By the time I turned twenty-five, I had learned the difference between a scream caused by fear and one caused by surrender.
Fear is sharp. It cuts the air quickly, like glass shattering.
Surrender is softer. It sounds like something breaking slowly inside the chest.
Ravenhill House taught me that.
After my mother died, people avoided the place for years. Neighbors crossed the street when passing it. Children dared each other to knock on its door and run. Old women made the sign of the cross without knowing why.
But time erases caution.
Money erases it faster.
I repaired only what was necessary. The roof still leaked in one corner. The third-floor hallway light flickered no matter how many times I changed the bulb. I left the scratches on the floor where my mother had clawed covered by a thin rug that always shifted by itself.
I listed the house for rent.
Cheap.
Spacious.
Quiet neighborhood.
Lies are easier when they contain truth.
The first tenants were students. Four boys who laughed too loudly and drank until the walls seemed to sway with them. The house watched them carefully. I watched from the cameras hidden behind vents, smoke detectors, corners no one ever looks at.
The first night, nothing happened.
The house likes patience.
On the second night, footsteps followed them up the stairs. On the third, whispers called their names in voices that sounded like memories. One boy stopped sleeping. Another started sleepwalking, standing in front of mirrors for hours, crying without tears.
By the seventh night, one of them jumped from the balcony.
The others didn't last much longer.
I didn't feel guilt.
I felt… balance.
Couples came next. Newly married, holding hands too tightly. The house loved couples. It enjoyed separating them turning affection into suspicion, love into paranoia. It showed them reflections of betrayal, whispered lies while they slept.
One woman stabbed her husband with kitchen scissors after swearing she saw him standing over her bed at night, smiling with someone else's face.
I cleaned the blood myself.
The house hummed while I did.
I learned how to make it worse.
I rearranged furniture to block escape paths. I removed locks from doors. I placed mirrors across from beds. I whispered encouragement into walls late at night, telling the house it was doing well, that it was strong, that it deserved to eat.
And it listened.
The deaths became faster. More efficient.
I kept records dates, behaviors, reactions. Not out of guilt, but curiosity. I wanted to understand hunger. I wanted to control it. Every death felt like a conversation between me and the house.
You took my mother.
I will bring you more.
Sometimes, late at night, I thought I heard her voice.
Not screaming.
Just watching.
The police asked questions occasionally. Missing persons reports. Accidents. Suicides. Tragedies that fit too well into paperwork. The house knew how to keep itself quiet when needed.
So did I.
Then one evening, I smelled something different.
Not fear.
Not sweat.
Not blood.
Warmth.
She stood at the gate, rain dripping from her hair, a small suitcase beside her foot. She looked tired, but not broken. Her eyes moved slowly over the house not scared, not excited.
Curious.
That alone unsettled me.
Most people refuse to look directly at Ravenhill House. Something inside them turns away instinctively, like prey sensing a predator.
She didn't.
When I opened the door, the house went still.
No creaking.
No whispering.
No breathing walls.
Silence stretched, thick and wrong.
"I'm Sunhee," she said, smiling politely. "I'm here about the room."
Her voice didn't echo.
That was impossible.
The house always echoed.
As she stepped inside, the air shifted not colder, not warmer but calmer. The shadows pulled back slightly, like animals unsure whether to attack. The chandelier stopped swaying on its own.
The house was watching her.
So was I.
"You should know," I said carefully, studying her face, "people don't usually stay long."
She nodded. "That's okay. I don't need long."
Something in my chest tightened.
She walked past me, fingers brushing the wall just once. The house shuddered under her touch, a vibration so subtle only I noticed.
Her eyes softened.
"It's very lonely here," she whispered. "I hope you don't mind."
The house did not respond.
For the first time since my mother died, Ravenhill House had nothing to say.
And that terrified me more than any scream ever had.