The House That Learned My Name

The house was empty when I moved in.

No furniture. No photographs. No previous tenant forwarding their mail.

Only a locked door beneath the stairs.

Every night, something whispered behind it.

At first, it copied sounds from the house: the kettle, the floorboards, my footsteps.

Then it copied my voice.

Last night, it called my mother.

She died six years ago.

This morning, the door was open.

From the darkness below, my mother whispered:

“You took long enough to come home.”

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Would you go down the stairs or leave without looking back?