The first night Sunhee slept in Ravenhill House, I did not.
I sat in the security room with the lights off, the blue glow of the monitors painting my face into something hollow and unfamiliar. Every camera showed a different angle of the househallways stretched too long, corners too dark, rooms that always felt occupied even when empty.
The house was waiting.
I felt it in the pressure behind my eyes, in the way the air refused to settle. It was restless, confused by the calm she carried inside its walls. Ravenhill House had never tolerated calm before. It thrived on panic, on racing heartbeats and whispered prayers.
At 12:43 a.m.,
the temperature dropped.
The hallway camera outside Sunhee's room fogged from the inside, moisture blooming across the lens like a breath. The floorboards began to creak not randomly, but rhythmically, slow footsteps pacing back and forth.
The house was choosing its approach.
A shadow peeled itself off the ceiling and slid down the wall like spilled ink. It gathered shape near her door long limbs, a head bent at an impossible angle. One of the older spirits. Angry. Territorial.
I leaned closer to the screen.
"Go on," I whispered. "She's new."
The door opened.
Inside, Sunhee lay curled on her side, blanket pulled up to her chin. Her breathing was steady, unbroken. The spirit reached for her, fingers stretching, dripping darkness onto the floor.
The lights flickered once.
Sunhee stirred.
Not in fear just enough to turn her face toward the thing standing inches away from her bed.
Her eyes opened.
The spirit froze.
I had never seen that happen before.
She didn't scream. She didn't cry. Her heart rate on the monitor stayed slow, almost peaceful.
"You're not supposed to be here," she murmured, voice thick with sleep. "You must be very tired."
The shadow recoiled.
It didn't vanish violently like the others usually did. It retreated, dissolving into the wall as if embarrassed.
The house groaned a deep, frustrated sound that rattled the pipes.
My fingers tightened around the arm of the chair.
The second attempt came at 2:17 a.m.
The exact time my mother died.
The house remembered.
A woman appeared in the mirror across from Sunhee's bed hair matted, mouth stretched open far too wide, eyes bleeding shadows. She screamed soundlessly, reaching out from the glass.
Sunhee sat up.
She rubbed her eyes and looked at the mirror.
"Oh," she said softly. "You scared me."
The woman thrashed, the mirror cracking from the inside.
"I'm sorry," Sunhee added. "I didn't mean that."
The mirror went still.
The crack sealed itself.
I felt cold spread through my stomach.
Nothing had ever stopped the mirror woman.
The house grew angry then.
The walls began to breathe slow, heavy expansions that made the ceiling dip. Whispers rose, overlapping voices chanting nonsense syllables that had driven tenants mad within minutes.
Sunhee pulled the blanket tighter around herself.
"Please," she whispered not to the ghosts, but to the house itself. "Let me sleep."
The whispers faded.
Complete silence followed.
I stared at the monitors, pulse hammering. The house had obeyed.
No submitted.
At dawn, Sunhee walked into the kitchen like nothing had happened. She hummed while making tea, moving through the space as if she belonged there. The house watched her quietly, like an animal unsure whether to bite or bow.
"You didn't sleep well?" she asked me gently, noticing the dark circles under my eyes.
I forced a smile. "Bad dreams."
She nodded, understanding too easily.
"This place dreams loudly," she said. "But it doesn't mean harm. It just doesn't know how to stop hurting."
Her words made something twist painfully inside my chest.
That night, the house tried again.
And again.
And again.
Scratches appeared on the walls near her room then vanished. Footsteps followed her but never caught up. Cold hands brushed her hair, her shoulders, her wrists only to pull away at the last second.
Each failure made the house more violent elsewhere. Doors slammed. Lights shattered. Pipes screamed. It punished me for her presence.
And still Sunhee remained untouched.
By the fourth night, I realized the truth.
She wasn't surviving the house.
She was unmaking it.
The house didn't hate her.
It feared her.
And fear, I knew very well, was dangerous.
Because when fear fails to kill
It changes its target.
I watched Sunhee laugh quietly at something on her phone, unaware of the war breathing in the walls around her.
And for the first time since I became its keeper, Ravenhill House and I were no longer on the same side.