It was at the height of a recent storm that the thought first occurred to me.

Nearly six months ago, while meandering along the backcountry roads just beyond the city, I stumbled upon an unexpected sight. At the end of a serene, country lane stood a once-stately old house, quietly awaiting auction. Curiously, not a single hand rose to claim it. After a brief look inside, and a nod to serendipity, I did.

I purchased the house that day, and for the past several months, it has belonged more to the contractors than to me. Now, with their work nearly finished and the last truck gone for the evening, I stopped by, unlocked the door, and entered the house on my own.

In the muted light of the entryway, I saw that plastic sheeting was draped over nearly everything. I crept up the winding stairs, my eyes drawn to a hallway that opened into a vast room, where soft light filtered through delicate lace curtains. As I stepped inside, I could almost hear the echoes of past conversations in what was once a grand parlor. Suddenly, the light began to fade, and I quickly made my way to one of the room’s many windows.

The trees fell hushed and motionless as the last light drained from the sky. A tempest gathered on the horizon. Lightning flickered in the distance, racing ahead of the storm as if drawn back to this irresistible valley. Here, veins of iron and copper still lace the earth, their jagged edges exposed by years of erosion, reaching upward like outstretched hands to beckon the charge—silent remnants of the long-forgotten mines that once thrived forever ago.

The storm’s approach sent a shiver down my spine. The room was poised to be plunged into suffocating darkness, as the carpenters had not yet reconnected the electricity. Distant lightning flickered, a clear omen of the coming deluge of rain and hail, or even worse, a tornado.

Thunder boomed across the valley, and the storm arrived in full force. Hail the size of red grapes pelted the roof, and the wind howled against the old frame of the house, shaking its walls and windows mercilessly.

The house was unfamiliar to me. I had been inside its walls only once, on the day of the auction, and since then, the carpenters had changed everything. Now I stood silently in the darkness, listening helplessly as the storm raged outside. I strained to hear any hint of the ominous rumble from the dreaded locomotive, but thankfully, I heard none.

What I did hear and feel, however, were the wrenching sounds of the house trembling beneath my feet. With each violent gust, it shuddered and groaned so loudly that I feared it was in terrible distress. Worried, I shouted at the house, questioning its structural integrity and, afraid it might fall apart around me, hurriedly dropped to my knees as the house began to wail even louder.

Kneeling on the floor, I wondered whether the house had actually heard me and regretted my harsh words. A sudden shaft of light pierced the gloom, revealing the parlor’s hardwood floor, its surface a deep ebony, meticulously polished from wall to wall. Mesmerized, I gently ran my hand across it while apologizing for my unkind words. To my surprise, the wailing subsided, the churning halted, and a profound stillness settled within. It was as if the house had sensed my touch.

But the silence did not last. It fractured beneath a violent roar, each thunderclap amplifying the house’s fury. The walls seemed to tremble with intent, as if the house itself had chosen to resist. A low, guttural growl reverberated through the beams, and the house hurled its defiance skyward, standing resolute against the storm’s fiercest assault.

Strangely, I felt an unexpected sense of calm; it was as if I was no longer alone. This old house had somehow transformed into something more than just a collection of rooms—it was alive, determined to persevere. I placed both hands firmly on the floor, and the house seemed to embrace this sense of reassurance, growing calmer in response to my touch. Speaking softly, I promised to mend whatever wounds it might receive from that day’s battle, and instead of groaning, it then produced a guttural hum.

Soon, the storm, having unleashed its fury, raced toward the open sea, eager to rest, re-energize, and wreak havoc elsewhere. Despite its violence, my home had survived. As promised, I tended to its injuries, making sure each was carefully mended.

I spent the next few months meticulously searching every nook and cranny of the house for the source of the odd noises, but to no avail. Is my home alive? Does a spirit live within? I haven’t the faintest idea. Perhaps it was all just a dream? I do know that later, when the bedroom ceiling collapsed, and the garage wall caved in, I held my tongue firmly, careful not to criticize the old house again.