Everyone said the house at the end of Briar Lane was empty.
That was the first lie it told me.
I moved in on a quiet afternoon, when the sun made even broken windows look harmless. The place was old but intact, like it had been waiting rather than abandoned. Dust coated the floors evenly, untouched by footsteps—except one trail that led from the front door to the stairs.
I assumed it was mine.
That night, the house settled around me with soft creaks and sighs. Pipes ticked. Wood shifted. Normal sounds, I told myself. Still, I locked my bedroom door.
At exactly 2:17 a.m., someone whispered my name.
Not shouted. Not called.
Spoken gently, like a reminder.
"Eli."
I sat up, heart racing. The whisper came from inside the room.
"Hello?" I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
The walls answered with silence.
The next morning, I found a note on the kitchen counter. The paper was yellowed, edges curled with age.
You answered faster last time.
I laughed—too loudly—and told myself it was a prank. Maybe the old owner had a twisted sense of humor. Maybe I was overtired.
That night, I stayed awake. Watching. Listening.
2:17 a.m.
"Eli," the house whispered again, closer now—right behind my ear.
I spun around. No one was there. But the door, which I had locked, stood open.
Over the next few days, the house learned things. Small things at first. Which step I avoided because it creaked. That I liked the hallway light on. That I hated the dark mirror at the end of the stairs.
Then it learned bigger things.
It started finishing my sentences.
I'd mutter, "I should really—"
"—leave," the house murmured from the vents.
I tried to move out. Boxes packed themselves while I slept, carefully stacked back into closets by morning. My phone lost signal the moment I stepped inside. Friends forgot my address. Forgot me.
The last note appeared on my bedside table.
You gave me your name, it read.
That's how it works.
At 2:17 a.m., I finally understood.
Names are invitations.
Now, when people pass the house at the end of Briar Lane, they sometimes hear it whisper from open windows—soft, patient, and curious.
It's learning new names.
And it's very lonely