The House That Whispers

The House That Learned My Name I moved into the house because it was cheap.

That alone should have been a warning. It stood at the edge of Barangay San Isidro,

half-hidden by acacia trees, its paint the color of old bones. The real estate

agent didn’t step inside with me. She stayed on the porch, keys shaking in

her hand. “No one’s lived there long,” she said. “But the house is…

solid.” Solid. Not safe. Not quiet. Just solid.

The first night, I slept with the lights on. The house breathed. Not metaphorically—literally.

At midnight, the walls expanded with a long, wet sigh. The floorboards