Sophie lived in a house of horrors.
At least, that’s what the children on the street whispered. They said the shutters banged at night when no wind blew, and pale faces pressed against the attic windows. The mailman dropped letters on the front step without ever climbing it, as though the porch boards might bite.
But for Sophie, the house wasn’t haunted—it was alive. Its walls creaked like old bones, but they shifted too, widening a hallway when she needed space, or squeezing it tight when she wasn’t welcome. The kitchen sink hummed lullabies in pipes that had never seen a plumber. Sometimes the mirrors refused to show her reflection at all, filling instead with someone else’s eyes.
Her parents had vanished long ago, swallowed by the house in a silence so complete that Sophie stopped asking where they’d gone. The house fed her in strange ways—loaves of bread that appeared on the table, glasses of water filled by unseen hands. It whispered her name when she was lonely. And when she tried to run, the doors locked, the windows fogged, and the ground outside twisted into paths that led her back.
One night, Sophie woke to the sound of breathing. Not her own, not the house’s familiar groans, but something heavier, closer. A shadow stretched across her bedroom wall, bending unnaturally at the corners.
“Sophie,” it rasped, a voice like rusted hinges.
The house shuddered in protest. Floorboards rippled under her bed, urging her to stay still. But the shadow reached for her anyway, its fingers long enough to scrape across the ceiling.
For the first time, Sophie wondered:
Was the house protecting her… or keeping her for itself?
Therapy Bits 
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