The first time we stepped into the house, something in me whispered yes. The air was still, old wood creaked softly, and the sunlight fell in long, golden lines across the dusty floorboards. Rafe looked around, grinning, his hand brushing mine. “Feels like ours already,” he’d said. And it did — too much so.

At first, everything felt like a dream. We unpacked, argued about furniture placement, laughed at the way the floors complained under our feet. But nights… nights grew stranger.

It began subtly — the scrape of something heavy moving across the floor downstairs, soft taps against the wall beside my head while I tried to sleep. Rafe said it was pipes or wind. I tried to believe him, but the sounds had rhythm, intention.

Then came the bruises. Small at first, then darker, spreading like fingerprints from something unseen. Rafe noticed before I did. “Maybe I was too rough,” he said softly, guilt in his eyes. But I knew it wasn’t him. The marks were too deliberate, too cold when I touched them.

He started changing after that. At night, I’d wake and see him standing by the bed, his back rigid, eyes unfocused, whispering things I couldn’t make out. The first time, I thought he was dreaming. The second time, I realized his lips were moving in words that didn’t sound like his own.

During the day, he’d act normal, even tender — brushing my hair behind my ear, pressing kisses to my shoulder. But sometimes, he’d stop mid-sentence, eyes flickering like he was listening to something else. Once, I caught him staring into the dark hallway, his face blank. “It wants to be born,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.

That night, I dreamt of a woman in white, her face hidden by her hair, standing in the nursery we hadn’t built yet. She turned toward me, and where her eyes should’ve been were hollow, black wells that pulled the air from my lungs.

When I woke, Rafe was beside me, smiling softly, his hand resting on my stomach. “You’ll be a perfect mother,” he whispered.

I froze. We’d never talked about kids. My heart pounded as I looked into his eyes — they weren’t blue anymore. Not fully. There was a shadow behind them, something ancient and knowing.

Days blurred. The house groaned more, shadows stretched longer. Rafe barely ate. I caught him once in the cellar, kneeling, muttering to the wall. When I called his name, he looked up — and for a heartbeat, it wasn’t his face. It was something older, cracked and smiling through his skin.

I started sleeping with the lights on. Still, I’d wake to that faint murmur: “It chose you. It always chooses the mother.”

The last night I remember, the air was heavy, electric. I found Rafe in the nursery — the one we hadn’t finished painting. He was standing in the corner, whispering. The air smelled like iron and rain. “It’s almost time,” he said when I stepped closer. “It’s been waiting for her to return.”

The light flickered. My vision blurred. I swear the walls pulsed — breathing, almost. And then, a soft whisper brushed my ear: thank you.

When I blinked, Rafe was gone. Only the sound of a heartbeat remained — deep within the walls.

And now, sometimes, I think I hear a baby crying somewhere in the house. But we never had a baby.

Did we?