The lemon just sat there. Silent. Ordinary.
But Elias couldn't stop staring at it. Cut in half. Flesh shining wet in the sunlight.
It looked… wrong.
He didn't know why. It was just a lemon. But it felt like it was watching him.
That was ridiculous.
He turned away, rubbed his face with both hands, and muttered, "Get a grip."
But when he looked back,
It was whole again.
Still on the table. Still glistening. But not cut anymore. No juice. No sign it had ever been sliced.
He froze.
He hadn't heard it change. Hadn't blinked. Hadn't looked away for more than a second.
He approached slowly, picked it up.
Cold this time. Very cold.
He turned it over in his hands, searching for a seam, a scar, anything that might explain it.
Nothing.
Just a perfect lemon.
He placed it gently back down, backed away, and turned toward the hallway.
Only... it wasn't the same hallway.
It was longer now. Not just a little. Much longer.
It stretched farther than it had any right to. Too many steps. Too many doors. More photos now—lined up side by side, endless rows of smiling strangers.
The same mother. The same child. The same man.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each photo identical, down to the smallest wrinkle in the man's shirt. He could count the folds. Trace the laugh lines. It was like someone had copied and pasted the same moment, over and over, across the wall.
Elias's chest tightened.
He reached out and plucked one frame off the wall.
Behind it, another.
The same photo. Fused into the wall. The man. The child. The rabbit.
He took a step back.
Then two.
The lights in the hallway flickered.
He turned around.
The kitchen wasn't behind him anymore.
Just another hallway.
Same photos.
Same light.
Same lemon, now sitting in the middle of the floor, uncut, staring up at him like a pet waiting to be picked up.
"Nope," he whispered, voice catching.
He spun on his heel and walked fast, pushing past the photos, past the crooked frame he'd fixed and re-fixed and re-fixed again. He took a left, then a right, then another left.
He should've been back in the sitting room by now.
Instead, he was in the kitchen.
Again.
He stopped.
Didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just breathed.
The lemon was on the counter again.
This time, two of them.
Both cut in half.
Perfectly.
He walked up and touched one. His fingers came away sticky.
Then he touched the second,
It was soft.
And pulsing.
He snatched his hand back like he'd been burned. His breath hitched in his throat. He backed up until he hit the fridge.
The lemons sat motionless.
Until one of them twitched.
Just a little.
A ripple across the pulp, like something just beneath the surface had shifted.
Elias opened the fridge.
There was nothing inside.
Except spoons.
Dozens of them.
Perfectly stacked, polished clean. The reflection of his own eyes stared back from every surface.
He shut it slowly.
Turned.
Now three lemons on the table.
All cut.
All bleeding.
Not juice, something darker. Thicker.
It dripped onto the floor with a soft, wet plip.
He backed into the hallway again, heart pounding now, loud in his ears. The light was dimmer this time. Not golden. More… gray. Like the sun had disappeared without warning.
His footsteps echoed louder than they should've.
He passed the mirror again.
It was taller now.
Wider.
He stopped. Looked.
His reflection stared back.
Expressionless.
Then, without warning, it smiled.
Elias didn't.
The reflection's smile grew wider.
Then it raised a hand and pressed it to the glass.
Elias felt it.
Cold, clammy pressure against his chest. Not his hand. His chest.
He staggered back, gasping, heart pounding.
The glass fogged up.
One word appeared in the condensation:
"STAY"
He backed away slowly, trembling now. The hallway was silent again.
No wind.
No ticking.
No sound at all.
Then he heard it.
The walls were breathing.
He could hear it now. The soft, rhythmic push of air. The hallway seemed to expand and contract with every step he took. Subtle, but real.
It wasn't a house anymore.
It didn't feel like one.
It was more like a body.
A thing with organs and intent.
Elias gripped the edge of the nearest doorway, trying to steady himself, but even the wood beneath his fingers felt wrong, too smooth, too warm. Like skin.
He pulled his hand back.
His breath came faster now, shallow and sharp. Every instinct he had, every logical reflex,was screaming at him to stop, to leave, but the problem was, there was no exit. There were only more rooms.
More loops.
More eyes.
Because that's what the mirrors were now. He could feel them watching. Not reflecting. Not echoing. Watching.
He passed one, and though he didn't look, he felt it tilt. Just slightly. As if it were leaning toward him.
He kept walking.
Faster now.
He passed the same photo for the sixth time. The same lemon now lying in a hallway chair like a forgotten pet. The same mug, broken now, shards laid out in a perfect circle around the base of a lamp that hadn't been there before.
Everything was moving.
But only when he wasn't watching.
He spun around.
Nothing.
Spun back.
Now the photo frame was crooked again.
His chest rose and fell rapidly. His coat felt tight across his shoulders. His hands shook. He didn't try to stop it anymore.
This wasn't memory tricks.
This wasn't hallucination.
"You're not a house," he said aloud, his voice low, cracking. "You're something else."
The floor creaked behind him.
He turned.
No one there.
But the hallway was shorter now.
And darker.
The walls had narrowed, just a little, like they were folding in.
He took a step back.
The walls expanded again.
Another step forward.
The walls tightened.
It's breathing in rhythm with me.
He stopped walking.
Held his breath.
Held.
Held.
Held.
He exhaled.
The walls breathed out, slow and deep, and the lights flickered with it, like nerves firing in some massive spine just beneath the wood and plaster.
He dropped to his knees, not out of weakness, but from the weight of it. The sheer presence pressing in from every angle. It wasn't trying to scare him now.
It was trying to understand him.
To learn his steps.
His heartbeat.
His logic.
Like a predator learning the shape of its prey before the pounce.
He looked up. There was a door in front of him. Not the same one from earlier. This one was red. A deep, dark red, like it had been painted with something thick and old.
He stood.
Approached it slowly.
Put his ear to the wood.
No sound. But the handle was warm.
He turned it.
The room beyond was pitch black.
No windows. No lights. No shapes.
He stepped in.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Total darkness.
Elias didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He heard it again.
Breathing.
But not his.
Deeper.
Lower.
Not through lungs, but through walls.
And then,
A sound.
Something dragging across the floor behind him.
No footsteps. Just a slow pull. Heavy. Wet.
He turned, nothing.
Then in front of him, light.
A sliver of it, splitting the dark. A crack in the floor, glowing faintly. Pulsing.
He knelt.
Touched it.
Warm.
Sticky.
He pulled his fingers back, and for the second time, found blood with no wound.
His chest clenched, fear gripping him tightly.
He looked around, the black pressing in, and whispered,
"You're not haunted.
"You're hungry."
The walls shivered around him.
Something creaked above.
A groan, long, low, satisfied.
Then the lights came on.
He was in the kitchen again.
Everything back in place.
Except this time, the table was set for one.
A plate.
A cup.
And a lemon.
Already sliced.
Waiting.