The First Night
Lena Carter stood at the edge of Willow Street, staring up at the looming silhouette of the old Victorian house. The moon cast jagged shadows across its broken windows, like blackened teeth in a gaping maw. A cold wind slithered through the overgrown hedges, carrying with it the faint scent of rust and damp earth.
She tightened her grip on her flashlight, the beam trembling slightly in her hand. The locals had warned her—some with fear, others with mocking smiles—but none had dared step inside for years. The last person who had entered, a curious teenager named Daniel Reeves, had vanished without a trace. His parents claimed they heard him screaming from inside the walls before the line went dead.
Lena swallowed hard and stepped forward.
The front door groaned as she pushed it open, the sound like a wounded animal. The air inside was thick, stale, pressing against her skin like invisible hands. Her flashlight flickered, then steadied, cutting a path through the darkness. Dust swirled in the beam, dancing like ghosts disturbed from their slumber.
The foyer was frozen in time. A grand staircase curved upward, its banister splintered and cracked. Portraits lined the walls, their faces blurred by age, their eyes seeming to follow her as she moved. The floorboards creaked beneath her boots, each step a betrayal of her presence.
Then—
A whisper.
Not from behind her. Not from the shadows.
From the wall to her left.
A voice, barely audible, like fingernails dragging across old parchment:
"You shouldn’t be here…"
Lena froze. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She turned slowly, pressing her palm against the peeling wallpaper. The plaster was ice-cold, vibrating faintly, as if something were moving inside.
"Leave… before it wakes up…"
Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. She leaned closer, her ear nearly touching the wall.
And then—
A hand, skeletal and gray, shot out from the plaster and seized her wrist.
Lena screamed.
The flashlight clattered to the floor, plunging her into darkness.