THE HOUSE OF ENDINGS

THE DESCENT 2

Daniel had been warned. His classmates whispered about the abandoned house at the edge of town, the one teachers avoided mentioning, the one parents dismissed with nervous laughter. “Don’t go there,” they said. “People vanish.” But curiosity gnawed at him. So, while the rest of the school sat in classrooms, Daniel slipped away, his backpack slung over one shoulder, determined to uncover what was hidden inside.

Now he regretted it.

His scream was swallowed by the abyss as he fell through the pit beneath the bedroom. The air rushed past him, carrying whispers that clawed at his sanity. The fall seemed endless until his body struck something soft not ground, but a writhing mass. He landed on what felt like flesh, warm and pulsating, as though the house itself had grown organs beneath its floorboards. He staggered upright, gagging at the stench. The chamber was vast, its walls slick with a black substance that oozed like tar. Dim light seeped from cracks above, illuminating shapes that moved along the walls. At first, he thought they were shadows. Then he realized they were people or what remained of them. Their faces were stretched thin, their bodies fused into the walls, mouths opening and closing in silent screams. Eyes rolled wildly, tracking him as he stumbled forward.

“Help us…” one whispered, though its lips never moved. The voice echoed inside his skull, bypassing his ears entirely. He clutched his head, trying to block it out, but the voices multiplied, overlapping, begging, accusing.

He pressed on, his phone’s weak glow guiding him. The floor beneath him pulsed, veins bulging like roots. Each step squelched, releasing a sickly warmth. Ahead, he saw a doorway not built of wood or stone, but formed from ribs arching together, their marrow exposed. Beyond it lay another chamber, lit by dozens of candles that burned with black flames. In the center stood an altar. Upon it lay a book, its cover stitched from human skin, the pages fluttering though no wind stirred. The cruel woman from the portrait the one who had stepped through the mirror stood beside it. Her body was wrong, her limbs bending backward, her head twitching in sharp, unnatural angles. She smiled when she saw him.“You fell willingly,” she said, her voice a chorus of many. “The house chooses those who seek its secrets. You wanted a story. Now you are part of it.”

Daniel backed away, but the doorway sealed shut behind him, the ribs snapping together like jaws. He was trapped. The woman gestured to the book, and it floated toward him, opening to a blank page. Words began to etch themselves into the parchment, written in blood that dripped from the ceiling.His name appeared first. Then his birthdate. Then details of his life he had never spoken aloud. The book was writing him, consuming him. He tried to tear it away, but the letters burned into his skin, searing his veins with fire. He screamed, but the voices from the walls drowned him out, chanting in unison.The woman stepped closer. Her eyes were pits of darkness, her smile stretching wider. “Every soul who enters becomes a chapter. The house is not abandoned. It is alive, and it feeds on stories. Yours will be exquisite.”

Daniel’s phone flickered, its battery dying. In its final glow, he saw movement behind the altar. Figures emerged from the shadows dozens of them, twisted and broken, their bodies stitched together with wire and bone. They shuffled forward, reaching for him with clawed hands. Their faces were familiar. He recognized them from old newspaper clippings the missing families, the teenagers who never returned. Their eyes glowed faintly, hollow yet aware. He ran, but the chamber bent around him, the walls shifting like a maze. Every turn led him back to the altar. The woman laughed, her voice echoing from every direction. “There is no escape. You are already written.”The book slammed shut, and the candles extinguished. Darkness swallowed him again. He felt hands dragging him down, pulling him into the floor itself. His last thought before the blackness consumed him was that the abandoned house had never been empty. It was a library and he was its newest addition.