The House That Breathes

Journal Entry – November 27, 1871

The fog has taken the house.

It seeps through the floorboards in the morning and clings to the rafters by night. When I walk the hall, it follows in thin ribbons, coiling around my ankles like cats. Every door I open exhales — warm, damp, faintly sweet.

Last night, as I turned down the beds, I heard the walls breathe. A long inhale through plaster and wood, then a sigh that carried my name inside it. The guests didn’t stir. Perhaps they no longer hear what I do. Or perhaps they’re only pretending not to.

I tried to light the hearth in the common room. The flame sputtered once, then folded inward, devoured by smoke that moved against the draft. The ash rose in slow spirals, forming letters before falling apart:

K A T E.

I stood there until the room went still again.

When I passed the mirror in the hall, I saw movement in its reflection — not behind me, but beneath the surface, like the glass itself was breathing in time with the house. I touched it once. It was warm.

Upstairs, Mrs. Crane murmured in her sleep, repeating words I recognized from the book. Her voice and the wind spoke in unison — perfect harmony, unnatural. I closed her door and pressed my back to it, feeling the pulse of something vast move through the walls, through her, through me.

The house doesn’t creak anymore. It listens.

And when I breathe, it answers.