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.