We got the house for almost nothing. The agent said the price was low for a reason, then waited until we'd signed to explain. Every family who lived here stopped talking eventually. "Not moved away," she said. "Stopped speaking. All of them." That first night, my sister Mara and I sat in the empty living room. Whenever we spoke, the house went very still. Like it was leaning in to hear.

Mara refused to be scared by a house. That night she stood in the hallway and shouted, "If you can hear me, do something!" The lights stayed on. Nothing moved. But the air went thick, and somewhere in the walls there was a soft sound, like a held breath being let out slowly.

The held breath in the walls became a habit. Every night the house breathed when we spoke and went still when we didn't. Mara started talking less just to keep it quiet. Within a week she barely spoke at all, and I realized the house had trained her like a pet, one silence at a time.

By the second week, neither of us spoke at all. We just nodded and pointed. It felt easier, safer, like giving in was what the house wanted. When the agent called to check in, I opened my mouth to answer and only air came out. Now I understood why none of them ever moved away. They simply had nothing left to say.