They say the landlord’s father died years ago. But you hear him. Not footsteps - dragging. Not speech - muttering. He’s in the walls. Behind the pipes. Beneath the floorboards.

He was never buried. Just... absorbed. The house was his obsession. He built it. Lived in it. And when he died, the house didn’t let go.

Now he’s part of it. He feeds on mildew and forgotten memories. He watches through cracks. He whispers when you sleep.

The landlord won’t talk about him. But he always insists you never touch the basement door.