The House That Knew His Secrets
Noah moved into the house alone. No family. No friends. Just him and the silence.
He had designed every inch of it himself—the clean white exterior, the floor-to-ceiling glass panels, the warm glow inside that made the nights feel less empty.
To anyone passing by, it looked like the perfect home. But Noah knew the truth.
The house knew his secrets.
It knew why he avoided mirrors. Why he triple-checked the locks before bed. Why he always stayed in the brightly lit rooms, afraid of the dark corners that whispered memories he wanted to forget.
Every night, as the city hushed and the wind rattled the trees, he swore he could hear something—a voice from the past. Soft. Familiar. Dangerous.
But there was no one else here.
Right?
One evening, as he sat in the downstairs living room, sipping coffee, the lights flickered. Then, just for a second, he caught something in the reflection of the glass wall—a shadow on the second floor.
A shape.
Watching him.
Noah’s breath caught in his throat. He turned, but the space was empty. Just his carefully arranged bookshelves, his desk, his quiet, perfect home.
He told himself he was imagining things. That the house wasn’t keeping secrets from him.
But deep down, he wasn’t sure anymore.
