Willing Victims
The walls were whispering again. Not in voices, not in words-just the soft, sticky murmurs of secrets clinging to cold stone. I had counted the cracks in the ceiling a thousand times, named the ghosts that walked behind my eyelids, and rehearsed my apologies for sins I didn't remember committing. But tonight, the silence was different. Heavy. Waiting. I pressed my palm against the rough plaster and felt it pulse, like a heartbeat beneath the skin of the house. The air tasted like ash and forgotten prayers. Some people say the past is a story you tell yourself to sleep. I say it's a monster you feed with every lie. Tonight, I fed mine. And it woke hungry.
