The house at the end of Road 12 had been empty for years. Its windows were sealed with dust, its gate tied shut with rusted wire. Some said it belonged to a man who vanished during the floods of 2007. Others believed the house had never truly belonged to anyone at all.
When the municipality announced low-rent housing for city workers, no one applied for that address-except Shila. Twenty-six and newly transferred to the city hospital, she was tired of shared rooms and rising rent. The house was cheap, quiet, and close to work. Silence felt like relief.
The first night passed without incident. Shila slept deeply, without dreams, as if the house was watching but waiting.
On the second night, she heard knocking from inside the walls. Three slow taps. A pause. Then three more. The sound moved along the house, stopping near her bedroom door before fading. By morning, the walls stood still again, innocent and mute.
She told herself it was nothing-old buildings settle, pipes breathe. Yet the next night, the knocking returned, sharper and closer. This time it came from the wardrobe.
"Who is it?" Shila whispered. The answer was another knock, harder than before. When she turned on the light, she saw faint handprints on the wardrobe door, pressed from the inside.
Inside the wardrobe there was no dust-only a darkness that felt too deep, too patient. Shila did not sleep that night.
On the third night, the house spoke. It said her name slowly, syllable by syllable, from the kitchen sink as water stopped flowing mid-stream. The lights flickered, then went out.
In the darkness, footsteps moved around her-wet, barefoot, smelling of river water and old soil. Shila ran outside and stayed there until sunrise, shaking.
She tried to move out, but every call she made failed. At night, the house whispered her memories back to her-her mother's voice, childhood lullabies, names she had not spoken in years.
On the seventh night, she found a door behind the wardrobe. It had not existed before. When she touched it, the knocking erupted from every wall at once, as if the house exhaled.
Inside were photographs of former tenants standing before the same house. Families. Children. Nurses. The last frame was empty, waiting.
By morning, the house on Road 12 was sealed again. The gate tied shut. Dust returned to the windows.
At the hospital, a nurse mentioned a missing staff member. Her name sounded familiar. But no one could remember her face.
