THE HOUSE THAT BREATHES

THE HOUSE THAT BREATHES

The air smelled like mothballs and something older, something wet.

Every step up the stairs made the wood whine as if warning me.

The attic door was padlocked, but the key from my father’s desk fit perfectly.

Inside, dust swirled in the dim light from a single grime-covered window.

Boxes of old clothes, yellowed newspapers, and broken toys littered the space.

But in the far corner, half-hidden under a stained white sheet, stood a child’s rocking chair.

And it was moving.