The House That Listens

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I never believed ghosts. I thought it was stories—people told themselves. I didn't consider the rumors when I moved into the old Maple Street residence. It was affordable, endearing, and just what I needed. The house was beautiful—dark wood floors, tall windows, quiet.

The first days were perfect. The house seemed to welcome me, adjusting to my presence. The fireplace flickered when I felt cold. The doors creaked open when I thought about walking outside. It was like it knew me. It understood me.

I felt connected to the house. It felt alive, somehow. When I was sad, the walls hummed softly, like comforting me. When I was happy, the rooms filled with warmth, like the house shared my joy. Although I couldn't deny it, I believed it to be my imagination.

But then, things changed.

It wasn’t ghosts or eerie noises. It was how the house responded to my thoughts. When I felt anxious, the floors creaked, reminding me of the unsettling silence. When I felt upset, the temperature dropped, cold following me room to room. It was subtle, but there.

At first, I thought it was coincidence. But after days, I started to wonder. The house seemed to know me, my moods, my thoughts. It felt like it was listening.

I tried to ignore it. But I couldn’t. The house reflected my feelings. The more I focused, the stronger the connection. I thought the house could read me. It wasn’t comforting anymore. It was unsettling.

Then, I had trouble sleeping. At night, when I closed my eyes, the house felt different. It wasn’t just reacting anymore. It was... influencing me. My thoughts grew darker, my emotions more chaotic. The house seemed to feed off my confusion, twisting my mind.

Whispers came, too soft to understand, loud enough to make my heart race. I’d turn, but no one was there. The walls shook gently, as if trying to talk to me. I thought of leaving, but the house would comfort me, drawing me back. It felt like a sick game, a battle between my thoughts and the house.

I started losing time. Hours passed while I sat looking at the walls and felt them move as if they were breathing. I believed I was losing my mind. At night, I woke, convinced someone was watching me. The house would respond—turning lights on or off, shifting air pressure. It was like the house could hear my thoughts and was playing with me.

I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust the house. But it was too late. The house had a hold on me. I couldn’t escape.

One night, I stood in the living room, surrounded by the hum of the house’s energy. Then, I understood. The house wasn’t haunted. It was alive. It was feeding on me, shaping my mind, pulling me deeper into its web. The whispers grew louder, filling my mind.

And then, I realized.

The house wasn’t just listening. It was controlling me.

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