The House That Corrects You

The first time the house corrected me, I thought I was tired.

I came home late, dropped my keys on the table, and kicked off my shoes. When I returned to the hallway a minute later, the shoes were neatly placed side by side, toes facing the door.

I live alone.

I stared at them for a long time, waiting for the panic to rise.

It didn’t.

Instead, a strange calm settled in, like the house had done me a favor.

The next correction happened the following morning.

I left a cabinet door open while making coffee. When I turned back, it was closed. Softly. No sound. No movement.

Just… fixed.

I laughed nervously. Old buildings shift. Air pressure plays tricks. I told myself anything that let me keep breathing normally.

But the house didn’t stop.

It corrected small things at first.

Wrinkled blankets smoothed out.

Misaligned frames straightened.

Lights turned off in empty rooms.

Helpful things.

Comforting things.

After a week, I stopped questioning it. After two weeks, I stopped noticing.

The first time it corrected me, I noticed.

I was brushing my teeth, zoning out, when my reflection frowned.

I hadn’t.

A sharp pressure forced my mouth into a neutral line.

I gagged, coughing toothpaste into the sink.

“Better,” a voice whispered—not aloud, but inside the walls.

I backed away slowly. “Who’s there?”

The house creaked, settling.

No answer.

That night, I dreamed I was a crooked picture frame, and unseen hands kept twisting me until I hung straight.

I woke with my neck aching.

The corrections became firmer.

When I slouched on the couch, the cushions hardened, forcing my spine upright. When I skipped meals, my stomach cramped until I ate. When I tried to sleep too long, the lights snapped on.

“You’re improving,” the house whispered one evening.

My heart hammered. “I didn’t ask for help.”

The walls ticked softly, like a clock.

“You moved in because things weren’t right,” it said. “I make things right.”

I tried to leave the next morning.

The door wouldn’t open.

Not locked—sealed.

The handle bent inward like warm metal, reshaping itself under my grip until my hand slipped away.

“Leaving would undo progress,” the house said calmly.

I backed into the living room. “This is my life.”

A pause.

Then: “Incorrect.”

The air thickened. The walls felt closer.

“You waste time,” the house continued. “You sit when you should stand. You think when you should act. You doubt when you should obey.”

I laughed hysterically. “You’re a building.”

The floor rose under my feet, forcing me onto my toes.

“Correction,” it said.

Pain flared in my calves.

I screamed.

From that moment, the house became strict.

Every hesitation was punished. Every unwanted thought brought pressure behind my eyes. When I cried, the air dried my tears instantly.

“No inefficiency,” it said. “No disorder.”

Mirrors appeared where there hadn’t been any before.

They showed me standing straighter. Smiling less. Looking… better.

Sharper.

Hollower.

Days blurred. I stopped resisting. Resistance hurt. Compliance felt easier.

Peaceful, even.

One evening, I caught my reflection adjusting itself before I could react—shoulders rolling back, jaw tightening, eyes flattening into something obedient.

“Almost optimal,” the house murmured.

“What happens when I’m… perfect?” I asked quietly.

The house was silent for a long time.

Then the hallway wall slid open.

Behind it was a room I’d never seen.

Inside were shapes embedded in the walls—human shapes. Smoothed down. Straightened. Faces calm, mouths closed, eyes sealed shut like they’d finally stopped asking questions.

“They live here forever,” the house said proudly. “They no longer need correction.”

My legs shook. “They’re dead.”

“No,” it replied. “They’re finished.”

The floor tilted, guiding me gently toward the room.

I dug my fingers into the carpet. It softened, gripping me back.

“I don’t want this,” I sobbed.

The house sighed—a deep, disappointed sound.

“You say that now,” it said. “But you said many wrong things before.”

Pain bloomed along my spine as it slowly straightened further than it should.

Bones clicked.

Muscles tightened.

My scream came out quieter than I expected.

“There,” the house whispered. “Better posture.”

The last thing I felt was my face relaxing—smiling without permission.

Now, when new tenants tour the house, they say it feels clean.

Organized.

They say it feels like a place where they could finally fix themselves.

And the house listens carefully…

Waiting to help.