What happened to the Livingston family that caused their sudden disappearance three months ago? Why do neighbors report seeing lights moving through the empty rooms at night? What's the significance of the peculiar geometric patterns carved into the second-floor windowsills? Why does the house seem to shift and creak even on windless evenings?
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“Your past is a place for reference, not residence.”
― Ifeanyi Enoch Onuoha
Margaret Chen had always prided herself on being practical, methodical in her real estate evaluations. The Livingston Residence appeared perfect on paper—two stories of solid craftsmanship, reasonable price, respectable neighborhood. Yet something felt wrong the moment she stepped through the front door.
The house breathed around her. Not literally, of course—Margaret dismissed such fanciful thoughts immediately. Old houses settled, wood expanded and contracted. The rhythmic creaking that seemed to follow her footsteps was merely coincidence. The way shadows appeared to pool in corners despite the afternoon sunlight streaming through clean windows was simply a trick of architecture.
On the ground floor, she discovered the previous owner’s study. Books lined the walls, their spines bearing titles in languages she couldn’t identify. A leather-bound journal lay open on the desk, filled with increasingly erratic handwriting. The final entries spoke of “convergent angles” and “the thinning of barriers.” Margaret closed it quickly, telling herself she wasn’t interested in the ramblings of an eccentric old man.
That night, alone in her apartment, Margaret found herself sketching. Her hand moved without conscious direction, creating geometric patterns that seemed familiar yet impossible. The same patterns she’d noticed carved faintly into the second-floor windowsills of the Livingston house. She stared at her drawing until her eyes watered, then crumpled the paper and threw it away.
She returned the next day to complete her evaluation, but the house had changed. Rooms seemed larger, hallways longer. The study’s books had rearranged themselves—or perhaps her memory was playing tricks. Standing at the second-floor window, Margaret realized she could see her own apartment from here, though that was geometrically impossible given the distance and intervening buildings.
In her final report, Margaret recommended against the purchase. She cited structural concerns and outdated wiring, lies that came easily. She never mentioned the dreams that began that week—dreams of walking through rooms that folded in on themselves, of windows that looked out onto landscapes of impossible stars. The Livingston Residence was taken off the market shortly after. Margaret tried to forget about it, but sometimes, driving past the neighborhood, she would glimpse lights moving behind those second-floor windows and feel an inexplicable urge to return.
