Air pulses through the halls like blood vessels pump blood to the heart. The heart of the house is the dining room: flowered wallpaper, ornate oak-table, and cobwebbed chandelier. Whispers crack and crumble the moldy walls, their origin a remnant of lives that never were. None stirs the house’s silent song; not even a ghost, as you may have perceived. Nobody has ever lived in this Victorian house, secluded down a dirt road behind a cloak of trees. Nothing ever moved in or out, and the few rats and bats rarely stayed about. Stairs creak under pressures never made. Doors swing from pushes never pushed. Death is scarce in this house–but its life is abundant. The house lives. All by itself, with not a soul to haunt or body to possess. It was born simply from the lack of something. A will to exist as it existed as nothing. Why was it built? It does not know. But who built it, and where did they go? The house does ponder, abiding in whispers, rasped with hatred. It pines to not be alone.