I did not know the difference when I walked into that house with my suitcase, my dreams folded neatly inside my chest, and my fear pretending to be excitement. I believed I was stepping into the beginning of my life. What I didn't know was that some beginnings are slow disasters — quiet, smiling, and patient.
No one warns you how easily a future can crack.
No one tells you that survival sometimes looks like obedience.
And no one prepares you for the moment you realize that the place you sleep is also the place that is undoing you.
By the time I understood what that house wanted from me, it already knew everything about me.
My name.
My weakness.
And how alone I was.
I arrived in the city on a morning that smelled like rain and impatience. The streets glistened with water, people hurried past, umbrellas bumping into one another, their voices rising above the splash of tires on wet asphalt. My heart beat fast as I carried my bag, every step heavier than the last.
Mama Agnes was waiting at the gate, her posture straight, her expression unreadable. She didn't smile, but her eyes followed me like she was measuring every inch of me. "You'll live here," she said in a voice calm as a still pond, yet cutting through me. "People are not always what they seem. Some will help you. Some will watch you fall. The choice isn't yours."
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat, trying to act brave.
Inside the house, the chaos hit me immediately. Four boys my age moved through the living room, each commanding attention in different ways.
Daniel stepped forward first, his grin too wide for someone I had never met. "You're the new girl, right? Welcome to chaos."
Kelvin, standing just behind him, laughed so loudly I flinched. "Don't scare her off, Daniel. She might actually survive."
Victor didn't move, didn't speak. His dark eyes, sharp and calculating, followed my every step, and a shiver ran down my spine.
Emeka, however, came closer with a gentle smile. "Hey, I know it's overwhelming at first. You'll get used to it."
I wanted to trust him. I wanted to believe all of them.
The first meal was a blur of smells and noises. Mama Agnes moved around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and giving instructions to Daniel and Kelvin, who scrambled to keep up with her quiet authority. Even though her words were soft, they carried weight.
"You'll need to be careful," she said to me as she passed. "Trust is earned slowly. The walls have ears, and they remember everything."
I nodded again, pretending to understand, though the weight of her gaze made my stomach twist.
That night, I unpacked my bag slowly, trying to ignore the laughter echoing from the living room. Daniel and Kelvin were teasing each other over a game on their phones, while Victor sat quietly, never looking up. Emeka appeared at my door, lightly knocking. "Are you okay?" he asked softly. "You don't have to say anything, just… know I'm here."
I managed a small smile, grateful but cautious.
A few days later — no, not days, I should say that moment when Daniel leaned toward me over breakfast — "There's this app," he said casually, tapping his phone. "It can multiply your savings. Almost guaranteed."
I froze, staring at my empty plate. My parents had sent me money for tuition, for living expenses, for a life I thought I could control. Could I risk it all? Daniel's grin made it sound harmless, easy. Kelvin chimed in, "Just try it, you won't regret it."
I transferred every coin.
At first, it seemed brilliant. The numbers climbed, and pride surged through me like warmth. I imagined myself clever, capable, untouchable. Then the app froze.
Panic didn't arrive slowly. It hit like ice in my chest, creeping into my lungs, stealing my breath. I smiled at Kelvin's jokes at dinner, laughed along with Daniel, and kept my head down around Victor. Alone in my room, the walls pressed closer, as if the house itself was aware of my mistake.
I pressed my forehead to my desk and whispered Genesis's advice under my breath: Keep calm. Don't tell Mama Agnes. Don't tell the boys. Figure it out slowly.
Then Gerard entered my world.
He wasn't part of the house, wasn't under the same roof, but he appeared when I felt most invisible. On the phone, his voice was steady, patient. "You're not alone, Sirri. You can still make choices. You can still protect yourself."
Even as I spoke to him, the house seemed to lean closer, listening. The laughter in the living room cut through my heart like sharp glass. Mama Agnes's eyes watched silently, calculating. Daniel smiled, Kelvin nudged him, Victor's gaze never left me, and Emeka's quiet presence lingered outside my door.
I realized then, with a sinking clarity:
Trust was no longer an option.
Every word I spoke, every glance I offered, every small action — measured, calculated. Survival was no longer about blending in; it was about following rules I could not see.
That night, the house hummed with a strange rhythm. Floorboards creaked under invisible feet, wind whispered across the windows, and I felt shadows move where no one could be.
A soft knock at my door startled me. "Sirri…" Daniel's voice was gentle and coaxing. "It's okay. Open the door."
I froze. My first instinct was to obey, but the cold knot of fear in my stomach reminded me: this could be a test. A trap. I stayed behind the door, listening as his voice faded. Silence pressed down on me, heavy and accusing.
Later, at dinner, Daniel leaned close. "You're quiet tonight," he said. His tone sounded casual, but I knew it was anything but. "Something bothering you?"
I shook my head. "Just tired."
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. "If you ever need to talk… I'm here."
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to trust him, but the house had other rules.
Kelvin approached me later in the week. "The app," he said lightly, almost joking, "you did it, right? Should've been easy, huh?"
I didn't answer. I stared at my plate, the color of the food blurring into gray. Pride and panic collided inside me.
I wanted to scream, to run, to hide forever. But I couldn't. I was trapped in this house with its walls that whispered, its boys who watched, and Mama Agnes, whose calm eyes could strip me bare without a word.
Emeka appeared once more at my door that night, gentle, observing. "Talk to me," he said softly. I shook my head, tears pricking, heart hammering. His presence was comforting, dangerous, and confusing. I didn't know if he was an ally or an observer.
Then the note appeared.
A simple, folded piece of paper slipped under my door:
We know everything.
I froze. My pulse raced, blood pounding in my ears. Who knew? Who could know? The walls, the boys, Mama Agnes, all of them?
I lay on my bed, heart racing, listening to the house breathe around me. Every laugh, every shadow, every whisper seemed amplified.
And I realized, with sudden clarity, that the house did more than watch.
It waited.
The note trembled in my fingers. We know everything.
I pressed it to my chest, as if the paper alone could shield me from the house's eyes. My room felt smaller than before, shadows clinging to the corners. Every floorboard creak, every distant laugh, every whispered word from the living room seemed magnified.
I didn't know if I should stay put or run. My phone buzzed. Gerard.
"Sirri, are you okay?" His voice was steady, grounding, but the fear in mine made it tremble. I wanted to tell him everything, the note, the boys, Mama Agnes, the fear clawing at me, but the words stuck in my throat.
"I… I'm fine," I lied, my throat tight.
"You're not fine," he said, softly but firmly. "You've been quiet. Tell me what happened."
I swallowed. My fingers clutched the note tighter. If I tell him, am I safe? If I don't… will the house punish me for silence?
Before I could answer, a knock on my door startled me. Daniel's voice again, this time playful, coaxing:
"Sirri? You awake? Come out, we're watching a movie."
My pulse quickened. Come out? Into the living room? Right now?
I shook my head, heart hammering. "I… I'm tired," I whispered.
"Suit yourself," he said, footsteps retreating. But I couldn't shake the feeling of eyes lingering at the door long after he left.
The evening dragged. I could hear Victor moving silently in his corner of the room, the faint shuffle of Kelvin organizing something on the desk, and Daniel's laughter echoing from the kitchen as he teased Emeka. The house was alive. I could feel it pressing in, watching, judging.
I pressed my face into my knees and thought of Gerard. His calm presence on the phone was my only refuge. "You're not alone," he had said, but alone felt like an impossible word when every creak in the house suggested someone else knew my every secret.
Then came the whisper.
I froze. It was soft, low, almost imperceptible. "Sirri…"
I spun, heart racing, but the hallway was empty. Only the shadows of the furniture stretched long and strange across the walls.
I pressed myself against my door, shaking. Was it Daniel, testing me? Kelvin? Victor? Emeka? Or… the house itself?
Morning came too quickly. Sunlight spilled unevenly through the blinds, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the air. I dressed slowly, each movement deliberate, wary of anyone watching. Breakfast smelled of eggs and toast, Daniel and Kelvin laughing at a joke I couldn't hear fully. Victor stared blankly into his plate, and Emeka gave me a small, cautious nod.
Mama Agnes appeared behind me suddenly, placing a hand lightly on my shoulder. Her eyes, dark and steady, pierced me.
"Choices have consequences," she said softly. "Even small ones. Remember that."
I nodded again. The note, the whispers, the shadows — I understood in a way I hadn't before. Every word, every action, every glance could shift my standing in this house.
Later that morning, Daniel approached me with his usual grin. "Hey, I noticed you've been quiet. You're going to tell me everything, right?"
I shook my head, forcing a smile. "Not everything," I said.
He chuckled. "Fair enough. But don't forget, I notice more than you think."
Kelvin leaned in from the doorway, smirking. "We all do."
Victor's gaze lingered longer than it should have. Emeka quietly stepped aside, eyes alert but unreadable.
I realized then that the house wasn't just observing me — it was testing me. Every interaction, every joke, every subtle glance was a puzzle I had to navigate carefully. I felt like a marionette, each string pulled by unseen hands.
By afternoon, the tension had twisted in my chest into a tight coil. I wanted to leave, to run into the streets, to disappear. But my feet felt glued to the floor. Every sound outside my room, every muffled laugh, every creak of the old floorboards reminded me: the house was patient.
And then, Emeka appeared again. He placed a small cup of tea on my desk. "You should drink something," he said softly. "You're tense."
I looked at him. Ally or observer? Friend or trap? I wanted to trust him. I needed someone to trust. I took the cup with trembling hands and nodded silently.
Daniel passed the doorway, glancing at me. "Tea break? Smart move. Keeps the mind sharp," he said casually.
Kelvin laughed from the corner. "Don't let the walls see you sweat, though."
Victor didn't speak, only stared.
And Mama Agnes… she remained in the shadows, watching.
As night fell, I lay on my bed, tea cold at my side, heart racing. The note rested beside me: We know everything. Every shadow seemed to twitch, every floorboard creak became a whisper, and every laugh from the living room sounded like plotting.
I realized then that survival wasn't about hiding. It wasn't about laughter or silence. It was about learning rules I couldn't see, trusting instincts I wasn't sure I had, and understanding that every small action could carry consequences I might not survive.
The house had already begun teaching me those rules.
And I had no choice but to learn them.