Part 4 (Final) — The House That Answers Back

The call kept ringing.

Detective Harlan.

My thumb hovered over the screen, trembling so badly I almost dropped the phone.

Outside, the officers were shouting, slamming their shoulders into the bedroom door upstairs.

But the house didn’t budge.

It held them out like it was protecting what it had already eaten.

Rain poured harder, drowning the street in silver noise.

The porch light flickered.

Then steadied.

Like an eye opening.

Officer Jackson ran down the stairs, face pale.

“She’s gone,” he rasped.

Someone grabbed him. “Who? Nancy?”

He shook his head violently.

“No… the detective.”

The words hit like a punch.

Officer Lee whispered, “That’s not possible. He was right there.”

Jackson’s voice cracked.

“The room… it’s empty. The mirror is broken. There’s nothing but mud.”

A horrible silence fell over the group.

Then—

My phone buzzed again.

Still ringing.

Still waiting.

The name on the screen didn’t change.

Detective Harlan.

The dispatcher voice echoed from a radio nearby:

“All units, respond—neighbor reports screaming from inside the house.”

Officer Jackson snapped, “We’re already here!”

But the dispatcher wasn’t finished.

“…No. Another house.”

Everyone froze.

“What?” Jackson whispered.

The dispatcher swallowed audibly.

“A house three blocks away.”

My stomach dropped.

Officer Lee’s eyes widened.

“It’s spreading…”

The front door creaked again.

Slow.

Inviting.

Officer Jackson backed up, shaking his head.

“No. No way. We’re not going back in.”

But then…

A voice floated from inside the doorway.

Soft.

Familiar.

Human.

“H-help…”

Every officer stiffened.

It was Detective Harlan.

Weak.

Broken.

“Please… don’t leave me.”

Officer Lee stepped forward.

“Harlan? Where are you?”

The voice answered from deep inside the dark hallway.

“Upstairs…”

Officer Jackson grabbed Lee’s arm.

“That’s not him.”

Lee snapped, “It is him! I heard him!”

Jackson hissed, “Listen to yourself! That house ate him!”

The voice came again, clearer now.

“Open the door…”

Officer Jackson whispered, horrified.

“The door is already open…”

Then we heard it.

A second voice.

Right behind the first.

Nancy’s voice.

Smiling.

Layered.

Wrong.

“He answered.”

The porch light died.

Darkness swallowed the doorway.

And something shifted inside.

Not footsteps.

Not breathing.

More like… a room rearranging itself.

Like the house was making space.

Officer Lee raised his gun.

“Harlan, come outside!”

The voice sobbed.

“I can’t… it won’t let me…”

Then a whisper, almost tender:

“It wants someone else.”

My phone buzzed so hard it felt alive.

The screen changed.

No longer Detective Harlan.

No longer Nancy.

Just three words:

YOUR TURN NOW.

My blood turned to ice.

I stepped back instinctively.

Officer Jackson shouted, “Everyone away from the house!”

But it was too late.

The front door slammed shut.

Not just closed—

Sealed.

Locked.

The windows went black, like eyes rolling back.

Inside, the walls groaned.

And then—

The house began to ring.

Not a phone.

The entire house.

A vibration humming through wood and nails and silence.

Officer Jackson pounded the door.

“Open up! OPEN UP!”

No handle moved.

No lock clicked.

Only that humming…

Like a lullaby.

Officer Lee whispered, voice shaking.

“What is this place?”

Officer Jackson stared at the door like it was staring back.

“A trap,” he said.

“A mouth.”

The humming stopped.

And then the final sound came:

A phone ringing.

From inside Officer Jackson’s pocket.

He froze.

Slowly reached down.

Pulled it out.

Incoming call.

Nancy Guthrie.

Jackson’s lips trembled.

“No…”

The call answered itself.

And Nancy’s voice whispered sweetly:

“You opened the door.”

Jackson screamed as the porch light exploded—

And the house went silent again.

The next morning, the news reported:

Four officers missing.

No bodies.

No signs of struggle.

Only mud on the upstairs carpet.

Only shattered glass.

And on the front porch…

Five phones.

Lined neatly in a row.

All dead.

All cracked.

All waiting.

That night, in my apartment, I sat with every light on.

Trying not to breathe too loudly.

Trying not to listen.

Then—

My phone buzzed.

One time.

Two.

Incoming call.

The name made my soul leave my body.

Nancy Guthrie.

And beneath it, a message:

Open the door — walk free — ever wakefully.

I stared at the screen.

I didn’t answer.

I didn’t move.

But across the hall…

Somebody did.

A neighbor’s door creaked open.

And somewhere far away…

A house began humming again.