an empty lot. But now, the house loomed in front of me, like a memory resurrected from the depths of the past.

I stopped, my heart pounding in my chest. The voice had gone silent, but I knew this was where it had led me. This house wasn't normal. It didn't belong here. Everything about it felt wrong, like a distortion in the fabric of reality, a tear that shouldn't exist.

I should have turned back. I should have walked away and never looked back. But something pulled me closer. My feet moved on their own, carrying me toward the house. The closer I got, the colder the air became, as though the house itself was sucking the warmth from the world around it.

I reached the front door and hesitated. The wood was old, splintered in places, and the brass doorknob was tarnished, but I could feel a presence behind it, waiting, watching. The house was alive with something dark, something that had been waiting for me.

I pushed the door open.

---

The inside was worse than I had imagined. The walls were lined with peeling wallpaper, the floors creaked under every step, and the air smelled of rot and decay. It was as if the house had been abandoned for decades, left to wither away in silence. But I knew I wasn't alone.

The whispers started again, faint at first, like the rustle of leaves on a windy night. But they grew louder as I ventured deeper into the house. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but they filled the air, wrapping around me, tugging at my thoughts.

I passed through the dimly lit hallway, my hand brushing against the cold banister of the staircase. I couldn't see much in the darkness, but I could feel the weight of the house pressing down on me, suffocating me. The shadows seemed to move, shifting as I walked, as if they were alive, watching me from every corner.

I didn't know where I was going, but the whispers guided me, pulling me further into the house. I reached a door at the end of the hallway, its surface cracked and worn. My hand trembled as I grasped the handle, but I couldn't stop myself. I had to know what was behind it.

The door creaked open, revealing a small, dimly lit room. The walls were lined with old photographs, their frames dusty and crooked. The air was thick with the smell of mildew, and the floor was covered in a thin layer of dust. But what caught my attention was the figure sitting in the corner of the room.

It was a woman. Or at least, what was left of her. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes were sunken deep into her skull. She was draped in an old, tattered gown, her hands folded neatly in her lap. She didn't move, didn't acknowledge me. But I knew she was aware of my presence.

I took a step forward, my heart racing. The whispers had stopped, leaving only the sound of my own breathing in the room. The woman remained still, her gaze fixed on something I couldn't see.

"Who are you?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

She didn't respond. Her eyes flickered for a moment, but she remained silent, her body unmoving.

I took another step closer, and that's when I noticed the photographs on the walls. They weren't random pictures. They were of me.

My heart lurched in my chest as I stared at the images. Some were old, taken years ago—me as a child, playing in the park, me at school, me with friends I hadn't spoken to in years. But others were recent. Very recent. There was a picture of me sitting in the café from just days ago, another of me walking through the city streets earlier that night. And then there was the last one—a photo of me standing in the hallway, just outside this very room.

I stumbled back, my mind reeling. How was this possible? Who had taken these photos? How had they known where I would be?

The woman in the corner shifted slightly, her gaze finally meeting mine. Her lips parted, and she spoke in a voice so soft, so fragile, it was barely audible.

"You don't belong here."

I froze, her words sending a chill down my spine. There was something in her voice, something deeper, darker, that made me want to run, to escape this house before it swallowed me whole.

But before I could move, the room shifted. The walls seemed to close in around me, the shadows growing darker, more oppressive. The woman's form began to blur, her body dissolving into the darkness as the whispers returned, louder, more insistent.

"You don't belong here."

I turned and ran. I didn't look back as I fled the room, racing down the hallway, my footsteps echoing in the empty house. The whispers followed me, growing louder, more frantic, as if the house itself was alive, trying to keep me from leaving.

I burst through the front door and into the cold night air. The whispers stopped abruptly, the silence that followed deafening. I stood there, gasping for breath, my heart racing, my mind struggling to process what had just happened.

The house loomed behind me, dark and silent once more. But I knew I could never go back. Whatever had drawn me there, whatever force had led me to that place, I couldn't escape it. The house wasn't just a building. It was a part of something larger, something ancient and evil.

And it wasn't done with me yet.