This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.

The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Psychological-Sir18 on 2025-09-22 02:50:24+00:00.

I never really wanted the house. It was too big for me, too quiet, and the wallpaper curled like dried skin in the corners. But the price was right, and my parents kept saying it was time I had a place of my own. So I signed the papers, told myself the quirks were just character, and moved in.

The first few nights were fine. I slept on the couch because the bedroom upstairs didn’t feel right. The air up there was heavy, like walking into a room where someone had been crying for hours. It smelled faintly of dust and old sweat. I told myself I would clean it eventually, once I got settled.

But I avoided it. Without even meaning to, I gave it wide berth in the hallway. I would stare straight ahead, refusing to glance at the door, even though every nerve in me wanted to. It wasn’t fear exactly. It was more like a dare, as if the house was waiting to see if I would look.

By the fourth night, I started hearing it.

Not the creaks of an old frame or the occasional sigh of pipes. These were softer, intentional. Fabric shifting against carpet. The groan of weight pressing into floorboards in slow, careful increments. Sometimes a breath, almost human but not quite right, too long and strained, as if whoever was inside didn’t want to be noticed.

I made rules. Do not linger in the hallway. Do not touch the doorknob. Do not acknowledge the noises. If I followed the rules, I would be fine.

But the dreams broke everything.

I kept having the same one. I would be standing at the upstairs door, my hand on the knob, cheek against the wood. On the other side, breathing. Shallow, uneven, like someone listening back. Sometimes it was faster, like excitement. Sometimes it matched my own, perfectly in sync. When I woke, my ear would ache, red and sore, as though I had pressed it to something hard for hours.

Last night, I broke the rules.

I was coming down the hall when I heard it, louder than ever. Not faint anymore. Deliberate. A dragging, like bare feet over carpet. Then a pause. Then another step. Each one closer to the door.

And I froze. Every muscle locked, but my voice slipped out before I could stop it. A whisper. “Hello?”

The sound stopped.

The silence was thick, ringing in my ears like pressure under water. I could feel the weight of attention on the other side, a listening that was too sharp, too focused. Then it came, slow and undeniable, the sound of something standing. Floorboards groaning under a full weight.

I ran. I didn’t care about rules anymore. I locked myself downstairs, every light on, TV muted because I didn’t want to miss another sound. I didn’t sleep.

This morning, I told myself it had been stress, exhaustion, maybe even a half-dream. I almost believed it. Until I went upstairs.

The door was open.

Not wide. Just a few inches. Enough to see the dark inside. The carpet had indentations in it, pressed deep where bare feet had stood, facing the hall. And the air… it stank. Damp, metallic. Like pennies rubbed against skin.

I haven’t touched the door. I am writing this from the kitchen, every light on again, but it doesn’t feel bright enough.

Because now, even down here, I can hear the floorboards upstairs. That same slow, dragging step. Crossing the room. Closer to the doorway.

I don’t think it is waiting for me to come in anymore.

I think it is coming out.