J Cooper

Chapter 7: The House That Breathes

            Logan moved cautiously down the corridor—though corridor was hardly the right word anymore. The hallway ahead of him was wrong in ways that made his stomach tighten, stretching longer than it should have, warping subtly as though it had been pulled and twisted by unseen hands. The walls slanted inward in places, outward in others, shifting with a slow, rhythmic motion that made it look disturbingly like the entire house was breathing around him. The peeling wallpaper curled in thick strips, its faded pattern torn away to reveal layers of damp plaster beneath, the scraps hanging like shreds of old skin. His flashlight flickered weakly, sputtering like something drowning in the dark, then died completely, plunging him into a faint, sour yellow glow cast by a single swinging bulb farther down the hall.

            Every step forward produced a creak from the rotted floorboards, each one loud enough to make him wince. The air carried the stench of wet fur and iron—a metallic tang that made the back of his throat tighten. Somewhere nearby, something shifted, a heavy, deliberate drag across the wood that sent a jolt of terror through his veins. Logan swallowed hard, trying to keep his breathing steady.

            “Trent… Matty?” he whispered, though his voice cracked embarrassingly on the second name.

            A growl answered him from the dark.

            It wasn’t human. It was low and wet, as though something were breathing through a mouthful of blood. The air chilled instantly; his next breath streamed out in a faint white haze. His trembling fingers smacked the flashlight instinctively, and for one merciful second it flickered back to life, just long enough to show him the shape crouched ahead.

            A hulking, half-man, half-beast figure crouched in the shadows, its massive claws dragging lazily along the wall and leaving deep, jagged trenches in the wood. Its jaw hung open too wide, its fur matted thick with something dark and sticky. Its eyes burned with a sick, feral yellow hunger that froze Logan where he stood.

            His heart stopped for a beat. Then came his only plan.

            “Nope.”

            He spun and ran.

            The creature’s roar erupted behind him, a sound so powerful it rattled the hallway and sent dust cascading from the ceiling. Logan ducked through the nearest doorway, stumbling into what looked like an old bedroom filled with broken furniture and torn bedding. He slammed the door shut behind him and fumbled desperately with the lock, bolting it a split second before something massive crashed into the wood.

            The door buckled under the impact. Once. Twice. Splinters showered the floor as Logan staggered backward, heart roaring in his ears. On the third hit, the door exploded inward in a shower of shattered wood. Jagged shards ripped across his cheek as the creature burst through the frame, eyes blazing, claws slicing through the air as it batted aside a dresser like it was cardboard. One claw hooked into Logan’s jacket and tore fabric free as he threw himself aside.

            “Come on, come on!” he shouted to himself, sprinting toward the far door in blind panic. He grabbed the knob and twisted hard, it didn’t budge.

            “Shit—no, no, no!” He rammed his shoulder into the door. The wood cracked. He hit it again, and the old frame gave way entirely.

            And behind it was nothing.

            The floor simply wasn’t there.

            A yawning pit opened beneath him, swallowing the flashlight’s beam without a trace. Logan teetered on the crumbling edge, the boards beneath his shoes splintering with an ominous groan. He threw his arms forward and caught the doorframe, legs dangling over a black void that felt bottomless. Cold, damp air rose from below, carrying the smell of grave dirt and something older than rot.

            Behind him, claws clicked against wood as the creature approached.

            “Not good, not good…” he hissed through clenched teeth, hauling himself upward inch by inch. His fingers slipped once on the blood-slick frame, but he clung tighter, forcing himself upward even as pain flared down his torn back.

             The werewolf lunged.

Its claws raked across his shoulder blades, tearing fabric and flesh. The sudden, hot burst of pain nearly loosened his grip, and he slid a few inches down the frame. His head dipped dangerously close to the abyss just as the creature struck again, its claws slicing through the air where his skull had been a second earlier. Its momentum carried it forward too fast for it to stop. The beast’s claws ripped through the frame above him, shredding the wood into splinters.

            For a terrifying moment, their eyes met. Its yellow, burning eyes were inches from his—full of fury, hunger, and something almost aware, as if it recognized him just long enough to hate him.

            Then the creature fell.

            The weight of its body ripped a section of the floor free as it tumbled into the darkness, its roar spiraling downward, echoing through the pit until the sound no longer echoed at all. It didn’t crash. It didn’t hit bottom. The sound simply… faded, absorbed completely by the dark.

            Logan clung to the frame, gasping, his fingers bleeding, the gashes on his back dripping blood down his spine. He waited for another sound—any sound—but the house absorbed everything, swallowing the creature’s fall as though it had never happened.

            When he finally dragged himself back onto what counted as solid ground, the hallway he had fled was gone. Only a single crooked door remained, standing in a wall that absolutely had not been there before. He stared at it, chest rising and falling, when a whisper drifted through the wood—his name, spoken in a voice too close to his ear.

            “Shut up…” Logan rasped at the house, though it offered no apology.

            He collapsed onto the splintered floor, panting, every breath a sharp, burning reminder of the claws that had raked him. The world tilted around him as the house moaned and shifted, the walls contracting and expanding like the ribs of something enormous breathing just beneath the floorboards. He forced himself onto his knees, shaking with effort. His flashlight flickered weakly where it lay on the ground, the dim beam aimed directly at that crooked door—the one that should not have existed.

            “Trent… Matty…” he whispered, his voice nearly gone. The house swallowed their names. In the distance, faint laughter, childlike, high-pitched—echoed through unseen vents and cracks in the walls, weaving through the air until it felt like dozens of unseen mouths were giggling just out of sight.

            “I hate Halloween…” Logan muttered under his breath.

            Gritting his teeth, Logan snatched up the fallen flashlight. Pain tore down his back with every movement, but he forced himself upright, staggering as his body protested each step. A dark, uneven trail of blood marked the floor behind him, soaking into the splintered boards like the house was drinking it in. The air grew colder the closer he came to the crooked door—colder and heavier, as though something pressed down on his lungs, urging him to turn back.

            He reached for the knob.

            The moment his fingers brushed it, he recoiled.
            It was warm.
            Not warm like metal left near a radiator—warm like living flesh. Soft. Yielding. Almost… pulsing.

            Logan froze, breath stuttering, but the house groaned low around him, urging him forward with a pressure he felt more in his bones than his ears. Swallowing back a rising wave of nausea, he closed his hand around the fleshy knob. It shifted slightly beneath his grip, like a muscle contracting beneath skin.

            He forced the door open.

            A rush of stale air rolled over him—thick, humid, and so heavy with rot it made his eyes water. He raised the flashlight, the beam trembling violently as it cut through the murk. The room beyond was unfamiliar, though unfamiliar hardly began to describe it. The walls were damp and glistening, each panel rising and falling with a slow, steady rhythm, as though the entire chamber were part of some enormous breathing organism. Thin black veins pulsed faintly beneath the surface, carrying something sluggish through their branching networks.

            His heart hammered against his ribs.
            This wasn’t a room.
            It was an organ.

            And at the far end, standing perfectly still—something watched him.

            It took Logan a moment to process the shape. A woman’s silhouette stood in the corner, motionless except for the slight tilt of her head. Her outline was small and thin, framed by the quivering walls. The faint beam of his flashlight caught the suggestion of hair hanging over her shoulders, a dress flowing around her feet, and a mouth stretched into a too-wide smile.

            She didn’t blink.
            She didn’t breathe.

            She only smiled at him.

            The door slammed shut behind him with a sound like a snapping spine.

                                                             *

            Meanwhile, Trent and Matt moved carefully through the shifting halls, their steps soft but echoing strangely in the oppressive silence. The sound didn’t fade naturally, instead, it stretched on a moment too long, as if the house repeated their footsteps just behind them, mimicking them with a half-beat delay. The wallpaper didn’t help; its faded floral patterns curled into distorted faces whenever Trent looked away, the shapes dissolving back into harmless swirls the instant he turned his full attention toward them.

            “Keep your light up,” Trent whispered, forcing calm despite the rapid thud of his heartbeat.

            Matt nodded quickly, lifting his flashlight and gripping it with both hands as if it were a weapon. His knuckles were pale, his breathing shallow. “Where are we?” he asked, eyes flicking to every shifting shadow.

            “Same house,” Trent muttered. “Different rules.”

            Before Matt could respond, a soft voice drifted out of the darkness ahead of them. It wasn’t loud; in fact, it was almost gentle. But it made Trent’s blood go cold.

            “You’re getting closer…”

            He froze. He recognized that voice instantly.

            From the darkness, the vampire kid emerged—small, pale, grinning with an expression that felt carved into his face. His eyes were glossy black voids, reflecting no light at all. Blood stained his chin as if he had eaten messily, like a toddler who’d raided a bowl of melted chocolate.

He clapped slowly, mockingly, his smile stretching as though delighted by the moment.  “One down,” he said. “Three to go.”

            Trent’s jaw tightened until it ached. “You killed my friend.”

            The boy’s grin grew sharper, amused. “Friends die here all the time. But I didn’t kill him.” He tapped his temple as if correcting a silly mistake. “I only opened the door. The house did the rest.” His head tilted, listening to the deep creaks and sighs vibrating through the walls as if they whispered directly to him. “It likes you, Trent. It’s been waiting for someone who fights back.”

            Trent lifted the broken table leg, gripping it like a bat, ready to swing until his arms gave out. “Come closer and see how much I fight.”

            The boy’s laugh chimed through the hallway, a high, musical giggle that made the lights flicker violently, like they were afraid of the sound. “Oh, I will,” he said lightly. “But not yet.”

            Then the lights blew out.

            The darkness rushed in, thick and suffocating. The laughter didn’t vanish, it shifted. It slid behind them, then beside them, then above them, circling like a predator playing with prey. The walls expanded and contracted with a low groan, the sound like something ancient and starving awakening from the floorboards.

            “What do you want?” Trent demanded, pulling Matt behind him, pushing him back with trembling hands. His own pulse pounded in his ears.

            “You thought you were so cool…” the boy’s voice taunted. It came from nowhere and everywhere—behind them, at their backs, over their shoulders, whispering directly against the shell of Trent’s ear. “Hiding behind that mask…”

            Trent flinched as something cold brushed his cheek. Before he could react, pain blossomed hot and immediate as claws raked across the side of his face. He stumbled, sucking in a sharp breath, the sting of it radiating down his jaw and neck. Warm blood trickled down his cheek.

            He drew Matt closer, back pressing against the wall as he tried to form a plan through the panic. “Just let us out,” Trent said, his voice cracking despite himself. “We won’t tell anyone about you. Just let us go.”

            The boy’s form flickered into view just a few feet away, there one moment and gone the next, his body snapping into existence like a photograph appearing in a developing tray. His head tilted sideways at an unnatural angle, a broken, birdlike motion. His black eyes gleamed with an emotion that wasn’t quite amusement or malice—something deeper and more final.

            “Let you out?” he repeated softly. “There’s no letting you out.” He stepped closer, smiling wide enough that the corners of his mouth cracked. “You came in.”

            The walls pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

            “Now you’re part of it.”

            The boy moved faster than Trent’s eyes could track. One moment he stood several feet away, grinning with that unnatural, too-wide smile. The next, he was on Trent, his small hand clamped around Trent’s throat with the strength of a vice. His grip was iron, unyielding, merciless and his skin felt like carved marble, cold enough to burn. Trent’s breath hitched as the boy lifted him slightly off his feet, his nails digging in just enough to draw thin streams of blood.

            “The house won’t let you leave,” the boy hissed, leaning close enough that Trent could smell the sour reek of dirt and old blood on his breath. His lips curled, exposing long, needle-like fangs. “And neither will I. I hate wolves… and I hate pretenders even more.”

            Trent felt the first prick of fangs pierce his skin—the faint sting, the warmth of blood welling. His fingers spasmed, searching for anything, and brushed against the broken table leg he still held. That tiny flicker of awareness saved him. Desperation surged through him like raw electricity. Summoning everything he had left, he twisted the improvised weapon in his grip and drove it upward with all the force panic and adrenaline could give him.

            The sharpened wood plunged straight into the boy’s chest.

            The sound that tore out of the creature was not human. It screeched like metal being peeled apart, a shrill, ear-splitting wail that vibrated through Trent’s bones. Blood erupted from the wound, hot, thick, coppery—and splattered across Trent’s face in a steaming wave. The boy staggered back but didn’t let go immediately. Even impaled, he clung to Trent’s neck with a deathlike determination, squeezing until the last possible second before hurling Trent across the hall.

            Trent slammed into the opposite wall, the impact knocking the breath out of him. He collapsed onto the warped boards, coughing, vision blurring as he forced himself onto his elbows. Across the hallway, the boy swayed in place, his small body twitching in broken angles, the table leg protruding from his chest like a stake. Dark, tar-like blood leaked from the wound in slow, viscous ropes.

            “The house…” he rasped, his voice fracturing into static. His black eyes flickered like dying embers. “It won’t let you leave. It won’t let any of us leave. We only…” His words dissolved, swallowed by a sudden sharp intake of breath.

            His eyes widened.

            Then he ignited.

            Flames burst from the wound—thin at first, then surging upward in a violent, hungry wave that engulfed his entire body. The fire wasn’t like normal fire; it crawled across his skin in crawling tendrils, devouring him with unnatural speed. The air filled with the thick, sweet stench of burning flesh and melted plastic.

            Matt screamed, stumbling backward until he collided with the wall, his flashlight trembling wildly in his grip. The burning figure collapsed inward, skin blackening, bones curling as the flame consumed him in seconds. His outline twisted into something unrecognizable—a shape crumpled in defeat and frozen forever in agony.

            “What… the hell…” Trent croaked. His throat burned from the boy’s grip and from smoke that didn’t behave like any smoke he’d ever breathed. He forced himself upright and staggered toward Matty, grabbing the boy’s arm and pulling him close once more.

            “Don’t look,” he whispered, his voice ragged and raw. Matty buried his face against Trent’s shoulder, trembling as Trent guided them around the smoldering corpse. The flames sizzled wetly, licking across the charred remains, casting flickering shadows that danced across the walls like excited children.

            Then, from somewhere deep within the structure—behind the floorboards, inside the walls, in the bones of the house itself—a sound rolled outward.

            Laughter.

            It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even clearly shaped. It was the faint sound of amusement, distant and echoing, layered over itself like the giggles of unseen children hiding in the dark.

            And it was pleased.