The House That Whispers Back

You stand before the house you swore you’d never return to. The porch sags like a broken jaw. The windows stare like empty eye sockets. Your mother’s will said only one thing: “Come home.”

The door groans open before you touch it. Cold air spills out, smelling of mildew and something sweet… like rotting fruit. A whisper curls around your ear: “You’re late.”

Family photos line the walls. But the faces are scratched out — except yours. Your childhood face smiles back, but the eyes are wrong. Too wide. Too aware. A door slams upstairs.

As you lean in, your photo blinks. The whisper returns: “We kept you safe.” You stumble back.

The kitchen is untouched — pristine, impossibly clean. A single plate sits on the table. Your favorite childhood meal. Steam rises from it.

The food tastes exactly like you remember. Warm. Comforting. Then the texture changes. Something writhes on your tongue.

You spit the food into the trash. Inside the bin, something moves. A small hand — a child’s hand — reaches up and grabs your wrist.

The upstairs hallway is darker than it should be. Three doors wait: • Your old bedroom • Your mother’s room • The locked attic door A soft thumping comes from behind the attic.

Your room is exactly as you left it — toys, posters, even the bedspread. But everything is… smaller. Child-sized. A voice whispers from under the bed: “Come play with us.”

Your mother’s room is empty except for a rocking chair and a plain bed. It rocks on its own. A journal lies on the bed.

The journal reveals the truth: • The house is alive. • It feeds on memories. • Your mother sacrificed herself to keep it asleep. • Now it wants you. A final line: “If you hear the knocking, don’t open the attic.” A loud knock echoes from the attic.

The door is ice cold. The knocking stops the moment you touch it.

Inside the attic is a single figure — your childhood self. Pale. Thin. Smiling too wide. It speaks in your voice: “You left me here. Now we trade places.”

Ending: Coward’s Escape

You walk away. The house watches. You feel its eyes on your back for the rest of your life.

Ending: Too Slow

You run — but the door slams shut. The house swallows you whole.

Ending: Fed to the House

The food wriggles inside you. You feel yourself soften, stretch, spread. You become part of the house’s walls. Sometimes, you still taste yourself.

Ending: The Bin Child

The tiny hand tightens. Another hand joins it. And another. They pull you down into the dark. You never see the bottom of the bin. You only feel teeth.

Ending: Taken by the Small Ones

Dozens of tiny hands latch onto you the moment you look under the bed. They drag you into the dust and shadows. You join them forever, waiting for someone new to lean too close.

Ending: Escape with the Truth

You flee the house with the journal clutched to your chest. You survive. The house does not follow. But it remembers your name. And now you know what it is.

Ending: Consumed

You throw yourself at the child-thing. It is like fighting a mirror filled with knives. It tears you apart with your own teeth, your own hands. When it is done, it wears your face better than you ever did.

Ending: The New Resident

You let it step into you. The attic grows colder. Your thoughts slow, like flies in amber. You sit down where it once sat. You wait for the next visitor. You hope they run.

Ending: Escape but Changed

You run. The house does not stop you. The front door is open, the sky suddenly too bright. You only notice it later, in a bathroom mirror: your reflection smiles a second before you do.