The Dwelling That Took a Bride

The cabin was supposed to be empty. That’s what the woman on the phone had promised: No neighbours, no interruptions, and no ghosts but your own.

Lena arrived at dusk, carrying only a travel bag and a body that still remembered the man who had left her. The house stood in a clearing, wooden bones bleached by time and windows glowing faintly, as though it had been expecting her.

Inside, the air was warm, too warm for June. Dust shimmered in the lamplight like spores. The caretaker had left her a single note on the table:

The house likes to be wanted. Keep the windows shut after dark.

Lena laughed softly. People always said strange things in lonely places. She unpacked, made tea, and walked through the rooms. The wood creaked like a heartbeat underfoot. In the mirror by the corridor, her reflection looked feverish, her skin somehow pallid. When she touched her forehead, it was cool.

That night, she dreamt the house was breathing. The walls swelled and fell, inhaling her scent. When she woke, her nightdress clung to her body, damp with sweat, and the air had grown hotter. She cracked a window; the fog outside pressed against the glass, refusing to part.

By the third day, she’d stopped keeping time. The house seemed to pulse with her moods; heat when she felt lonely, cool when she read aloud, and still when she cried. Sometimes, she heard something moving beneath the floorboards: slow, shifting, like fabric dragged across wood.

She began to talk to the house. Small things, at first, “Do you like the quiet?”, until the silences between her words felt like replies. The air around her carried warmth that bordered on human. It soothed her, almost like arms.

At night, she dreamed of him, or something wearing his face. The house trembled when she woke, as though jealous. She found herself whispering to the walls. “You’re all I need,” she said once, half-asleep. The ceiling dripped condensation that rolled down onto her lips like sweat. It tasted faintly sweet.

By the fifth night, her body burned. She lay in bed, breath shallow, heart racing as if someone were beside her. The lamp flickered, dimmed, and flared again. Then, she felt it, a touch, light as air, fingers tracing the curve of her throat.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The floorboards answered with a groan that sounded almost like her name.

When the caretaker returned the next morning to deliver fresh beddings, she found the windows fogged from inside. The key was still in the door, but the handle was hot to the touch.

She knocked. No answer. She pushed the door open, and stopped.

The air hit her like breath from an oven. The walls dripped moisture, the curtains hung limp and wet, and the entire house throbbed faintly, as if alive.

On the bed lay Lena, perfectly still, eyes open and glassy. Her skin gleamed as though lit from within, a soft glow spreading down her collarbones, into the sheets.

The caretaker whispered her name. The glow pulsed once, and the house exhaled. The temperature dropped, and the walls went still.

The caretaker stepped back, trembling. “The house likes to be wanted,” she murmured again, her voice breaking. “But it doesn’t like to be left.”

Outside, the fog folded over the clearing, sealing it whole. Through the window, Lena’s body looked almost peaceful, except for the faint movement under her ribs, as though something beneath the skin had begun to breathe for her.