They arrived just before sunset.

The house stood at the end of a narrow road, old and withdrawn, as if it had stepped back from the world on purpose. Paint peeled like tired skin. Windows stared without curiosity. The gate groaned open reluctantly—not angry, just unused.

She stepped out of the car first.

The moment her foot touched the ground, the house reacted.

Not visibly.

Not dramatically.

But the air shifted—subtle, almost reverent—like a held breath finally released.

She didn’t notice.

He did.

Her husband slammed the car door behind him and scanned the place with satisfaction.

“Big,” he said. “Quiet. No neighbours to interfere.”

She nodded, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag.

The house watched her closely then.

Not her face—

her shoulders.

The slight inward curve of her spine.

The way she stood as if apologising for taking space.

When she crossed the threshold, the floorboard beneath her warmed.

Only under her.

Inside, the house smelled of dust and something older—wood, ash, memories that refused to rot.

Her husband dropped the suitcase carelessly, already irritated. “Why are you standing like that? Go open the windows. It’s suffocating.”

She moved immediately.

As she reached for the heavy curtains, her fingers brushed the fabric—

—and the curtains parted on their own.

She froze.

Just for a second.

Then she laughed it off, breathless.

“Draft,” she murmured, to no one.

From the staircase above, something unseen leaned forward.

Interested.

Her husband didn’t notice anything. He was busy complaining about the internet signal, the distance, the “waste of money” even though this house had been his idea.

He followed her into the bedroom.

The bed was old. Solid. Too large for the room.

She placed her bag down carefully.

Her husband scoffed.

“Don’t get sentimental. It’s just a house.”

The house disagreed.

That night, she unpacked alone while he spoke loudly on the phone in the next room—his voice lighter, softer than it ever was with her.

She folded her clothes slowly, hands precise.

When she bent to place something in the drawer, her breath hitched suddenly—

A strange pressure rested against her lower back.

Not force.

Not weight.

Support.

She straightened instantly, heart racing.

Nothing was there.

But the air behind her remained warm.

Later, when her husband shouted—annoyed, sharp, careless—the sound echoed harshly against the walls.

She flinched.

Before she could shrink any further, the curtains in the bedroom drew closed.

Firmly.

Decisively.

Her husband turned.

“What the hell?”

No wind.

No reason.

The house had made a choice.

That night, she lay on the bed facing the wall, knees drawn up, silent.

Her husband slept with his back to her.

She stared at the darkness.

And in that darkness—

Something sat beside the bed.

Close enough that if he were alive, she would feel his breath.

He did not touch her.

He only watched.

Watched the tremor in her fingers.

The shallow breathing.

The way she curled inward, protecting what no one else ever had.

His hands clenched slowly at his sides.

Not in hunger.

In restraint.

> Not yet, the house seemed to whisper through him.

Let her arrive first.

Above them, the ceiling creaked softly—

not threatening—

almost like a promise.

End of Chapter 1

hold on my cutties it's just starting. 🫰🏻🫠

Rosie learned quickly that the house sounded different in daylight.

Less heavy.

Less watchful.

Almost ordinary.

That helped her breathe.

Durin left early that morning, already irritated, already distant. He kissed her cheek mechanically at the door—his version of kindness—and she smiled when he did it. A soft, quick smile. The kind that didn’t ask for anything back.

When the door shut, the smile stayed a second longer.

Then it fell.

She stood there for a long time, keys still in her hand, listening to the silence. The house did nothing. No sounds. No warmth. No strange shifts.

Good, she thought.

Good. I imagined everything.

She cleaned.

Cleaning always helped. It gave her hands something to do while her thoughts stayed quiet. She wiped surfaces that were already clean. Rearranged boxes she had already unpacked.

When her phone buzzed, her stomach tightened.

Durin’s name.

She answered immediately.

“Where’s my grey shirt?” he asked.

“In the suitcase. The left one.”

“I checked. It’s not there.”

Her heart began to race. “I’ll look again.”

“You always say that.”

“I will,” she said softly. “I promise.”

He hung up.

She found the shirt exactly where she’d said it was.

She folded it carefully. Smoothed the creases. Practised the smile she’d wear when she handed it to him later.

He came home earlier than expected.

She heard his footsteps before she heard his voice. The sound alone made her shoulders draw in.

“Why didn’t you answer my messages?” he snapped.

“I was in the shower,” she said, holding the shirt out to him. “Look, it was—”

He slapped her.

Not hard enough to knock her down.

Hard enough to sting.

Hard enough to hum in her ears.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t speak.

She just stood there, eyes wide, hand still holding the shirt between them.

For a moment, Durin looked surprised. Not guilty. Just… inconvenienced.

“Don’t stand there like that,” he muttered. “You make things worse.”

He took the shirt and walked away.

Rosie stayed where she was.

Her cheek burned. Her throat felt tight, like something was lodged there but refused to come out. Tears gathered—but she blinked them back immediately.

Crying made him angry.

She learned that early.

She went to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, pressed a cold cloth to her skin. In the mirror,

she smiled.

A small one.

Convincing.

When she stepped out, Durin was already on his phone, laughing softly. Not with her. Never with her.

She passed him quietly.

“I made tea,” she said.

He didn’t answer.

That night, she lay on the bed facing the wall.

Durin slept quickly. He always did. Like a man who had nothing chasing him.

Rosie’s face still hurt. Not enough to bruise. Enough to remember.

She pulled the blanket higher, curling in on herself.

The house remained still.

Then—very faintly—

the mattress dipped.

Not like someone sitting.

Like weight settling into memory.

Rosie froze.

Her breathing turned shallow.

This wasn’t comforting.

This wasn’t warm.

This was wrong.

Her fingers clenched into the blanket. She didn’t move. Didn’t look. Pretended sleep the way she’d learned to.

Behind her, something shifted.

Not closer.

Just… present.

A coolness brushed the air near her cheek—not touching skin, not quite. The pain eased slightly. Not vanished. Just dulled, like pressure lifted.

Rosie swallowed.

It’s the house, she told herself.

Old places make noises.

She squeezed her eyes shut harder.

The presence did not push.

Did not hold.

Did not claim.

It stayed exactly where it was.

Watching.

Learning.

Understanding—for the first time—that the man beside her was capable of much worse.

And that she would endure it silently.

Again.

End of Episode 2

Hold on cuties it's just the starting.🫠🫰🏻

Rosie noticed it before nightfall.

Durin’s mood.

He was quieter than usual. Not angry. Not sharp. Almost… attentive. He asked what she’d cooked. Commented on the light in the room. Sat closer than he had all day.

She recognised the signs.

They always came on days when his phone stayed silent.

She told herself not to think about that.

---

At dinner, he watched her more than the food.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“I’m tired,” she replied, quickly smiling. “The move.”

“Hmm.”

He reached for her hand briefly, then let go like the gesture had completed a task.

Rosie smiled again. A little wider this time. The smile she used when she wanted peace.

The house stayed still.

But somewhere inside it, something was watching carefully.

---

Night came.

Durin turned off the light and lay down beside her. He didn’t ask. He never did. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer—not roughly, not kindly. Automatically.

Rosie’s body stiffened before her mind reacted.

She didn’t resist.

She didn’t lean in either.

She stared at the wall, breath shallow, waiting for it to be over—whatever it meant tonight.

Behind the wall of darkness, something unseen stood very still.

Arav watched.

Not with anger.

With recognition.

---

Durin’s touch was absent-minded. Impersonal. His attention drifted even as his body moved closer, seeking comfort rather than connection. Rosie felt it clearly—the way he always reached for her only when something else had failed him.

A substitute.

A habit.

A reassurance of ownership.

Her eyes burned, but no tears fell.

She went somewhere quiet inside herself. Somewhere practiced.

---

Arav learned three things that night.

First:

Durin touched her only when he needed something.

Second:

Rosie did not move toward him—not even unconsciously.

Third:

She endured in silence, the way people do when resistance has already been punished out of them.

Arav’s hands clenched at his sides.

He wanted to pull Durin away.

Wanted to place himself between them.

Wanted to give Rosie space—air—choice.

He did nothing.

Not yet.

Restraint had kept him human once.

It would have to do so again.

---

When it ended, Durin turned away almost immediately, already retreating into sleep.

Rosie lay still for a long moment.

Then she shifted carefully, reclaiming a few inches of space.

Her breathing evened out slowly.

Behind her, the air changed—so subtly she might have imagined it.

Cooler.

Protective.

Not touching her.

Never touching her.

Just present.

---

The next morning, Rosie woke up early.

She moved quietly, making tea, humming softly to herself. When Durin came in, she smiled brightly, like nothing had happened. Like she was fine. Like she always was.

He accepted the smile without question.

The house remembered everything.

And Arav did too.

---

End of Episode 3

See ya Cutiees🫠🫰🏻

see the other episode also give feedback

And what next you wish for.

Well say dyou believeve in ghosts.

well I do I am one 😂